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krirebr · 5 months

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More Than This 1

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x f!reader, Steve Rogers & f!reader

Word Count: ~4.1k

Summary: Arranged marriages have always been used to solidify business deals among the ultra-wealthy. Your stepfather wants to be in business with Harlan Thrombey, so now it's your turn.

Warnings: Heavy angst, age difference, adult themes, institutional sexism, a very brief conversation about the possibility of abuse, explicit language, the slooowest burn - Warnings will be added as needed for subsequent parts. All of my work is 18+ - Minors DNI

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Masterlist

A/N: And here we go! A huge thanks to @drabblewithfrannybarnes for helping me nail down some of the worldbuilding details and @paperweight91 for reading so much of this and especially telling me how to fix the scene that refused to be fixed. You're both the best!!

Any comment, reblog, or ask to let me know what you think will be greatly appreciated. Even if it's just screeching at me. As always, thank you so much for reading! 💜

It was uncommon to be called to your stepfather’s office. The high rise on the edge of Studio City had housed the heads of his family since the silent film era, give or take a remodel and expansion or five. You’d only been here a handful of times, mostly left out of the family business. When his assistant opened the door for you, you were surprised to see a small group of people, all in expensive business attire, surrounding your stepdad, Joseph Rogers, at his desk. Even more surprising was the figure standing in the corner, staring out the window – your mother.

“Mom?” you asked, unable to hide your confusion. She just gave you a tight smile in return and turned her attention to her husband.

“Sweetheart,” he called to you. It’s what he’d called you since you’d first met him as a child and it had always felt patronizing and empty. You were well aware that you were an annoyance he’d been saddled with when he’d married your mother for her late first husband’s connections. Eighteen years later, you wished he’d drop the pretense already. “Please, have a seat,” he gestured to the leather chair in front of his large oak desk.

You sat down across from him. “What’s going on?” you asked, an uneasy feeling building in your gut.

“Congratulations are in order,” he said, smiling at you. “You’re engaged.”

Years of experience at bullshit industry and society parties had you pasting on a benign smile. This was your fourth, no fifth engagement, the first one dating all the way back to when you were 10. They’d all dissolved for one reason or another, the business arrangements at the heart of them disintegrating too. But looking around the room at all the extra people in attendance, you knew better than to dismiss this outright. You were older now. Many of your friends from school had found themselves married as part of business deals in the last few years. Love matches were uncommon in the circles you frequented. There wasn’t much patience for love when this much money was at stake. But still, just because it was expected, that didn’t make you any more ready for your turn.

“That’s wonderful,” you said, putting all your effort into keeping your tone even. “May I ask whom I’m engaged to?”

“Ransom Drysdale,” Joseph said. “He’s the grandson of Harlan Thrombey, the mystery writer. We’ve been trying to secure the movie rights to his works for years and this should finally cement it. It’s fantastic news for our family and this studio. The joining of our families should create many opportunities for all of us. Ransom is one of the most eligible bachelors in Boston. You should feel very lucky.”

Lucky was the last thing you felt right now, but you kept your face schooled as you ran through your mental Rolodex to try to figure out if you had any social connections to this man. The fact that he lived on the other side of the country made it less likely but not impossible.

“So,” he continued, sliding a stack of papers across his desk to you, “all you need to do is sign and initial the contract where it’s marked, and we can get started finalizing the details for the wedding next month.”

At that, all your poise disappeared and the smile dropped off your face. “Next month?”

Joseph nodded. “It’s important to strike while the iron is hot with deals like this. So go ahead and sign so that we can all move on to the next stage.”

Your heart thumped wildly in your chest. This was happening. This one was real. “Shouldn’t I read it first?” you asked, somewhat desperately.

He shook his head, “No need,” he said, gesturing to the man you recognized as one of the family lawyers standing beside him. “Julian has already gone through it with a fine-toothed comb. All of our interests are well represented. It’s all in legalese anyway. Impossible to understand if you aren’t a lawyer.” He chuckled and many of the people standing around the desk, staring at you, joined him.

“I just–” you stammered. You didn’t know what to do, but you knew you couldn’t pick up that pen.

Irritation bloomed on your stepfather’s face. “Lydia!” he called.

Your mother stopped staring out the window and stepped up to your chair. “Honey,” she said gently, putting her hand on your back. “This will be such a good thing. And then we can get to all the fun parts of planning the wedding!” She picked up the pen and held it out to you. You took a moment to look at her. Her features were drawn and her eyes looked exhausted. She’d looked that way as long as you could remember. It did nothing to reassure you.

You glanced at the door behind you. You knew you weren’t getting out of this room without signing the contract. You took a deep breath and took the pen from your mother. There was nothing else to do. No other choice. You quickly flipped through the papers, initialing where indicated and signing the last page. Your hand was shaking so badly you weren’t sure any of it was legible.

When you turned over the last page, Joseph clapped his hands together. “Excellent!” He took a large binder off the desk and passed it over to you. “We’ve put some information together for you on your new fiance. Ransom will be in town next week to take you to dinner so that the two of you can get to know each other. Now, I’m sure you want to go celebrate, so we won’t keep you any longer.”

At the clear dismissal, you stood up. Many people in the room offered their congratulations and you nodded to them, forcing a strained smile. Then you made your way out on shaky legs, needing to see the one person who might be able to help you process what had just happened.

You’d been six years old when you and your mother had moved into the Rogers mansion. You were terrified, already able to sense Joseph’s indifference towards you. But your comfort during that time, and all the time after, had been his son, Steve. Twelve years old, still reeling from the death of his mother and just as deeply lonely as you, he’d named himself your protector, shielding you from his father’s annoyance and your mother’s sorrow. He guarded you from monsters when you woke up in the middle of the night after a nightmare and would stare down your bullies on the playground. You were very quickly inseparable.

When you became engaged the first time when you were ten, sixteen-year-old Steve had taken you out for ice cream, telling you not to worry too much, there was so much time before anything would happen and that everything would be ok. When the arrangement had fallen apart, he’d hugged you and whispered in your ear, “See? I’m always right.”

That was the memory you couldn’t stop thinking about as you let yourself into your stepbrother’s apartment, using the key he’d given you on the day he’d moved in. He wasn’t in his front room, so you moved all the way to the back, to the spare room he used as an art studio. You lightly knocked on the doorframe as you entered, trying not to startle him. He was standing with his hands on his hips, staring at a half-finished painting, but looked over his shoulder as soon as he heard you. There was a warm smile on his face, but it dropped as soon as he took in your expression. “What happened?” he asked as you flopped down onto his couch.

“I think I might be really fucked, Steve,” you said quietly, your hands still shaking. You couldn’t get them to stop.

“What happened?” he asked again, more forcefully this time, as he dragged a chair from the corner of the room so that he could sit right across from you.

“Your dad, he–” You stopped and shook your head. Steve’s face darkened. “I’m engaged,” you said with a helpless shrug.

“Okay,” he said evenly. “That might not be the most dire thing. You’ve been engaged before. Nothing ever comes of it.”

You sighed. “They’ve set a date this time.”

“Oh,” was all he could say at first, surprise on his face. “That’s new.”

“Yeah.” you nodded. “A month from now.”

That had Steve sitting up straight. “The hell?!”

“It’s happening this time. I can feel it.”

“Hey, no,” he said, reaching out to touch your arm. “Let me try to talk some sense into him. Buy you some time. He might listen to me.”

You shook your head. “Everything’s already signed. They made me sign. I don’t think there’s any getting out of it.”

“He give you a name?”

“Ransom Drysdale.”

Before he was able to stop himself, Steve grimaced.

“Fuck,” you muttered, briefly covering your face with your hands.

“No, it’s– I’ve only met him once or twice, ok? I don’t actually know anything about him.”

“But you don’t like him.”

