#blurred+lines

You push your sunglasses up the bridge of your nose, reach for the door handle, and step out of the car. The afternoon light hits the white tank top you’re wearing clinging to your curves. The cutoff denim rides high on your thighs, sun-tanned skin on full display. You grab your duffel outta the backseat and make your way up the driveway.

Ric stands by the workbench with a rag thrown over one shoulder, directing Tommy who is at the side of the car, half under the hood where you can only see him from the waist down. Joel is leaning against the side of the garage, one sneaker braced against the concrete lip that meets the driveway, with a bottle of water dangling from his hand.

“Look who’s home!” your mom shrills out.

The sound surprises Tommy, who straightens up too fast and bangs his head on the hood above him. “Son of a—” He bites it off, backing out clutching the back of his head. Joel’s been looking at you ever since the car pulled into the drive. Now as you round the car, his eyes drag over you but he catches himself and looks away. Though you take in the look of surprise on his face before he can mask it. That pleases you in a way you could have never anticipated.

Ric turns, smiles, and wipes his hands on the rag, before throwing it onto the workbench. When he gets over to you he folds you into a one-armed hug. “Look at you,” he says, pulling back. “Sun got ahold of you!”

“10 weeks out under it everyday, it was bound to happen,” you reply with a chuckle.  

Out of your peripheral vision, Tommy steps out from the garage making his way to you, sly grin slapped on his face. That’s when you notice his hair. It's blond now – or trying to be. The roots are coming in dark, a good inch of his natural color reclaiming its rightful territory. 

For a moment you reconstruct the entire fiasco in your head. Tommy shirtless in the bathroom, squinting into the mirror, slapping bleach on like he was trying to frost a cake. Knowing the sink had to have worn half of it, the counter getting the other half, and somewhere in the blast radius there had been one of the black towels that fell victim to the chemical casualties, now speckled orange. Undoubtedly still laying stiff as a board in the bottom of the communal towel hamper.  Probably one of his band tees too, that he’ll insist still looks, kinda sick.

“Think I got it even?” Tommy asked Joel, scooping up more bleach into his gloved fingers.

“No.” Joel replied, as he in all likelihood stood there in the doorway taking in the fumes, the mess, and Tommy’s optimism with the disapproval of an older brother who had seen this sort of foolishness before and against his better judgment was about to participate in it. Because then came the back of his head, this was where Tommy’s ambition finally ran out of road as he shoved the bowl of bleach into his older brother's hands. “Just do the back for me.”

Joel likely sighed and stepped forward, “Hold still.”

“I am holdin’ still.”

“No ‘ur not, ‘ur  twitchin’.”

“Well, you’re jabbin’ me in the scalp!”

“I’m tryin’ not to get bleach down your neck.”

“Little late for precision, don’t ya think?” Tommy said, looking in the mirror at his older brother behind him.

Joel surely glared at the back of Tommy’s head, and despite every objection, still finished the back for him. Oh how clearly you could see the brotherly love. 

Tommy finally makes it over to you in the driveway, hands shoved into his pockets, then takes one back out just to point vaguely at the silver hoops climbing your ear.  “What’s all that?”

You touch one of the hoops, tilting your head. “Earrings…” you say, giving him a look that says dumbass. 

“Nooo, really captain obvious?” He smirks, serving it back. “Thought maybe you got attacked by a tackle box.”

Oh here we go, he’s already starting it. 

You gotta shut this shit down. Looking at him over the top of your sunglasses, with a bit of sass in your voice you say, “If I get enough of them, I can pick up FM radio. Right now I’m just getting static… aaaaand apparently the sound of you fishing for a reaction outta me.”

A barrel of a laugh leaves Ric as he looks over to Tommy, who now seems about as comfortable as a fish outta water. Pun intended. Visibly you can tell he wasn’t prepared for you to dish it right back to him. 

“Well I’ll be damned,” Ric says, grinning as he looks between you and Tommy. “Camp sure sharpened you up little lady.”

Joel looks down at the water bottle in his hand, but you still catch the smile he’s trying to kill.

Fuck, that felt good. ‘Bout time Tommy gets knocked down a peg or two for once. 

“I’m gonna take my bag in,” you say smiling, already turning to head into the house. Your mother says something about dinner in 15, and about unpacking later. You tell her okay, that you just wanna get freshened up after the bus ride.

~~

“So tell us everything!” Your mother says, the second you sit down at the dinner table. “Did you make friends? Was the food terrible? Did you swim every day?”

Always with the 20 questions, your mom. 

You appease her, answering her questions and then some. Telling them about the lake, the camp, some of the friends you made. Then about one little girl who microwaved a metal spoon to show her friends that it causes pretty sparks, and about another little camper who smuggled a frog in her pillowcase and didn't tell anyone until the screaming started at lights out. 

Your mother laughs. Ric shakes his head and says, “Kids are somethin’ else.” 

Halfway through telling them all this you look up to find Joel watching you. His eyes jump away fast and back to his plate. You keep going with the story like nothing happened, but every time your attention shifts to your mom and Ric, you notice Joel’s gaze coming back to you. Even when you’re not the one talking. 

The table quiets down, the sound of forks against plates and ice shifting in the glasses of sweet tea. The Wheel of Fortune is playing faintly from the living room TV nobody turned off. 

"Meet any cute boys?" your mother asks, materializing the question out of thin air, trying to rehash the unanswered question from earlier in the car. 