“He’s–” Steve paused, clearly trying to find the words that wouldn’t upset you even more, “a strong personality.” He looked at you carefully. “And he’s older than you. Older than me, even.”

“I know,” you sighed, reaching for your bag and taking out the folder. “They gave me this.”

You handed it to Steve and he paged through it. “This is intense. Do you think they gave him one about you?”

You shrugged. “Dunno. Probably. Can’t imagine it says anything interesting.”

Steve nodded, seriously. “It’s probably pretty thin. Just the story of that time you completely freaked out when you weren’t allowed to bring Mr. BunBun to school with you.”

You grabbed the pillow next to you and hurled it at him. “You’re such a dick!” you laughed. “I’m very upset!”

He batted the pillow back at you and cackled when it hit you in the chest. “He deserves to know the kind of person he’s marrying. The kind who throws a five-alarm tantrum when she’s separated from her stuffed bunny.”

“I was eight, asshole!” You laughed again but then your brain caught on something Steve had said. “Holy shit, he’s marrying me. I’m getting married. I don’t know anything about him. He could be anyone. You don’t even like him! He could hurt me and–”

“Hey, no!” Steve interrupted quickly. “I might not know much, but I know that. He won’t do that. I’m sure of it. And if he ever even tried, I’d be there so fast. They’d never find his body.”

“Will he be kind to me?” you asked quietly. He opened his mouth to say something, but you stopped him. “Be honest with me. Please.”

He sighed. “I don’t know.”

“Well,” you said, trying so hard not to cry, “I guess at least now we know exactly how your dad feels about me.”

Steve closed his eyes and quietly said your name. When he opened them, there was a resolved look on his face that was painfully familiar. His ‘I’m going to fix this’ face. He was intractable when he got like this. He set his jaw. “I’m going to talk to Dad.”

You shook your head. “Steve.” Your stepfather was just as intractable as his son. This would only result in a shouting match that wouldn’t go anywhere.

“It’s going to be alright,” he said resolutely.

All you could do was say “OK,” with a wan smile, knowing it was a lie. You lay down on the couch and curled up on your side. “Do you mind if I stay here for a bit?”

“Of course not. Lola good on her own for a while?”

You nodded. Your little dog was probably asleep in her kennel. “Yeah, for a while.”

“Do you mind if I keep working on this?” he asked, gesturing to his painting.

“I like watching you paint,” you said, trying to find comfort in the familiarity of something you’d done since you were small.

He stood up and turned back to his easel, and you did your best to focus on watching him paint and not think about how, if this went through, you’d have to move to Boston and you wouldn’t get to have this time with your brother anymore.

As expected, Steve’s talk with Joseph yielded no results when it came to your future. The only thing it seemed to have any effect on was their own relationship, Steve announcing to you that he was no longer speaking to his father the next time you saw him. You hadn’t expected anything else.

For your part, you spent the next week vacillating between going overboard preparing for your first meeting with Ransom—pouring over your folder on him, making salon appointments, shopping for a dress that would make the right impression—and pretending your problems didn’t exist. As such, the day of the dinner still snuck up on you. You were a nervous wreck.

The plan was for him to pick you up at your apartment, but an hour before he was supposed to arrive, you got a text from an unfamiliar number telling you to meet him at the restaurant instead.

So now you sat at the table, alone, in a new dress with your hair done. You’d arrived ten minutes early, and he was now 20 minutes late. You took a deep breath, staring at the empty seat across from you. He would show up. He had to.

Another ten minutes passed and, as you waived off the server for a third time, you let yourself consider what it would mean if your future husband had stood you up. You should go. It’d be pathetic to stay. And even if he did show up after you’d gone, it’d make a point. Show you had a backbone. You should definitely go.

Just as your hand began to inch toward your handbag on the table, the hostess came through, leading a tall, handsome man to your table. She stopped beside you and then ducked away. The man looked at you critically. He said your name like a question and, when you nodded, he sat down. He didn’t introduce himself, but he could only be Ransom.

He was dressed nicely in an expensive sweater and slacks, but much more casually than you were and looking around the restaurant than most of the other people there, too. And when he sat down, you could see the places in his sweater where it was threadbare or torn. You tried very hard to not take it as a sign of how he felt about this dinner, felt about you.

You cleared your throat to say something, you weren’t entirely sure what when he glanced at your glass of water. “You don’t drink?”

“No, I do,” you said, but when he smirked you realized how that sounded. “I can,” you amended, but that sounded odd too. “I mean, I don’t have anything against it. I was just waiting for you.”

He snorted. “Well, aren’t you polite?” His tone made it feel like the worst thing you could possibly be. He flagged down the server and ordered a glass of the Macallan 18, then huffed impatiently while you asked questions about their wine selection. You didn’t know how he could be half an hour late and make you feel bad for taking your time ordering.

Once you’d finally made your choice and the server left, you tried not to squirm as he gave you a once-over with his eyes. You felt disappointing without really knowing why. You tried to shrug off the feeling, but then Ransom said, “How old even are you?” with scorn in his voice.

You cleared your throat. “Twenty-four,” you tried to say with confidence.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

You did your best not to shrink in on yourself. Maybe he was just nervous too. It was a weird situation. But, “Didn’t they tell you about me?”

He snorted again and rolled his eyes. “Gave me a whole binder. I never opened it.”

You looked down at your empty place setting, embarrassed. You’d studied every inch of what they’d given you, hoping to show him how seriously you were taking this and he couldn’t care less. “Oh,” was all you were able to say.

He grinned a little meanly. “You got one too, didn’t you? Don’t tell me you’ve memorized facts about me that you were ready to rattle off to impress me.”

“No,” you growled out. You weren’t going to let him make you feel small just for trying to show interest in the person you were going to have to spend the rest of your life with.

He swiped one hand over his mouth and chin. “My god,” he muttered, “this whole thing is fucking ridiculous.”

The waitress came back and set down your drinks. Ransom immediately took a large gulp of his scotch. You itched to do the same, but you suddenly felt like proving a point. Even if you weren’t entirely sure what that point was.

You were ready to order, but Ransom hadn’t glanced at his menu yet. Just as you were about to ask for a few more minutes, he said, “Go ahead and bring me another one of these right away,” and gestured with his drink in dismissal. She nodded and left.

Fuck it, you let yourself take a large drink of your wine. “Do you know what you’re going to have?” you asked, nodding to his menu.

He shook his head. “I have dinner plans after this.”

Heat shot through your whole body. “I thought these were the dinner plans.”

He rolled his eyes again. “Getting a head start on the nagging?” he asked, dryly. “Wow, it’s like we’re already married.”

You opened your mouth to do something, you weren’t sure what. Everything in your mind had gone white. But once again, Ransom beat you to it. “Alright, let’s get this done. You’re moving into my house. Fine. But I already have everything we need, so I expect you to pack light. I don’t need your shit cluttering up everything.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. You didn’t know how to have a conversation with him. Someone who left no room for you and seemed not to care at all about anything you had to say. And then there was the voice in your head that kept shouting about how incredibly important this dinner was to the rest of your life. And now it wasn’t even dinner. So when you opened your mouth to speak, what came out was, “I have a dog.”

He stared at you for a moment, seemingly surprised that you’d spoken at all. “What? No. Absolutely not. You’ll have to get rid of it. I hate dogs.”

You didn’t even bother to try to think through the static in your head. “She’s coming with me. I don’t care what else happens, I’m fucking bringing my dog.”

Ransom just narrowed his eyes and stared at you for a moment, then, “Fine. Just keep it away from me. And if it destroys my house, you’re getting rid of it. I’m serious.”

“She won’t,” you said, as sure of that as anything. “She’s a good girl.”

“Whatever,” he said, as the server returned with his second drink. He slid his empty glass to the end of the table, then said, “The bill,” without looking at her. As she took his empty away, he continued to you, “I don’t know why you want to deal with a dog and a baby, but…” he shrugged.

You just blinked at him, trying to catch up with the massive leap he’d just taken. “Baby? What? Who said anything about a baby?”

He laughed, loudly. “Oh my god, they didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?” you asked, harshly, panic starting to build up in your chest.

“Of course, they fucking left that to me. There’s a clause in the contract,” he said, “requiring you to get pregnant with my child within the first year.”

You stared over his shoulder, you couldn't look him in the eye, horrified and speechless. You couldn’t breathe. How were you supposed to breathe?

“You seriously didn’t read your own marriage contract?” The judgment in his tone had you shrinking in on yourself. You couldn’t help it.

“They didn’t give me any time,” you said, quietly. “They just made me sign it.”

“And you always do what you’re told, don’t you? Yeah, you look like a good girl.” He said it the same way he’d called you polite when he’d first sat down with you. Like it made you weak. Stupid. You’d never thought so before, but now you wondered if he was right.

“Fuck,” you whispered.

He chuckled humorlessly. “We agree on that,” he said. “This whole thing is fucked.”

At some point, without your notice, the server had returned with Ransom’s card and the receipt. He signed it quickly, then stood up. “Listen, now, at least, we can go back to our parents, tell them we met, chatted, got to know each other. Everything is hunky dory. And then do whatever we want for the next three weeks. Right now, I’m going to try to salvage my night. You go do,” he gestured vaguely at you, “whatever you need to do. I’ll see you at the wedding.”

And then he was gone and you were alone.

You sat in the back seat of the car on the way back to your apartment, running over every moment of your evening. You kept thinking about the way he’d looked at you, talked to you. A baby. You were supposed to have a baby with him. A child that you’d have to raise. By yourself, judging by how invested in all this he seemed to be. Forty, fifty years of him looking at you like that, talking to you like that. And a baby. You leaned forward and asked the driver to take you to your parents’ house instead.

Once you arrived, you said you needed to speak to your stepfather urgently and were shown to his study. You stood in the middle of the room, too anxious to sit down, and waited. Everyone was making you wait tonight.

Several minutes later, Joseph finally came in. “We weren’t expecting you tonight,” he said. “How did it go?”

You ignored his question, which you guessed was an answer in itself. “Please don’t make me do this,” you pleaded.

“Sweetheart,” he sighed, disappointed, and moved over to his bar, pouring himself two fingers of decanted whiskey. “I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.”

“It was. It was awful. He’s– I can’t do this. Please, please don’t make me.” Your voice broke, but you couldn’t be embarrassed about it, not when you were staring down an entire lifetime with him.

“Everyone gets nervous before their wedding. You’ll be fine. This is important. To all of us.”

“It’s not nerves!” You were close to shouting, suddenly. “You weren’t there. You don’t know. There have to be other families we need things from. It doesn’t have to be this family, does it? It doesn’t have to be right now. Please, please, anything else. I’m begging you, don’t make me marry him, have a child with him.”

He chuckled lightly. “Oh, that’s what this is about. It won’t feel as scary once the baby is here. You’ll make an excellent mother.”

You just stared at him, agape. He wasn’t listening to anything you had to say. “How could you not tell me that was part of the contract? I deserved to know. I wouldn’t have signed!”

His face hardened at that. “You were naive to not expect it. Of course, children are part of this. I admit that the timing is a little fast, but Harlan insisted.”

“Joseph, please listen to me. I can’t. I can’t. Please. If you care about me at all, you won’t make me do this.”

“You’re being ridiculous. It’s done. Everything’s signed. You signed. Now,” he said and took a drink, “it’s getting late. It’s high time you went home. Hopefully, you’ll be able to calm yourself down there.” And then he left the room, ignoring you as your whole world fell apart.

As you left, you passed your mother in the hall. Neither of you said anything.

When you got home, Steve was waiting for you, having already let himself in, holding Lola in one arm. “How did it go?” he asked seriously. You shook your head and finally let the tears fall. He pulled you into his arms, smushing you against your dog, and gently guided you into your home.

Part Two

Tag list is open

@stargazingfangirl18

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@bval-1

#ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale x female reader #ransom drysdale #chris evans fanfiction #fanfic #steve rogers #knives out #captain america #reader insert #arranged marriage au #kris wrote something #more than this #ce characters

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icallhimjoey · 9 months

Note

So, have you ever thought about this: Joey agreed to casually have sex with you but finds himself not being able to be casual about it at all so he starts trying to make a connection but you’re running away from these conversations?

(Having an intense måneskin-phase, can’t get over Baby said) ✨

- @nadixm

the way this request lit something on FIRE inside of me was a little unexpected, but thank you so much for sending it in! wasnt able to stop thinking about it after receiving it, so, <3 (girlies, this is obviously going to be 18+ so proceed with caution, and minors: fuck off) Wordcount: 3.9K

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More Than This

part one - part two - part three - part four - part five

You were pretending you didn’t catch that.

But you’d seen him look.

Had felt his eyes on you.

That soft, half-lidded adoring type of shit, which was usually just this sappy post-orgasmic bliss Joe would swim in for a little bit.

Nothing more than biology. Hormones surging around the system and shit. That was all.

Joe would hook an arm somewhere and hold you in place until you gained the strength to let your combined sweat work in your favour, to let you slip free from him. Head for a shower if you were at your own flat – and hope Joe would let himself out whilst you were in there – or straight back into your clothes you’d have to pick up from the floor when you were at Joe’s.

You were in bed with him now, at his flat. You’d started by his front door about forty minutes ago – didn’t need more than a sultry look into each other’s eyes for you to be on him.

Joe hadn’t even greeted you, just stood in his own doorway and waited on the threshold for you to pop out of the lift. And then he didn’t step aside when you approached him.

Gave you no other choice but to launch yourself at him, did he?

Would only let you in if you were attached to him by the mouth and full torso, already ripping clothes from yourself or from him. Only then would he let you inside, turning the both of you around and into his flat for fear of you leaving clothing items out in the communal hallway.

It was like that with Joe.

You liked it like that with Joe.

Not much talk.

All sex.

Maybe a, “Is this new?” if you wore a top he’d never seen before, or a, “Blue, I like blue,” if he saw you’d changed your nails. Superficial shit. Things he’d see and could say something about to feign normal people chat. You never participated. Didn’t react to what he said. Would just yank the belt from his jeans which always either hurt you or hurt Joe.

And then it would get kissed better.

One time you bruised yourself because the belt whipped back at you, right in the face, and it had one of those metal pieces at the end that really fucking hurt. Joe had kissed you better for a long time then. All your escapades blended together, they had started to a short little while back, but you remembered that one time vividly because it was a real stand out. The way you’d gone from shooting pain in the face, pain that left your cheekbone legit bruised in blues and purples surrounding a bright yellow swollen bit of skin, to the pleasure of being cared for and being cared for was different.

Good different.

If you were feeling particularly needy, you’d refer to it still. Would ask Joe to kiss a random part of you better. You’d just point somewhere and go, “Am I red here? Skin’s not broken, is it?” because asking if something was bruised felt too on the nose.

Like Joe didn’t know what you were doing.

Not that it mattered.

Joe would kiss you anywhere for however long you wanted. And if he’d move away, and your throat made a desperate little noise, he’d just be back on you.

Anyway.

It was never anything too adventurous with Joe, but it was always good. It was good that you knew what to expect. Meant you weren’t scared of suggestions that would make you go, ugh, okay, this was fun whilst it lasted, but big nope.

Like, feet shit. Listen, no offence, but if Joe was going to suggest for you to step onto some pudding barefoot, this would be over real fast.

But it had never been like that.

Would never be like that.