Tommy makes a sound under his breath. Joel’s fork stops half way to his mouth. Ric lets out an incredulous “Honey.”

“What?” She sips her tea, giving Ric a look, completely unrepentant. “She’s a young lady now, it’s a valid question.”

Your mom looks at you like well, you gonna answer the question? So you swallow the current bite of food and dab at your mouth with your napkin, taking your sweet time.  “Maybe.”

Your mom's eyes light up like you just told her she won the Publisher's Clearing House sweepstakes. "Anybody special?!" 

Suddenly you are acutely aware of the silence from all the dudes at the table. You reach for your tea, taking a sip. Enjoying yourself now given the current climate of the table – where all the males seem uncomfortable with this conversation. They better get used to it, they have a step-sister & step-daughter now.

“There was this one guy…”

"Oh, I knew it!" She leans forward, both hands flat on the table. "Did he kiss you?" 

You lower your eyes to your plate, pretending to fight an embarrassing smile. “Mom.”

“Okay, okay, I won’t pry.” She sits back, satisfied. “I’m just glad you had a good time, sweetie.”

Your step-brothers say almost nothing the rest of the meal. That’s how you know something is very, very off. Tommy, under normal circumstances, would have interrupted at least a couple times, asked whether anyone drowned, made stupid jokes or at least flicked a pea or two at Joel's head. Something. But no, he seems to be minding his manners. Joel mostly eats and keeps to himself normally during dinners, but he oddly can’t seem to take his eyes off of you. 

As dinner comes to a close, you stand to carry your plate to the sink. Tommy is already up and reaches the archway to the kitchen first, but instead of barreling through like he always does –shoulder checking you and the frame to steamroll his way through– he steps back.

“Go ahead,” he says, eyes on his own plate.

Two words that sound so bizarre coming out of his mouth, and without Goody attached. 

You pass him without comment, yet that night in bed you replay the way Joel looked at you across the table, the way Tommy didn’t make jokes or rude comments at your expense, and how he moved out of your way. Tommy Miller, the same Tommy Miller who has never, in the whole time you’ve lived here, ever moved out of anyone's way for any reason – let alone for little ol’ you.

You can’t help falling asleep wondering what the hell happened to them while you were gone.

~~

The entire next month the changes keep coming in the brothers’ behavior towards you, more so Tommy’s. He still likes to give you shit here and there but it's more playful –no longer hurtful or degrading– similar to how he teases Joel. 

You come out of the bathroom, Tommy is standing there waiting. “You fall in?” he asks. You give him a tight lipped smile that conveys ha-ha and flip him off without breaking stride and he can’t help but laugh.

A few days later he lobs a balled-up sock at the back of your head while you're doing homework at the kitchen table. You turn around slowly, giving him the flattest look you can manage. He's already got his hands up. “Wasn’t me.” There's no one else in the room. 

Also, Tommy doesn’t once call you Goody. You keep waiting for it, bracing for it every time he opens his mouth. But it never comes. Then you notice his presence more. He begins to materialize in whatever room you occupy. 

You’re making a PB&J in the kitchen… Suddenly Tommy needs to reorganize the junk drawer – a task you can almost guarantee he has never done in his life, a junk drawer he has only ever contributed to. 

Joel’s presence also becomes more notable, though not as much as his brothers. You’re reading on the couch? Joel decides the TV remote needs new batteries right that minute – never mind that the remote was working fine the last time you saw it in use and he's not even watching anything. It's obvious enough that you'd find it funny, if it wasn't also really baffling. 

And to top it off, Tommy starts being terrifyingly kind. 

You come home from school one day, drop your bag, head to the kitchen for something to tide you over before dinner, and there, sitting on the counter is a cold can of cherry Coke. You pick it up and hold it for a second, then crack it open and take a sip. 

Tommy slinks in a second later, pulling open the fridge. "Oh yeah," he says, barely glancing your way, "Saw that at the gas station. Thought of you." As he's reaching past the milk to grab a Capri-Sun like what he just said was normal. You didn’t even know he knew what your favorite soda was. Somewhere in that chaotic, bleach-damaged brain of his –between the Pantera, Cowboys from Hell lyrics and whatever else takes up real estate in his noggin– he squirreled away that information one day. 

You stare at the can, part of you wants to be touched by his kind gesture, but this is the same Tommy who was always raggin’ on you and made your life a living hell. 

“Uh–thanks,” you say, unsure of how to react.

Tommy shrugs while stabbing the Capri-Sun with straw. “No worries.”

No worries? No worries?!

All you’ve ever done around him is worry. This is a total mind-fuck.

~~

Kindness aside, there's still the matter of the noise. The hordes of teenage boys. The late night chaos. 

It's a Thursday night. You've all migrated back to the basement after dinner and you can already feel the evening revving up. You know within an hour or two this basement is going to sound like an Rage Against The Machine concert crossed with a frat house. This on a Thursday, because apparently Friday can’t come soon enough and they need to get a jump on the fun to be had. 

You're on the couch, textbook balanced on your thighs. When you notice your step-brothers talking by their bedroom doors. You decide – tonight's the night. 

"Hey." You snap the textbook shut. The sound cuts through whatever Tommy was about to say to Joel. They both look over. "Sit down for a sec. Wanna talk to you both." It comes out as a directive, not a request. 

Tommy raises his eyebrows but comes over and sits on the edge of the coffee table. Good boy. 