You knew who to text for predictable sex that always happened on a soft surface. Where the rough person in the room was you, and you were by no means hard-handed. You’d maybe take Joe’s jaw into your hands a little rough every once in a while, because it’d make his pink lips look even more plush. Would occasionally leave teeth marks near his collar bone or around his thumb. But, that was about the extent of it.

Joe knew his lane. Could still surprise you within that lane from time to time, but you liked that Joe would never pretend to accidentally leave a ball gag out. No, oops how did that get here? sort of dumb shit.

No.

You’d lay eyes on each other and then get to a bed or a sofa as quickly as you could. Limbs tangled. Always kissing. Sharing breaths.

Joe loved kissing. Used it as foreplay but could do it for long without letting it go further until you’d grow restless, which always made Joe grin into the press of his lips against yours. Those were things you’d come to classify as one of the softer moments.

You didn’t mind a bit of emotion.

But kissing you until you were absolutely hungry for more, and then smiling where you could feel it? Almost too soft of a moment.

Those moments were tricky and were best kept to a minimum.

The looking at you after was one of those softer moments too. You were on your back and catching your breath as you stared up at the ceiling, and Joe was just sort of... staring at you. Slowly studying your face from the side, letting his eyes dance over your profile like he’d never seen it before.

Joe looked and looked and looked until you turned your head and he quickly looked away. Pretended he hadn’t been looking. Like peripheral vision wasn’t a thing.

“I don’t like it when you do that,”

Blunt.

But it was sort of nice to just say what you were thinking without being afraid of hurting feelings.

There were no feelings.

Nothing to hurt around here.

“What?”

Joe turned his head back and looked again. Less deep this time though. Not so hormonal.

“Look at you? After what we’ve just done I can’t look at you?”

He knew you’d seen. Was about to say he shouldn’t be blamed because it was sort of your fault. Had you seen yourself? Did you know what you looked like to others? To men? To him, after what you’d just done to each other and with each other?

He didn’t think you knew. Well, maybe you knew, but you’d never understand.

“No, you can look,” you lied, because you really did not like it. Made you feel all sorts of uncomfortable.

“But the looking away when I catch you does my head in. Look at me like you mean it or keep your eyes closed.”

It earned a huff of laughter from Joe who now rolled over onto his side to watch without restriction. No hiding what he was doing. You could only bear a couple of seconds of it before you sat up, stomach muscles working hard at pulling you upright, earning a groan that escaped your constricted throat.

“No, come on,” Joe’s hand was quick, moved from his side to grab at one of your arms. “I won’t look, all right?” he tried, like that would change everything and make you lay back down again.

You’d already scooped your bra up from the floor.

“I’ve got an early day tomorrow,” you said over your shoulder as you sorted the straps before covering your chest back up.

Joe let himself fall back as he let an annoyed sound escape him when you reached for your underwear next. If it had been any more guttural, you’d maybe have taken it seriously.

“You’ve always got an early day tomorrow,” he complained.

“Yea, well, some of us have office hours they need to abide by, can’t just go gallivant whenever we’d like, have to request time off and– it’s a whole ordeal,” you spoke like your life was burdened by the structure of a steady job and a permanent contract.

It wasn’t.

But, you know. You couldn’t go out and stay out late on random Tuesdays like Joe could.

Not that you wanted to go out with Joe on random Tuesdays.

You wanted Joe in between some sheets for an hour on random Tuesdays. And, any other time when you were up for it, really. When you wanted soft touches and face-to-face sex where Joe forced eye-contact.

No.

Joe never forced anything.

But Joe would go, “hey,” real soft, would repeat it until you actually heard it, and it would make you look at him. Then he’d hold your gaze. Was very intense sometimes, especially if you were close and he held eye-contact right as he fucked you through it.

If that was one of the softer moments was still up for debate. Maybe occasionally it was. Kind of depended on your mood, though.

“You got any plans for the weekend then?” Joe’d given up on trying to keep you there for now, and instead focussed on when the next time would be.

You shrugged. “Not really.”

Your sister’s boyfriend had a birthday barbecue that you’d attend, and you needed to find a good cobbler to fix a shoe you’d broken in a mad dash for a tube replacement bus the other day but – no real plans. You vaguely recalled other plans for the Friday night, but nothing was set in stone. There was still plenty of time for a little limb-tangling with Joe.

“Are you around?” you asked, pulling your top over your head, and standing up before turning to see Joe working his arms as he tried to place the covers back in the correct position from where he laid.

“Should be,”

“All right,” you nodded and found your jeans.

“All right,” Joe copied your tone of voice and the nod. You frowned at how corny that was.

“I’m stealing a drink from your fridge,” you said, stepping into said jeans and already making your way out of the bedroom.

“Squash is on the side,” Joe lazily gestured, having learnt by now you never just drank a bottle of water normally like a sane person. Then quickly and more pressingly Joe followed up with, “And I don’t want to find mouthfuls of my leftovers missing!”

You grinned to yourself out of his sight.

You were absolutely going to stick a fork into whatever tubs he had in there. You deserved it after swallowing Joe the way you had moments ago, and he knew it too.

“Focus on the important things, Joe,” you called back from the kitchen, going for a fork. “Like condoms. You’ve barely got any left.”

Fork in hand, you went for the fridge. Found a bottle of water in the door that you were going to put some squash into in a second.

And then, when your eyes looked towards the shelves, your breath hitched in your throat.

This idiot.

What an... all right. Nope. You weren’t going to do this. This wasn’t who you and Joe were and you weren’t going to play along with this.

You see, Joe was a Tupperware man – would always cook too much and then dump whatever he had left over into Tupperware that would fill up his fridge until he could go a full week just eating what he’d already cooked up days ago. It was a side effect of living alone and not knowing fucking portion sizes. Especially for pasta.

Almost every leftover Joe ever had in his fridge was pasta.

Made sense.

You also couldn’t measure spaghetti for the life of you.

What annoyed you about it most was how Joe seemed sort of messy, like any guy was messy, but the inside of his fridge was organised to the point where you thought he had health inspection checking up on him. It was all dated with sharpies – the leftovers. Like he was a professional chef that couldn’t get away with opening something up and just giving it a good whiff to decide whether that was still okay to eat or not.

Annoying.

But, what really got you, is that amongst the four or five tubs of dinner sat one smaller one. One with a little post-it note stuck to it with your name on.

This idiot made his fridge look like the one at your office.

One with Tupperware that had a name stuck to it.

A little preportioned bit of leftovers just for you inside Joe’s fridge, so you wouldn’t have to go digging into any of the other containers.

You took the note, looked at it up close and then flung it onto the counter. You ignored it. Went for a larger tub and opened that, ever the rebel. Let your fork run through it, messed it all up real nice and then took a big bite, grimacing at how cold it was.

Was still good though. Nice.

You closed the tub. Opened another.

Did the same thing – grimaced more because cold but also, it was really annoying how fucking good it still was. Joe either followed killer mommy food blogs, or just... knew shit about cooking. Was a whole ass natural in the kitchen when it came to herbs and spices and things.

Whatever.

You placed the tub back and purposefully left the lid off. Left that on the counter. Smirked at yourself when you closed the fridge and caught a last glance of your fork still inside there.

“Hey,” Joe stepped into his living room, in boxers and a T-shirt now.

You quickly swallowed and got busy with the squash.

“I’ve got um, I’m seeing my friend, he’s got a gig on Friday, it’s at a small venue near Brick Lane,” Joe talked in a casual tone of voice, made his way over to the fridge and opened it to remove the fork.

You feigned innocence. Ignored the whole thing as Joe reached around you to grab the lid you’d left out.

“Sounds cool,” you said, taking a sip to check you liked how sweet you’d made your drink. “Have fun.”

You knew he meant, come with me.

You knew this was his casual way of suggesting you could also maybe hang out together outside of the activities at your flat and his.