Joel continues to stand by the doorway to his room, arms folded. "You too, Joel,” you say nodding towards the couch. “Sit."

Joel looks at Tommy. Tommy looks at Joel. Joel unfolds his arms and comes over, lowering himself onto the armrest at the opposite end of the couch. Joel’s not entirely sure what's happening but has decided compliance might be his best bet. 

You set the textbook aside and pull your legs underneath you, turning to face them both. "Here's the deal. The friends, the music, the noise – I get it. You wanna have fun. I'm not trying to take that away from you. But on school night? Can you give it a rest?”

Tommy opens his mouth but you hold up a finger. 

"Please, I'm not done." You say kindly. 

"Friday night – go nuts. Saturday too, I don't care, do both. Hell, I might even hang around for it. But Monday through Thursday, I need to be able to sleep and study without feeling like I live inside a Marshall amp." You lean back into the couch, crossing your arms, looking between the both of them. "Are we clear?" 

For a hot minute, neither of them says anything. You brace yourself for the pushback. For the eye roll, scoff combo that they have perfected. For one of them to say, where the hell do you get off thinkin’ you can tell us what to do? Or for Tommy to dust off the old nickname. 

Instead, Tommy glances at Joel. Joel gives a small nod in return. 

"Yeah," Tommy says. "That's fair." 

What?! No way it was that easy.

You don’t waste any time responding, thinking they might come to their senses. “Alright, I’m glad we can all see eye to eye on this.” You say, letting a grin break through. 

"You're kinda scary now, you know that?" Tommy says, but he's smiling. 

"Good." You lean forward, elbows on your knees. "You should be scared." 

"Oh, I am. Terrified." He puts his hands up, leaning back away from you, clearly not at all frightened. 

Joel, who's already pushing off the armrest to leave, just shakes his head and rolls his eyes at both of you. 

You give Tommy a lop-sided smile, he grins wider as he stands. "A'ight, boss. We'll keep it down." 

"Thank you, that's all I ask."

"You want me to tuck you in later too, or—"

"Tommy."

"Gone. I'm gone." He backs toward his room with both hands still up, that stupid grin not going anywhere.

The Thursday night crowd doesn't show. The basement stays quiet. You actually finish your reading assignment before midnight for the first time since moving in.

Huh. Maybe you should've grown a spine months ago.

~~

“Sweetie, can you go tell your brother's lunch is ready?” You sigh, feeling put out by your mom’s request and heave yourself off the countertop, where you've been watching her watching her assemble chicken quesadillas from the leftover rotisserie chicken from last night. The woman wastes nothing. It has been nice though, since your mom shacked up with Ric, she's become more domestic – you haven't had this many homemade meals since… ever. 

Halfway down the basement steps, you hear their voices yappin’ away — but with your name tangled up in them. Your hand finds the banister, your legs screeching to a stop before you hit the 7th step – the one that groans like Ric when he gets up outta his recliner. 

Tommy sprawls out the couch, one arm slung over the back, converse resting atop the coffee table. Joel sits on the other end, elbows on his knees, staring at the TV Tommy just muted. 

“I’m just saying.” 

"Well don't," Joel says, not looking over.

"I'm gonna. She grew up."

Joel shakes his head, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling.

"What, she didn't?" Tommy's arms spread wide, shoulders raising, daring Joel to argue.

"Just drop it, Tommy." 

Tommy lets out a short laugh, the kind that says he's not dropping anything. "You were staring at her at dinner last night… and the night before, and the night—”

“Shut up!” Joel cuts off his little brother, still refusing to look at him.

“I’m not blind, man. You were, the whole fuckin’ time!”

Joel glances toward the bottom of the stairs. “Just shut up, she’ll hear you.” 

"From where, upstairs? She's not got bat ears." Tommy waves a hand dismissively.

Your hand tightens on the banister. You should move. Go back up, give them their privacy. 

Ha. Yeah, fuckin’ right. 

Instead you continue to stand there in the shadow of the stairwell – listening. 

Tommy’s voice drops a notch, per Joel’s request to shut up. “I’m just saying she got back from camp all...”

“All what?” Joel asks, finally looking at him.

Tommy takes his sweet time answering, slumping back into the couch. "Hot."

Hot. Hot. Tommy thinks you're hot? And based on what Tommy just said about the staring, maybe Joel does too. 

You start to pull apart your thoughts that feel like a wadded-up tangled mess of headphones that have been in the bottom of your purse. So this is why they have been acting so weird, why things have changed. You didn’t expect for it to feel this good –their validation of you– but it does. For about two seconds. Before you discern they’ve only changed their behaviors towards you cause you’re easier on the eyes now. Fuckin’. Men. Only thinking with their dicks. Why are you not surprised. 

Joel doesn’t speak for so long you almost wonder if he left the room, but then you hear him. “You’re an idiot.”

Tommy laughs. “Yeah, alright, whatever.” He tips his head toward Joel. "You gonna tell me I'm wrong?" 

Joel stands up, pacing to the other side of the basement, needing distance from the conversation. 

“Let’s just stop talking about this, ‘kay?” Joel says, feeling conflicted. He knows Tommy’s right about both things, you are hot and he was staring. He also knows hating himself for both doesn’t make either one less true. 

You step back one stair, then another, soft as you can. Then you turn and climb the rest of the way up, stopping at the top.

Soooo, this changes everything and it's not exactly devastating news. 

Yeah, they were always mean to you before. But you'd noticed them too, in their messy, grunge-worn way. Both of them doing their own changing over the summer. Tommy and his bleached curls. They kinda suit him, makes that stupid grin he flashes at you feel different. And Joel had cut his shoulder length hair off not too long ago. Now it sat shorter with layers, falling loose and a little messy, curls gathering at the nape of his neck. It softened him. Makes him feel more approachable now.

And okay fine, having this new intel on their thoughts of you gives you a heady little power trip. You're not above admitting that. Though you don’t want revenge, you don’t want to make them miserable. You're not interested in cruelty. You lived on the receiving end of it long enough. The hurt from the past is still there, furrrr sure. The nickname. The inconsiderateness. The sleep you’ll never get back.

But….

A sly little smile forms on your lips.

If Joel's staring anyway, you'll give him something to look at. If Tommy thinks you grew up, you'll show him exactly how much. Curiosity now takes hold of you. What happens if you don’t avoid their eyes? If you start sitting closer to them? If you make them just uncomfortable enough to wonder? 

They just so happen to exist in the same spaces – this cramped, confined, no-privacy basement. You can keep your halo. You can keep your manners. Keep every inch of the goody, good girl innocence they’ve assigned you. You don’t have to do anything obvious. Nothing blatant. Nothing you can’t explain away. That’s the beauty of plausible deniability. Good girls don't flirt with their step-brothers. Anything like that happening? Well… that's just your imagination, boys. 

You shake the thought loose and head back down the stairs, louder this time, letting your feet announce you. A little over halfway down you call out to them sweetly. “Tommy? Joel? Lunch is ready!”

~~

You start testing the waters, ASAP. 

Joel makes it stupidly easy the next morning, leaving one of his band tees in the bathroom, black and soft from one too many washes. You know he wore it yesterday. You watched him come home in it. 

You pick it up off the counter and out of pure morbid curiosity, you bring it to your nose and inhale. His essence has sunk into the cotton from a full day of wearing it against his skin.

Fuck.

You never knew Joel smelled that good. 

You pull it on over your damp skin. The hem hangs lower than your own shirts, skimming the tops of your thighs. Underneath, you wear nothing but a pair of plain white cotton panties. Innocent enough but still a smidge dangerous.

Hearing footsteps on the stairs, your head snaps toward the door.

Perfect.

You hurry across the hall to your room and leave the door open behind you. You wack a pencil cup off your desk on purpose. It hits the floor with a clatter. 

“Shit,” you mutter, loud enough for the benefit of whoever’s just come down the stairs. Then you rise onto your toes and stretch over your desk toward the top shelf, arm lifted, back arched just enough to make the shirt ride up conveniently. Wink wink.

You hear footsteps arrive at your door. “You okay?” Joel asks, already halfway in. "You need—" He stops. Clearly, his concern arriving before his caution.

His eyes start at your shoulders, though quickly migrate lower, there, a flash of white cotton and the bottom of your ass cheeks are peeking out from under the shirt, then finally, to the long bare line of your legs. 

You keep reaching, then look over your shoulder at him. Innocent. Struggling. "Hey… can you—can you help me? I can't reach the book I put up here." Then you turn around to face him, hands bracing the edge of the desk, leaning back onto it. His eyes drag up you slowly, fighting every inch of the climb.

“Is that my shirt?” he asks, already knowing the answer but needing to ask a question to try and walk this back, make the situation more normal. But that's when Joel realizes his plan has backfired. He hasn't taken a single breath since he walked in here and you're leaning against the desk, looking up at him, in his shirt that is riding the edge of your thighs.

You look down at yourself like you’ve only just remembered what you’re wearing. “Oh. Yeah. I forgot to bring clean clothes into the bathroom after my shower.” You give him a small, sheepish smile. “Hope you don’t mind.”

Then you think about it – even if it had been Tommy who came in to help you, it still would’ve worked. Tommy would’ve seen you in Joel’s shirt and started building a whole story in his head. He would’ve wondered why you had it, wondered why you were wearing it, and if Joel knew. Either way, somebody was leaving this room bothered. 

Joel swallows hard, staring at his shirt on your body. A shirt that carries his smell and is now warming up with yours. “I–I don’t mind,” he says finally. “But that shirt ain’t clean either. I wore it yesterday.”

You smile, dragging your eyes up his body now. “I know.” You turn back, reach again, back arching slightly again with the effort, fingers grazing the edge of the book.

Joel tries not to look at the way the shirt rides up, showing off the curve of your ass, tries not to think about the fact that you're bent over your desk wearing his shirt and basically nothing else. This is wrong, you're his step-sister. He needs to leave, needs to get out of this room right now. He’ll grab your book for you and go. 

Behind you, Joel moves. “I’ll get it,” he says, coming closer.

Then he’s right there behind you. The space is small and confined. He leans in, half his body presses against half of your backside, pinning you gently into the desk. One of his hands braced on the desk beside you. His other arm reaches past yours, fingers closing around the book, plucking it easily from the shelf.

This is the closest he's been to you since – since ever, Joel thinks. You smell like him, like you rolled around in his bed, and you're warm and soft, pressed right against him.  He backs up fast, putting distance between you.

You turn to face him.

"Here you go." He holds the book out immediately. 

You reach for it letting your fingers brush his as you take it. "Thanks, Joel." 

"'Ur welcome." His eyes drop to the floor. "I gotta go,” he says, and then he’s gone – out the door and down the hall. 