But he wasn’t using the actual words, so it was stupidly easy to pretend you had no idea what Joe was trying to do.

“Yea,” Joe spoke around a deep inhale, placing the lid back onto the Tupperware and then gave you a polite tight-lipped smile as he closed the fridge again. “Thanks.”

The way you wanted to squish Joe’s face to wipe that stupid smile off before messing that whole fridge up made your fingers itch a little.

When Joe moved to place the fork into the dishwasher, you decided that was your cue to leave. Man was cleaning up after you and couldn’t even leave the fork in the sink for a second like a normal person.

“Maybe see you after?”

It was a careful question, but one he knew he probably would get a yes to.

“Yea, maybe,” you said nonchalantly, slinging arms into your jacket. “Text me.”

You expertly left everything up in the air. You might have the time for him on Friday, you might not. You weren’t going to go see an amateur band with him though, that was for sure. That wasn’t what this was.

You’d been clear with each other from the start.

Hadn’t used the actual words, but, you were both adults and it was understood that this was what it was going to be. It was never anything else than what it had been tonight and good.

That was good.

You’d met Joe at a party you were only at because it was in your building and your neighbour had invited the whole flat just so no one would complain about the noise. A nice gesture, but never meant as an actual invitation. But it was the flat above yours, and you’d tried to go to sleep, but there were people out on the balcony and they had music going, so there was dancing and feet stomping and – it was all just, loud. You’d thought, all right fuck it, I could go for a few drinks, plan being you’d fall asleep much faster with a bit of drink in the system.

Joe was there.

You’d rocked up in an oversized T-shirt, bicycle shorts and socks in slides. Hair messy with the evidence of the stirring you’d done in your bed.

Joe’d taken one look and knew exactly what was going on. He guessed, but, he’d been right. He was looking at someone from inside the building. There just because they’d technically received an invitation, even if it was only so that they wouldn’t complain about the noise.

“Drink?”

“Yes please,”

For the first fifteen minutes of the two of you talking, you thought Joe was your neighbour. He was the one who’d let you in and who’d walked you into the kitchen.

Yet he wasn’t the neighbour.

Joe sort of knew someone who knew someone who knew your neighbour, vaguely. The person who lived in the flat above you was also a girl, something you weren’t aware of. Her name was Charlie, so you couldn’t really blame yourself for assuming the invitation had come from a guy.

Joe also gave you a drink that was so fucking gross, you immediately went, “What the fuck is this? Petrol?” and he’d gone, “You don’t like it?” before saying he’d try again, do a better job for your next one. You immediately felt bad, seeing as he’d mixed the drink, and had thrown the whole glass back to prove that the drink was fine.

Getting it down was a big task though, and your whole face contorted as you worked at swallowing every single last drop down. Made you shiver and made Joe laugh as he said, “No, no, no, don’t drink it if you don’t like it,” but it was all in your mouth already and fuck, that tasted like it was just pure vodka.

Which you then learned is exactly what that was.

“Dry martini with a twist,”

“What’s the twist? That’s it’s just a big glass of vodka?”

“I mean... yes, it’s exactly that, with a twist.” Joe said dryly and tapped the piece of lemon rind in his own glass. “Bit of lemon.”.

You had nearly burst into laughter. Nearly, because this man was a stranger, and you did come over to get a slight buzz going, so that just happened to work out exactly how you planned it.

“Are there any... I don’t know, regular beers? No twists?” and you’d craned your neck to see behind Joe, to look into the kitchen, which, you knew where the kitchen was because the floorplan was obviously the same to your flat.

Joe’d taken you over to the fridge.

Gave you a no twist beer.

And then later, you’d taken Joe over to your bedroom.

Had no twist sex.

It was so obvious you were looking for the weakest excuse to get Joe over to your place. You were both sort of scraping the barrel, didn’t want to just say it, because you had more dignity than that.

So you’d thrown out your fishing rod and hoped Joe would bite when you looked into the living room of your upstairs neighbour and said, “I like where she placed her sofa, that wouldn’t work in my flat,”

Joe bit immediately.

“Nah, ‘course it would, let’s go try.”

You’d not even gotten close to your sofa that night. Straight from the front door into your bedroom and then straight back towards the front door a short 60 minutes later.

And then it had been like that.

You’d text to check availability and then would either go, “omw” or “come here” and neither of you were ever too proud to pretend you didn’t want it. It was either a, “can’t im busy” or “ive got some time” and it worked fine like that.

It helped neither of you had flatmates you needed to explain shit too.

Except, if you had, you would’ve figured out Joe was somebody a lot sooner.

Oh well.

Joe was nobody in his flat, and even less of a somebody over in yours. You kept him in your phone as first name Joe last name No Twist and refused to change it to Quinn. He wasn’t any better than all the other guys whose last names were all Hinge, or the closest tube station to where they lived.

“Here,” Joe said, just before you were about to leave. You looked back and saw he was holding out the little container of leftovers.

You frowned at it.

“Take it, but heat it up in a pan with a little olive oil, don’t eat it when it’s still cold and stiff from the fridge,”

You kept frowning but held a hand out to take it from him anyway. This felt a bit like refusing to take a tenner from you grandmother because you didn’t need a tenner, but, it was still a tenner, you know?

“I’ll probably hate it,” you lied, stuffing the Tupperware into your bag.

“And you can tell me all about it on Friday,”

Stupid little smirk.

Okay, so sure, you were going to see Joe on Friday after this gig he had to go to. And you’d tell him about how much you hated his leftovers.

Also, if Joe was thinking he was going to get this little container back, he was wrong.

That was yours now.

With squash in hand, you said goodbye and made your way out by yourself. Didn’t need or want Joe to walk you out – Joe knew. Understood. Stayed in his kitchen, but did call, “Text me when you get home,” after you because he wouldn’t be able to sleep if he didn’t know you’d gotten home safe.

“Yea, yea,” you dismissed him, loudly said, “Condoms!” to remind him and gave yourself a quick once over in the mirror by the door before you left. Closed the door behind you a little more rested and satisfied than you had been when you’d walked through it a little while earlier.

Whilst making your way out of the building, you whipped your phone out and found the right text thread.

“can’t do friday, something came up, soz”

And then went over to your calendar where you removed “james hinge” and replaced it with “joe no twist”

James could wait.

James never made you pasta.

Joe did.

Joe would make sure you orgasmed – like, he’d keep going until he could feel the evidence of it himself, would make sure the question “did you come” was unnecessary, and would make sure there was squash on the side and now, Joe had made you pasta.

Yea, you were going to see Joe again on Friday.

You made the mental note to keep his staring to a minimum though. Would have to make him come and then immediately force him out of bed to clean the sheets, or whatever.

Less of the soft shit.

You were going to tell him his pasta was fucking disgusting.

Telling Joe you loved the food he made before climbing on top of him was too soft of a moment. Those moments were tricky. Best kept to a minimum.

---

The Taglisted

@05secondsofsexgods, @a-time-for-wolvess, @adoreyouusugar, @alana4610, @ali-in-w0nderland, @alwayslindie, @babybluebex, @barfightzanddiscolightz, @bettyfrommars, @cancankiki, @capricornrisingsstuff, @chaoticgood-munson, @choke-me-eddie, @did-it-work, @dirtyeddietini, @dylanmunson, @eddie-joe-munson, @eddies-puppet, @electricmunson, @emma77645, @emmamooney, @everythinghasafacee, @figmentofquinn, @frogers, @frootvelvet, @ghost-proofbaby, @ghostinthebackofyourhead, @harringtonfan4, @haylaansmi, @jasminearondottir, @joesquinns, @kellyxo1, @kennedy-brooke, @lovelyblueness, @luvrsbian, @miserybeans, @nadixq, @ohmeg, @paola-carter, @pepperstories, @phyllosilicate-s, @roosterisdaddy36, @sherrylyn628, @sidthedollface2, @thebellenouvelle, @thefemininemystiquee, @thewondernanazombie, @tlclick73, @werepartnersnow

(taglist currently full, sorry)

#Joe Quinn #Joseph Quinn #Joe Quinn x You #Joseph Quinn x You #Joe Quinn x Reader #Joseph Quinn x Reader #Joe Quinn Fanfic #Joe Quinn fanfiction #Joseph Quinn Fanfic #Joseph Quinn Fanfiction #joe quinn x y/n #joseph quinn x y/n #rpf #18+#more than this

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sofysta · 2 months

Text

Bryan Ferry - More Than This

youtube

It was fun for a while/ there was no way of knowing/ like a dream in the night/ Who can say where we’re going?