You stand there for a second with the book in your hand, biting back a smile that wants to spread wide across your face. You got to him. You toss the book onto your bed and go back to getting ready for school. By the time you leave your room, you decide to wear his shirt for the rest of the day.

Let him see it again.

Let Tommy see it too.

After all, there’s nothing strange about borrowing a shirt.

~~

You begin spending more time around the Miller Brothers, downstairs on their side of the basement instead of hiding in your room or staying out with friends. You make sure the shift feels natural and not all at once. 

The couch isn't huge. So you use that to your advantage – an excuse to sit close that can be blamed on limited space, on the way the cushions dip in the middle, or on the fact that you’re all just… family now.

Tommy leans into the contact every time. Spreads his legs a little wider so his thigh stays glued to yours. Lets his arm drape along the back of the couch behind you. As far as Tommy's concerned, if you're offering proximity, he's accepting. 

Joel on the other hand goes rigid the second you settle against him. Every muscle locks up, not moving, eyes fixed on the TV. He never sits in the moment long, 5 minutes at the most before standing abruptly, muttering something about getting a drink, and disappearing up the stairs. You picture him standing at the kitchen counter with a glass of water he doesn't actually want, waiting for his pulse to come down. Bless his heart. 

The touches escalate slowly over the next month. Always deniable. Always just on the edge of too much.

You reach across Tommy for the remote and your tits press softly against his arm. He gets visibly affected — that cocky little grin turning a little dazed. 

On a long drive home from a family trip to San Antonio, you “fall asleep” in the back seat of your mom’s Camry. Your head ends up on Joel’s shoulder and the back of your hand resting atop his thigh. Purely innocent in sleep.

Joel continually tries harder to resist you after that first encounter in your room, you can tell. He gets stern — short answers, avoiding eye contact, disappearing to the garage or his room whenever you enter a space now.

But he can’t stay away. No matter how many times he tells himself to put distance between you, he keeps showing up on his own terms, whenever it feels safe. 

The pattern repeats in a dozen different ways. It turns out, you’re very good at this. Good at the games. Good at reading them. Good at knowing exactly how far to push before pulling back. Good at keeping everything just ambiguous enough that nobody can accuse you of anything. You still look like the good girl. Polite at dinner. Helping your mom with dishes. Smiling sweetly when Ric praises you for being so responsible. All the while you know you have them both on the edge of their seats.

~~

The following weekend, you’re in your room reading when you hear Joel and Tommy talking just off the hallway. You dog ear your page and get up. They're heading for the side basement door when you come out of your room. “Where ya goin’?” you ask, walking up to them. 

“Snack run,” Tommy says, grabbing the door handle.

Mmmm. A late night field trip with the two of them sounds fun. “I’m coming with you guys.”

Tommy looks instantly delighted. Joel looks at your outfit — the short white tennis skirt and the tight little short-sleeve top that hugs your chest. 

“It’s a little cold out,” Joel says. “You might want a jacket. Get one and we'll meet you at the truck." They head outside and you spot one of Tommy's cardigans hung over the side of the couch. You slip it on and follow. 

Tommy's waiting by the truck with the passenger door open, looking down at his feet. He glances up when you reach him. Your hands grab a hold of where the window's rolled down and you stick your head through.

"Ready?" you smile, looking between them.

Tommy's eyes drop to what’s draped over your shoulders. "Nice cardigan."

You grab the door frame and swing around it, letting yourself stop just shy of bumping into him. “I know, right?” you say playfully, tilting your head.

You look warm… and cute, drowning in his clothes the way you were drowning in Joel’s shirt a couple weeks back. And if Tommy’s being honest, he felt jealous when he saw you wearing Joel's stuff. Not of Joel, per se. He just wanted you wearing his things too, wanted you to claim him in that way too. 

But he knows he wasn't very nice to you before. Tommy hates the memory of it now, hates that he was a dick to you. Hates thinking of you possibly avoiding rooms because of him. He never wants to be mean to you again. The thought of hurting you or making you feel small, actually makes him sick to his stomach. 

You breeze past him, hopping into the truck. The smell of your vanilla body mist snaps him back to the moment. He watches you slide across the bench seat before getting in after you. The bench, like the couch, forces closeness. Both your thighs pressed against one of theirs. Joel starts up the truck and Brass Monkey by The Beastie Boys come through the speakers low, drowned in static, until Tommy smacks the dashboard and the interference clears. 

The ride isn't long. Not at this hour in a small town with no one on the roads. The mini-mart parking lot is mostly empty. A handful of cars scattered across the asphalt. A line of shopping carts, sticking out of the cart corral. Someone evidently not finishing their job before the graveyard shift. 

The automatic doors shudder and squeak when you walk through. The three of you wander the aisles together. The emptiness makes it feel intimate, like you're the only three people awake in the world.

Tommy grabs a bag of chips. Joel picks up beef jerky. You open the cooler door and reach for a blue Gatorade, removing the plastic, you twist the famous nipple top with your mouth and take a sip. 

"’Ur gonna buy that now, right?" Joel asks, watching you suck on the bottle.

"Obviously." You hold it out to him, giving it a little shake. "Want some?"