#bryan ferry #more than this #music

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just-call-mefr1es · 16 days

Text

fanartists, wya?

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now-that-i-saw-you · 4 months

Text

Patrick Ness really said being a man isn't about reaching some specific age or being violent or following gender roles but rather it's about being honourable and true and standing up for what's wrong and fighting for the people you love and it's feeling, it's feeling, it's feeling.

#chaos walking #chaos walking book #more than this

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ninaemsaopaulo · 5 months

Text

Ótimos atores cantando mal no karaokê ❤️ um dos melhores momentos do cinema, amo demais isso aqui:

#blog #cinema #lost in translation #sofia coppola #scarlett johansson #bill murray #more than this #música #karaokê

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aussie-twat · 11 months

Text

A post about growing and flourishing, despite it all.

@shitpostsampler design, Twitter user @jirehffe stitched / Langston Hughes - Tired / post by @wuntrum / shirt by Online Ceramics / Ask Polly (Heather Havrilesky) - Article / OneRepublic - Choke (arranged in post by @breakmyheartwithlyrics ) / Patrick Ness - More Than This / Quote by Tracee Ellis Ross, Journal: unknown, please tag artist /

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guerrilla-operator · 1 year

Text

Roxy Music // More Than This

More than this You know there's nothing More than this Tell me one thing More than this Ooh, there's nothing

#roxy music #more than this #avalon #soft rock #pop #rock #tunes #audio #favorite songs ever #Spotify

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palatinewolfsblog · 9 months

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Gentle reminder: "The best things in life aren't things." Art Buchwald.

#quote of the day #quote of today #art buchwald #the best things in life #things #just things #more than meets the eye #more than this #essentials #what matters #think about it

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krirebr · 4 months

Text

More Than This Masterlist

Summary: Arranged marriages have always been used to solidify business deals among the ultra-wealthy. Your stepfather wants to be in business with Harlan Thrombey, so now it's your turn.

Warnings: Heavy angst, age difference, adult themes, institutional sexism, explicit language, the slooowest burn - See each chapter for individual warnings. All of my work is 18+ - Minors DNI

One

Two

Three

Four

Series in progress

#series masterlist #ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale #knives out #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans characters #fanfic #steve rogers #captain america #reader insert #arranged marriage au #kris wrote something #more than this #more than this masterlist #ce characters

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icallhimjoey · 8 months

Note

Your girl needs to know what happens in Part 5. Does Joe ACTUALLY sleep with someone else?! Does he ever get his Tupperware back?! Can’t wait for the next installment!!!!

well, we MADE him, didn't we? here's the last part <3 I hope you all enjoy! (and, for the last time, this is 18+ and you shouldnt read when 17 or younger, so kindly fuck off if you are underage thanks) Wordcount: 4.3K

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More Than This

part one - part two - part three - part four - part five

You were fine.

You didn’t know why you knocked over about five cups when going to grab just the one from the cabinet, but you were fine.

Joe hadn’t texted you in over two weeks.

You were fine.

You ordered a whole new wardrobe on Asos, one you definitely didn’t have the budget for, but you were fine.

Two weeks.

Fine.

You didn’t really want to text another hook-up, but then when you finally did, they said they were busy, and you were so totally fine.

It was sort of mad how fine you were.

Sixteen days and counting. So fine.

It didn’t even really do anything to you when you had to throw out your own left-overs, some chicken corn korma that you’d kept in one of Joe’s Tupperware containers, because it was just... it was bad. You didn’t know how to cook and how to make things taste nice, and if you were being honest, it was already not the best the first time ‘round. You weren’t even sure why you kept the rest of it to eat at another time.

You were fine as you tipped it over into the bin.

Then you looked at the empty tub, bin still open, and threw that in as well.

Fine.

You knew that you weren’t going to see Joe again.

You had his T-shirt now, and considered it a weird sort of momentum. A parting gift. A here you go, keep this part of me and let it teach you something piece of clothing for you to keep in a drawer and forget about eventually.

You’d worn the T-shirt like he’d asked, and he was going to have sex with at least two other people like you’d asked. You had only half-realised that all of it kind of meant the end of whatever you and Joe had going before.

Joe wasn’t made for what you asked of him.

Joe wasn’t just going to have sex with two random people and then text you to reconnect.

Joe was going to woo someone off their feet and then fall in love with them immediately and you’d change from the girl he texted whenever he wanted to get his dick wet to a small little part of his past that he’d forget about eventually.

Like you’d forget about his T-shirt in that one drawer you never fucking used.

Bit by bit, the big bag of wet cement slowly set into something solid. The solid thing being that you’d never see Joe again.

That made you all kinds of uncomfortable because that wasn’t what you wanted. But it was predictable. And you liked predictability, so you were fine.

Sometimes it was nice to drop a pen, because you knew the next step would be to pick it up.

Sometimes you’d drink until you felt sick because that meant you knew exactly how you’d feel in the morning.

That last time had been the real last time. Problem was, if that was true, you should’ve started putting defences in place before that last time had actually happened. And you hadn’t. So now for whatever stupid reason your heart felt all heavy, and Sarah was forward enough to approach you about it at work.

“You don’t quite seem like yourself...”

And she was right. You didn’t feel like yourself at all.

“I know, I’m sorry. I’m just... distracted, I guess. Is it obvious?”

Of course it was fucking obvious. You saw how Sarah’s eyes scanned all the baby hairs around the perimeter of your face, none of them smoothed down into your hair, but all wild, standing up and visible. She gave an empathetic smile filled with pity.

“Oh poppet,” she started and clasped your shoulder. “It just feels like you lost yourself a little. Maybe see if you can go find her again.”

Yea, well, what if you did and you didn’t like her? Would rather have her be lost still?

You were fine. Your comfort zone was inside the predictability of it all – not in comfort.

None of this was comfortable.

But you were fine.

You’d been fine for sixteen days and were mentally preparing for that number to turn into seventeen when your phone buzzed.

“hi”

Fuck.

A million thoughts happened at once. What did Joe texting hi even mean?

There wasn't much else to do but to keep your cards close to your chest and carefully dip a toe in.

“hi”

Safe.

“are you at home rn?”

“yes”

You'd not even seen the second blue checkmark fully appear before the doorbell rang. That was stupidly quick and revealed Joe'd made his way over to your flat before even checking if you were in.

Unpredictable.

Yikes.

This wasn't following any of the scripts that you knew. Was Joe coming over for what he always came over for? Or was he there for an adult conversation to end whatever the two of you had been for a couple of months? Half a year. Actually, just over half a year, if you were really counting.

Joe seemed like the type of guy to need a concluding chat.

Yea he was probably - definitely - there to tell you how messed up you were and then be all nice, tell you shit like, you deserve better, or whatever.

You let Joe into the building and went to wait by the front door to your flat. Stood in the doorway, leant against the doorframe and tried to imagine what you looked like to Joe. What he'd see when he'd walk up, and you didn't know how to hold yourself. What to do with your face. Were you going to up the sexy? Were you going to cross your arms over your chest and keep to yourself? Look all happy? Sort of sad? Why was Joe even here?

Anxiety got a hold of you in a way you didn't like.

There was no control.

How could you take back some control?

When you heard footsteps coming down the hallway, you took one step out and leant forward to see him.

Mistake.

Mistake, mistake, mistake.

Your legs moved and moved fast before your brain even knew what was happening. You were running. Felt emotion thick in your throat as your legs carried your seemingly weightless body over to crash itself into Joe.

Joe was just quick enough to shake his hands from his pockets and to brace for impact.

You audibly knocked the wind right out of him, and then for a moment, you just stood there. Arms around his neck, legs around his waist, side of your face pressed tightly against his.

Now what?

Just hold, your brain said. Just hold him for a bit.

“Hey,” Joe whispered, grip strengthening for a second, shifting and adjusting his hold on you to slowly start moving towards your flat.

“Hi,” you said back and you hated how that sounded like you were about to cry, because you weren't. You weren't going to cry. There wasn't anything to cry about.

What was going to happen when you made it into your flat? Once that door closed? You didn't have much time to think about it, just let it happen. When the door fell into its lock behind you as Joe shut it, the sudden silence and privacy made you lean back enough to get your face in front of Joe's.

He kissed you immediately.

Predictable.

Amazing.

You were fine.

This was script you knew how to follow.

Joe inhaled you, pressed his nose into your cheek and licked his way into your mouth like a starved man. Made you feel totally fine about sneaking your hands under the straps of his backpack to get them off of his shoulders before you tried to do the same for his jacket.

Joe put you down because he had to. Didn't stop the kissing, though.

“Did you,” you started, had to stop because Joe was very persistent about his lips staying close to yours. “Did you do what I asked?”

You had no idea how you wanted him to answer that question, but you needed to know.

“I did,” Joe breathed, and upon learning that, you knew exactly how you had wanted Joe to answer that question.

No.

This was the wrong answer. The bad answer. Joe wasn't to listen to you. You were an idiot, did he not know?

“Was awful,” Joe shook his jacket down his arms and got his fingers on the buttons of his shirt. “Never make me do that again.”

And, oh my God.

That was the sexiest shit Joe'd ever said to you.

Made you pull him into you by his belt loops which he welcomed greedily.

Yours. This was all yours. Fuck those other girls.

You both knew the pathway to your bed blindly and made your way there like you had so many times before. Clothes dropping to the floor, more skin finding more skin to touch, and to grab, and to squeeze, and to bite. Mouths barely left each other, hungry kisses shared, and when you reached the bed, Joe blindly reached for your bedside table in preparation for what he was there for.

You saw how his fingers found the metal drawer pull, and noticed Joe was wearing a hair tie around his wrist.

Yours.

That was your hair tie - the thick, good one. The one you'd turned the whole bathroom upside down for because you hadn't been able to find it.

Must have left it over at his the last time you'd been there.

The drawer got pulled open, but then, Joe stopped himself. He let you drop onto your bed on your back, just in your underwear and a lone sock now, and hovered over you a second before he said, "Wait, hang on," and took small jogging steps out of your bedroom. Confused, you sat up enough to lean onto your elbows, to hang into your shoulders.

What.

Down your hallway, you heard rustling of fabric. A zipper.

Joe was getting something from his backpack.

Then footsteps that... didn't come back towards your bedroom, but instead turned into your living room. Your kitchen.

What the fuck.

You got up and decided to go investigate.

Never in a fucking million years could you have predicted what you walked in on.

You'd just walked in on Joe, half naked, stood in front of your opened fridge whilst he held onto his opened backpack, shoving Tupperware container after Tupperware container onto the glass shelves.

“Um, what the fuck are you doing?”

Joe looked over his shoulder a little sheepishly. “I've got– there's just a lot, I don't– they're just some left-overs, don't worry about it,” Joe stumbled through his explanation as he kept neatly stacking tubs.

Big sigh.

“No, Joe. Stop it, no,” you walked over, rushed a little panicked with anxiety in your legs, and reached up to start reversing whatever Joe was doing. Wanted to get all of the colourful pastas back into Joe's backpack.

“Just– have it,” Joe fought back, moved around your arms and managed to avoid them for a bit.

“You can't– I–” you grabbed his wrist, caught him. The one with your hair tie on.

For a moment you both just stood there, frozen in place. Your eyes were trained on where you were holding Joe, and then he saw that you'd seen. That was your hair tie around Joe's wrist.

Deep breaths, everyone.

“You cannot do this, Joe. This isn't, we're not– we just have sex and that's it, all right? Don't feed me– you can't just fill up my fridge with food, that's not how this works...”

Unsuccesful in the eye-contact department, you got the words out that you wanted to get out and felt oddly proud of yourself.

Maybe this is what Sarah meant when she said to go and find yourself.

You successfully moved his arm down, the one that held the fifth Tupperware container that he'd tried to get into your fridge. The both of you looked at it as he placed it down on the counter, but didn't let go just yet. He left his hand on top because the counter was just a temporary spot for it, wasn't it?

It'd go into the fridge alongside all the other ones, Joe thought.

It'd go back into his backpack, you knew, as you closed the fridge door.

Then Joe sighed, and asked, “Why?”

“Because,” easy answer.

Joe had gone and slept with two other people and had hated it but he'd done it just so he could get back into bed with you. Into bed. Bed. Where you touched each other inappropriately. That was all you were. And you were fine with that.

“Well,” Joe started, voice a little softer than before. “What if I want to?”

No.

“You can't,”

Joe finally let go of the left-overs and turned to face you a little more.

“I can't want this?” his hands searched for yours and found them. Curling them into his chest, he held you there a second.

“No,” you swallowed. “You're not allowed.”

That made Joe groan, drop your hands and roll his whole head at you rather than just his eyes.

“Well, tough. I still want to. I want to share my left-overs with you.”

You were about to interupt and interject with your wise words of keeping the distance, but Joe beat you to it. “Yes, I want to get you in the bed and,” Joe gestured with a wild arm. “Do all of that,”

“We're very good at all of that,”

“We are,” Joe smiled, and it felt like the first little bit of warmth from him. It was nice agreeing on something together.

“But I also want to, I don't know,” Joe's eyes darted around, tried to find the answers as if they were scattered around your kitchen. “Take you to dinner, I want to go for drinks, take you- there's a play I really want to see and I want to take you with me to go see it together, I'm just... I can't pretend I don't want those things anymore. I'm done pretending.”

Fuck Joe and his big wet brown eyes. All rounded. All soft.

“I don't think you've ever pretended,” you scoffed, and in a stupid baby voice Joe said, “I'm bad at pretending,”

You barked a laugh because of how stupid that statement was.

“You're an actor,”

“Well, you see?” Joe started, and like it was the most natural thing to do, he pulled your hair tie from his wrist and started swiping your hair back. Got all of it out of your face. “It's a testament of how much I want it,” and with big boy hands far too scared to hurt you, Joe tried tieing your hair up whilst stood in front of you. If you shook your head twice, the hair tie would slip right back out, but Joe was pleased with what he'd done and took hold of you by the shoulders to duck down and look you in the eye. “Want you.”

“I'm...” you closed your eyes a second, tried to regroup, and managed to straighten your shoulders. “I'm sorry. I can't.”

“Why? Why don't you want more?”

“I'm not... I'm not made for more.”

You truly believed you weren't. You were good at what you were currently doing. Anything that came closer, that tried to break through your walls, was scary and intimidating and you didn't need any of that.

But Joe didn't really care about your walls.

Sure, you'd built those presumably so no one could hurt you. But Joe could see that without anyone checking in on you in there, you had free range to keep hurting yourself over and over and over and over.

Joe wasn't trying to break down walls to hurt you.

Joe was trying to break down walls to stop you from hurting yourself.