For some sick reason he wants to put his mouth where he just watched your tongue lick the small hole at the top. He takes it, lets his lips lie where yours did. Concealed by his mouth, his tongue rims the same tiny hole before he tips it back, then hands it back to you. You take another sip, eyes on Joel the whole time. Repeating the same actions. Then you hold it toward Tommy, silent question in the gesture. Tommy grins. “Don’t mind if I do.” He drinks and hands it back. Your eyes don't leave him when you bring it back to your lips, taking another sip just like you did after Joel. You twist the cap closed with your mouth and give them both a smile before wandering toward the candy aisle and the boys follow. Joel grabs a Snickers. Tommy gets Skittles.

At the checkout, their stuff goes up first. You hang back behind them with your Gatorade in your hand. Joel glances down at the conveyor belt, seeing only a few items left. His eyes find you and you give a shy small smile, rocking back and forth on your feet. 

"Put your Gatorade up here." Joel nods to the black moving belt. "I'll get it."

You start to shake your head. "No, it's okay, I've—"

Joel steps right in front of you, grabbing the bottle from your hand and sits it down next to his things. You watch the bright blue liquid slosh around as it moves towards the cashier.

At the register, Joel pulls his wallet out. You drift up beside him, peering over the counter as the bottle gets scanned. Your temple rests against his shoulder for a brief second until you feel him looking at you. You lift your head and look up at him.

"Thank you, Joel."

You slip behind him and Tommy to grab your Gatorade at the other end of the checkout.

Joel settles up as you waltz towards the entrance, where you had noted a coin-operated mechanical horse just outside when you first walked in. The equine is sun-faded, mostly a dull cream color now – having seen its fair share of rodeos.

You set your gatorade on the ground and hop on, fluffing our tennis skirt over the back of the hard plastic saddle, gripping the worn-out reins, pondering momentarily – just how much you can get them to do for you? Joel bought your drink. Can you get them to pony up for this too? 

You hear the automatic doors open. You sit still, waiting to see if they'll notice. Wrapped up in their own conversation, they look out toward the parking lot, scanning for you. "Fuck, where'd she go?" Joel's panicked voice asks Tommy.

You clear your throat and they spin around. "I wanna ride it." You say with a girly, somewhat childlike voice.

Tommy and Joel look at each other. It’s a quick look, but full of information. 

Tommy's face says, You seeing this? 

Joel's face says, Don't start. 

Tommy's face replies, I have every intention of starting.

"I gotta quarter or two I think." Tommy says, patting his pockets.

Joel shifts the grocery bag higher on his arm. "I ain't spending money on that."

"Please, Joel!" you say sweetly, adding a little whine to your voice. 

And because for some fucked up reason he can't explain, he knows he won’t refuse you. Joel sighs in defeat, handing his bag to Tommy. “I’ll check the truck.” he says, stalking off towards the parking lot.

He comes back 20 seconds later with a few quarters from the cupholder.

"This is stupid," Joel mutters, feeding coins into the slot.

“And yet,” Tommy says, grinning, “here we are.”

Between the two of them, they scrape together enough. You beam like they've just bought you a Sony Diskman with ESP – because you fuckin’ hate when the CD skips. 

Joel and Tommy look at each other again and then up to you on your noble steed. Both already happy just by the fact that you look so genuinely pleased by their ridiculous effort. Joel feeds the last coin in and steps back, taking his bag from Tommy. The horse lurches to life. For the first few moments it’s absurd and stupid, and you can’t help but laugh. Which makes your step-brothers chuckle along with you. 

But then your hips sync up with the motion. 

Up, forward, down and back. Up, forward, down and back.

The boys stand there watching – captivated. Joel finally forces himself to look away. Then back again, furious with himself that he can’t help but look, feeling his whole body flood with mortification and with something he should not be feeling outside a mini-mart in the dead of night because his step-sister is on a kids mechanical horse ride. 

Your hips move with the motion, hair falling over your shoulder, the softness of your laugh like this is innocent fun. But it's not, nothing about this is innocent. Not the way you are moving, not the way Joel’s jeans are getting tight. He shifts the plastic bag to hang casually in front of himself, like he's just adjusting his grip.

Tommy does the same two seconds later. He knows there is definitely a line being crossed here,but he can’t seem to find any fucks to give – standing there delighted and hypnotized, watching you in his cardigan and the slow rocking of your hips, while all the blood in his body rushes south.

Then you glance at them while the horse keeps moving, holding eye contact with each of them in turn. You can tell you've already put a rise in their Levis, but you want to push it just a little more, gallop just a little further. So you start to let out little breathy exhales that borderlines on something else entirely as you look at them. Then the plan starts to reverse course slightly, finding that the rocking movement and their eyes on you have started to make you feel some type of way. So what the hell, you’re already here. You let yourself feel it, shifting your hips against the hard plastic of the saddle, grinding down, letting a small whimper escape your mouth. 

Unfortunately, that’s when the horse slows down – your cheap thrill coming to an end. Who knew the 75 cent pony ride outside the Git-N-Go would be the most action you've seen all year.

That’s when you hear Tommy. “I think we have some more quarters if you want to keep riding?”

You almost laugh but keep it contained, and you would totally be lying right now if you said you weren't disappointed that the ride wasn’t longer. But looking at the brothers' faces right now, you know it stopping where it did was for the best. 

"Oh, it's okay." You say, sliding off, all bright-eyed and pleased with yourself. "That was fun." You step between them, putting a hand on both their chests and giving them 2 taps each. "Thanks for the quarters."

Tommy makes a helpless sound that might be a laugh. "Anytime." Joel doesn't answer and you push past them, making a beeline for the truck.

"What the hell was that?" Tommy asks Joel as soon as you're out of earshot. "Did she almost just—"

"STOP." Joel cuts him off. "Shut the fuck up."

"Come on, boys! I wanna go home!" you shout from the driver side window. “And can one of you please grab my gatorade!”

~~

Back in the basement with the snacks, it’s just the three of you. The hanging swag light in the corner casts a dim, warm glow across the shared space. You go to your room and change into an oversized tee and some tiny lounge shorts that barely cover the curve of your ass.

You’ve claimed the middle spot again. The boys are digging into their snacks. When Tommy opens his bag of skittles you stick your hand out. "Thanks Tommy," you say when he pours a handful into your palm. 

"Which ones are your favorite?" he asks.

"Grape.”

"No way! Mine too!" Tommy says as his face brightens. "See, Joel? Told you grape's the best!"

Joel just rolls his eyes, while you pop another purple one in your mouth. “The grape ones are just superior.”

"Right?" Tommy leans into you a little closer. "Finally, someone gets it!"

A re-run episode of The X-Files is on –something about reincarnation and a field where Mulder died in a past life– when the boys finally finish eating. 

At first it’s the usual — Tommy’s arm draped along the back of the couch behind you, his fingertips occasionally brushing your shoulder, and Joel’s rigid warmth against your other side. 

But the longer the episode drags, the bolder you get.

You stretch, arching your back like you're feeling cramped. You look at Tommy first, knowing he’ll give you the answer you're in search of – ipso facto, making Joel more likely to be agreeable for what you're about to ask.

“Hey Tommy… could I lay my legs over you to get a little more comfortable?"

Tommy's eyes light up upon your request. “Yeah, c'mon, get comfy,” he says without hesitation, patting the tops of his thighs. He can’t believe you’re really doing this. He’s already thinking about how soft your thighs are gonna feel on his lap. 

You swing your legs across him, with your back to Joel now. You rest the side of your head against the back of the couch for a moment before turning to look over your shoulder at him.

"Joel," you say in a sweet voice, "would it possibly be okay if I laid my head down on your lap?"

He looks at you like a deer caught in headlights. 

Joel wants to say no. He should say no. But the way you’re looking at him, he knows he won’t because part of him wants this – no matter how wrong he thinks it is. And now he’s also feeling pissed off at Tommy for allowing you to start this little charade.

"Um… I—I guess so," he finally says, and the bright, grateful smile you give him right then makes him feel like it’s worth it. 

You slide your ass over until it’s snug against Tommy’s side, gathering your hair, you let it spill across Joel's lap as your cheek presses against the muscle of his thigh through his jeans.

You nuzzle in like you’re just getting comfortable, moving your head in small circles. The fabric of your shirt riding up your back as you settle. You can feel the sudden tension in both of their bodies.

Tommy looks over at Joel. A wicked grin spreads across his face. He gives a small, encouraging nod, daring his brother to let this happen. 

Oh for fuck’s sake, Joel thinks, why the hell does Tommy always wanna play with fire like this?

Joel's arm hovers in the air for a second, not knowing where he should place it. He finally settles it on the back of the couch. 

You drape your arm over Joel’s leg, hand resting lightly on the top of his thigh closest to you. After a few minutes, your hand starts moving slowly, up and down your step-brother's inner thigh, nails grazing lightly on the denim. You keep the motion casual, absentminded, like you’re just fidgeting while you watch the show. But every pass brings your hand a little higher, closer to forbidden territory.

Tommy watches the movement of your hand on Joel, his own palm mimicking the motion on your leg. His thumb brushes the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, just above your knee at first, then higher, tracing the hem of your sleep shorts. He likes watching you touch and tease his brother like this. His fingers start kneading the flesh of your inner thigh, each pass pushing the boundary a little further. He so badly wants to slide his finger right under your shorts and feel how wet you are for him and Joel. He’s starting to get a boner just thinking about it.

Joel’s breath becomes audibly louder. His hand along the couch finally slips down onto your shoulder, fingers flexing, fighting the urge to grip you. You can feel him beginning to get hard against the side of your face. He shifts once, trying to adjust without being obvious, but it only brushes his growing hardness more firmly against you.

The episode plays on, muffled voices of Mulder and Scully talking about government cover-ups, but the only tension in the room that matters is the one building between the three of you.

You keep stroking Joel’s inner thigh, then you squeeze it ever so slightly and feel him throb against your cheek. Your head moves again –a tiny, comfortable adjustment– nuzzling closer, lips accidentally grazing the fabric near the tip of his cock. Joel lets out a quiet, strained breath that dies somewhere between a sigh and a groan, and his hand tightens slightly on your shoulder.

None of you say a word. The TV glows across your bodies — three people on a couch pretending to watch it, two pairs of hands exploring, moving in the dim light. Totally normal family bonding. 

Tommy can tell Joel’s about to snap, that he’s so close already and your hand hasn’t even fully touched him. Right now, he’d argue this is single handedly the hottest thing he and Joel has ever done. 

Your fingers drift higher, so close to the tip of his cock. Joel tries not to move, meanwhile his mind is spiraling. 

Don’t fuckin’ cum, don’t fuckin’ cum. Joel chants in his mind like a mantra. But the feeling is so strong and it wants to take over. Joel knows if you keep doing this, keep teasing him, he’s not gonna be able to stop it, he’s just gonna cum. Part of him doesn’t even care anymore. You’re soft little hand makes him feel so fucking good. 