“Do you like me?”

Easy question. You'd been sleeping with each other for months.

“Yes.”

That was hardly vulnerable.

"Good, because I love you."

Like a clean chef's knife that had just been sharpened, that pierced right through your chest without any resistance. It angered you immediately. Shot blood straight into your face where you felt the skin just underneath your eyes heat up.

“Fuck you.” you spat, because what the fuck was Joe doing?!

“Fuck me because I love you?” Joe remained stupidly calm, just asked for clarification with raised eyebrows.

He was impossible.

“Why are you– you're messing– why are you messing everything up?” you genuinly didn't understand. What you had going was fine, wasn't it? It was fun enough for Joe to come back to you. It was fun enough for you to actively miss it while you didn't have it. Why was Joe so adamant to stop all of the fun?

What you hadn't considered though, was how much of it wasn't fun for Joe.

“It's what people do!” Joe started, voice raised because, you just weren't getting it, were you? “They go to concerts together, to artshows, they go out in the daytime, they spend a lot of time together until they miss each other so much when they're apart, they buy a house together, and then they get married and then–”

“What's wrong with what we're doing? It's working. We don't have to argue, we don't have to fight, we don't–”

“Yea, well, what if I want to fight?”

“I don't want to fight,” you pulled the loose elastic from your hair, undoing Joe's barely there ponytail and held onto the hair tie.

Had Joe worn this around his wrist since the last time you'd been over? Had he worn it when he'd been with those other girls?

“Do you like me?” Joe asked, stepping forward. Closer. You kept your eyes trained on the hair tie that you were twisting around your fingers. Joe closed his palm over it and made you look up at him before he asked again, “Do you like me?”

“Joe...”

“It's the only thing that matters. Do you like me?”

“You know I like you,”

Joe studied your face for a moment before he cleared his throat and nodded.

“Good.”

Then he stepped back, got back to the left-overs and picked up the Tupperware that had been left out on the counter before opening the fridge again.

“All right,” he said, looking over his shoulder and holding up the last tub, “This is fettuchini alfredo,” which he then placed inside. Then, he started tapping every other container of his left-overs and explained what each of them were.

“That's- carbonara, regular bolognaise, baked feta pasta and I tried a crispy gnocchi that's, actually, never mind, this one's bad, I tried to follow a recipe and I don't think it turned out right, it's–”

Joe was about to remove the crispy gnocchi, but you stopped him.

“It's all pasta...” you stared at your fridge, all filled up.

“Yea, well... you like pasta. It's always the left-over pasta that I find rogue forks stuck in...”

Joe was a sap, you thought, like the thought of Joe specifically making all kinds of different pasta dishes for you didn't make your chest swell.

There was something difinitive about you letting Joe put that last Tupperware container in the fridge and closing the door.

You liked Joe, and apparently that was all that mattered.

All right.

That sounded easy enough, didn't it?

“You're still Joe No Twist in my phone,” it was a joke, but it wasn't. Joe really was Joe No Twist still.

“Be with me.”

That made you recoil.

“No.” you said through a snorted laugh that, if you clocked it correctly, got a little grin out of Joe as well. “But I'll eat your pasta.”

It was as good as it was going to get for now, you were afraid.

“Even the crispy gnocchi?”

Joe was going to take it.

“Even the crispy gnocchi.”

“Are you sure? It's really bad.” Arms reached out and found yours to pull in for a hug.

“Mhmm, I'm going to love it.”

For a while, you stood in your kitchen and hugged. Were hugged by Joe in a sort of all consuming manner where it felt like his arms looped around you twice. Proper good embrace.

Kisses were pressed into your hair. A few, and then a lot, and then one longer last one.

“Okay. Good. I'm heading out.” Joe grabbed you by the face and gave you a peck.

Just a quick chaste peck right on the lips.

“Remember, hob, pan, olive oil,”

Confusion. Joe was going to leave and your bedroom didn't smell of condom lube.

“What, but we didn't...”

“Yea, I'm gonna... I'm going to start doing that now. Come over and keep my clothes on the whole time.” Joe found his backpack and zipped it closed.

“The whole time?”

“The whole time.”

Stupid smirk. Made you slump your shoulders because Joe thought he was being funny.

“So boring.”

It sucked that he kind of was being funny.

You followed Joe out into the hallway where you watched him step back into the clothes he'd gotten out of with your help a little earlier. Weird. This was so weird.

If you thought about it, Joe had just come over to kiss you and touch you a little bit, and then... that was it. Left food in your fridge and was now going to leave.

This was new territory and it was unpredictable and you didn't like it.

You liked things that were known.

Of which you knew the script.

Where you held all the control.

And then, in a fleeting moment of confidence, you opened your mouth and just let your thoughts come out.

“Hey, um... before you, before you go, do you– are you doing anything on Sunday?”

“This upcoming one?” Joe pressed a heel into a shoe and looked up at you from his bent over position. “Why?”

“I've got this...”

Oh fucking fuck. You were going to do this. You'd started it and had quickly felt every single ounce of pride leave your body, and now you had to finish it all raw.

Joe saw how you tried to power through, but it was so awkward, he couldn't help but stand up straight and give you his undivided attention for a second.

Something felt off. Important. This was new territory, Joe understood.

“So, I'm heading over to Norwich,” you pointed over your shoulder, which made no sense, but made you feel a bit more casual about the whole thing. “Because my cousin, she's... she's getting married, or whatever, it's honestly– no big deal,”

You were struggling, and if Joe was honest, he kind of loved it. Couldn't help the little smile that snuck onto his face.

“You're going to your cousin's wedding?”

“Yea,”

“On Sunday?”

“Mhmm,” you nodded, and Jesus Christ, you were shaking.

It was obvious what you meant. Come with me, you mentally shouted at him, but didn't let the words escape you.

“Wow... that's quite a leap,”

Oh no, Joe was going to be a little shit about it.

“Artshow, gig, a dinner, sure... but, a wedding of a family member?”

“Shut up.”

You were well aware. Didn't need Joe pointing it out. You were trying, okay? Felt like you'd ripped open your chest and were letting Joe get a look at all of your secrets. Secrets that were making him purse his lips into a sly little smile that you didn't like the look of.

Your shut up got a hearty laugh out of Joe, one of his deep ones that you knew you were going to hear the echoes of hours later.

Instead of answering though, Joe collected his things. Slung his backpack, now empty and weightless, over his shoulders and went to open the door.

“So, you're going to a wedding...” Joe started, said it all slow like he was contemplating something, and then stepped out of your flat.

“Sounds cool.” Joe said over his shoulder, face practically beaming with joy. “Have fun.”

And then he left.

Just, walked away.

The little shit.

Motherfucker.

And yea, all right, you deserved that a little didn't you?

But, what the fuck?

Joe had just turned down a daytime activity with you.

Joe was always asking you to go do things with him and you always turned him down.

That was how it was. What you were. The asker and the turn-downer.

Joe was a dickhead.

And, why the fuck could you not stop smiling?

About five minutes later, when you'd already dumped a full container of left-overs, the crispy gnocchi, into a pan with a little bit of olive oil as instructed by Joe, your phone buzzed.

You'd barely heard it over the noise of the extractor fan, but your lit-up screen caught your attention.

Text.

You got a text from Joe No Twist.

“What colour's your dress?”

Motherfucker.

You smiled at your phone and decided to text back later. Let him wait a little bit. Pay him back for the shit he'd just pulled.

But then a follow-up text came in.

“If you don't tell me we won't match”

Yea, you liked Joe.

You liked Joe and, like he'd said, that was the only thing that really mattered.

Later you'd text Joe a picture of your dress, and you'd tell him his gnocchi fucking sucked.

Everything was fine.

Fine.

And you liked Joe.

That was the only thing that really mattered.

the end

---

The Taglisted

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