Tommy's fingertips slip fully under the hem of your shorts now, grabbing and kneading at your soft flesh, inching dangerously close to your underwear. You're so wet it's almost embarrassing. But you're a little too busy enjoying yourself to be embarrassed. It feels so good being touched by a hand other than your own. You try to keep your breath calm, this was only supposed to be to tease them, yet here you are wet as can be as you share touches. 

Not even thinking now, your thighs fall open slightly, just a little, giving Tommy more room. You can feel your pulse between your legs, the want making you swell.

Your fingers drift higher on Joel, finally tracing along his length through the denim – with the lightest, teasing touch. He's bigger than you expected, and the realization floods your body with a pleasing feeling. You can't help but wonder if it runs in the family. 

Joel's mind is unspooling. Every rational thought he has is getting drowned out by the feeling of your hand. He's about to cum and you haven't even touched skin.

Tommy's fingers reach the edge of your panties, about to touch you where you've been aching for it.

“Boys?” Ric’s voice calls out, already halfway down the stairs.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Tommy's hands fly off you. You bolt upright, swinging your legs off his lap, snatch the blanket from the floor, covering you and Tommy. Joel grabs the nearest throw pillow and shoves it over his massive erection.

You lean forward –elbows on your knees– and stare at the TV. Joel shoots Tommy a look, silently pleading him to handle this – to do the talking since he can’t focus enough to form words right now, can’t think past the throbbing ache now straining against the throw pillow with his grandma’s needlepoint on it that says, All Things Grow With Love. 

Ric hits the bottom of the stairs and rounds the corner. "Oh hey guys... anddddd gal." he says, eyes squinting, taking in the scene. "Heard your truck leave earlier, just wanted to make sure you got back okay."

"Yep, we sure did," you say, standing up and faking a yawn. "But I'm getting pretty tired, I'm gonna head to bed now. Thanks for letting me tag along guys, I had fun tonight." You turn and give them both a sweet smile. 

Tommy manages a casual, “No problem.” But you can tell his voice is slightly off. Joel doesn’t look at you. 

As you make it to your bedroom you hear Ric say to the brothers, well that was nice of you boys, including your sister. I'm proud of you both.

A few more words are exchanged between Tommy and Ric you think, but you can barely focus. You close the door and lean against it for a second, heart still racing.

Not long after you hear Ric's footsteps ascend the stairs.

You wait. The brothers speak but it's too low, you can't make out the words. Then you hear one of their bedroom doors shut, followed by the bathroom door. The fan clicks on. The sink water starts running.

You creep out of your room and peek around the corner to the living area. Tommy's door is shut. Joel's is open – he must be in the bathroom.

Quiet as a mouse, you get up next to the bathroom door and press your ear against it. At first there's just the sound of water. The fan whirring. Then a quiet, muffled groan and the faint, unmistakable sound that skin on skin makes when a person thinks no one can hear them. 

Oh shit.

He must think with the fan and sink water running that you can't hear him. And maybe that would be the case if you weren't literally pressed up against the door. But you can hear everything. 

You feel pretty darn proud of yourself for having this effect on him, and you can’t help but wonder if he’s thinking about you. Your cheek against his thigh, your fingers tracing along the length of him, the way you nuzzled into his lap like a little puppy.

It doesn't take him long, which doesn't surprise you — you teased his inner thigh for a solid 20 minutes. You can hear the sound of his release come though the door, the word fuck repeated several times in a strained voice. 

You quietly dart back to your room and shut the door, heart pounding.

Why are you so turned on right now?

It was just your step-brother touching himself after you riled him up all night. That's all. Just Joel getting off in the bathroom. You lean back against the door, one hand sliding desperately down into your tiny shorts.

Shit. 

You're so wet.

Your fingers find your clit and you start slow, two fingers rubbing in tight circles, then pressing harder, faster. You think about Tommy. Is he in his room right now doing the same thing? Hand wrapped around himself, stroking fast, thinking about how close his fingers got. You think about how Joel sounded just now. You come embarrassingly fast, biting down on the collar of your t-shirt to muffle the sound, legs trembling, pressing your shoulders harder into the door. You stand there for a moment afterward, breathing hard, stunned at yourself. 

You make your way over to your bed and collapse onto it, staring at the ceiling, thinking about everything that happened tonight. You ultimately decide you can't let things go that far again. That was just a mistake. You were feeling lonely and you pushed the line way too far, made things too blurry. Completely threw the plausible deniability out the door.

They’re your step-brothers for cryin’ out loud. You don't like them like that.

Right?

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next chapter - mama's boy

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blurred lines!reader who is painfully self-aware, feels and thinks everything at once, yet can never seem to put any of it into words without losing half of what she actually means.

blurred lines!reader who struggles with anxiety, insomnia, overthinking, emotional burnout, impulsivity, and the constant feeling that everyone else received instructions for adulthood except her.

blurred lines!reader whose idea of freedom sometimes turns into drinking, weed, hookups, bad decisions, and anything else loud enough to keep her from sitting alone with her thoughts.

blurred lines!reader who hides most of her problems behind dry humor, casual oversharing, and jokes that are just concerning enough to make people pause before she changes the subject.

blurred lines!reader who has an enormous amount of love in her despite how emotionally unavailable she likes to act, most visibly reserved for her two cats, zuzu and nova.

blurred lines!reader who moves to the outer banks with six months to recover, find direction, and build a life of her own, while having absolutely no idea where to begin.

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