2.6k | painter!Reed Richards x f!Reader & Alex Serian
⟢ Summary: You went to Reed's art reception and grew closer to the person behind the paintings.
Tags/warnings: none. fluff. maybe second-hand embarrassment. I don't know painting and musical terms. no y/n. not proofread. not beta-ed.
a/n: This is a direct continuation to the painter. It was quite well received, and I also enjoyed writing for this pairing, so here's a sequel! With an addition of Alex Serian as a third wheeler because I'm already obsessed with him. Like the first one, I didn't take the writing aspect very seriously. It was a fun quick write while I take a little break after today's exam before I continue studying for the next. It's a bit rushed, so I'm sorry for any mistakes. I hope you'll enjoy this one!! <3
part 1: the painter
The gallery was already crowded with people within its first hour of opening. The atmosphere buzzed with excitement and anticipation, particularly outside the closed exhibition hall for which the very event you were here for will be held.
Your heels clanked against the hardwood flooring as you approached the growing queue. Aside from you, everyone here seemed to have been long aware of the reception.
Your hand reached inside the small bag hanging over your shoulder and you fished out the ticket you had received yesterday. Your eyes perused over the letters printed on the thick rectangular paper over and over again.
Just what, was your luck?
Your feet unconsciously moved with the line until you finally reached the staff in charge of the event admission.
"Madame? Your ticket, please." The staff's voice pulled you out of your thoughts and you looked up to find him looking mildly annoyed at your lack of focus.
"Pardon." You extended your hand to lend him the ticket, but instead, he only blinked at you as if you just offered him illegal money. "Is there a problem?"
"We use digital tickets, Madame."
Confused, you glanced over to the person behind you who looked just as impatient. The woman, whom you guessed was about your age, held up her phone to show you her ticket.
You turned back to the staff. "But this is still a ticket, no?—"
Before the staff could deny your entry, the faint sounds of chatter and camera shutters grew in your ears. You—and everyone else—whipped your head in the direction of the noise to see a group of people swarming a moving subject.
The actual reason you're here.
Reed Richards.
From the distance, you could see him flashing a polite smile as he answered questions thrown his way from the journalists. But your gaze didn't get to stay long on the man because the staff once again called you.
"I cannot let you enter yet, Madame. I have to consult my manager to make sure this ticket is valid."
Sighing, you let the woman behind you through as you stood next to the line, wondering if you should give up and leave, or give this man—in a boring, plain black blazer—a good headbutt so he could perhaps see better. Do you look like you'd scam your way inside with fake tickets?
Your patience was running thin as you watched the other visitors pass through. After calling someone over with his in-ear piece, a bald man, presumably in his mid 50s, rushed over. You assumed he was the manager.
They discussed the issue, and he took hold of your ticket, examining it like a lost artifact—and you had to physically hold yourself back from rolling your eyes.
"Mademoiselle. You made it."
The familiar soft voice shook your train of thoughts. Your head swiftly turned to find the artist himself standing next to you with hands shoved down the pockets of his trousers.
The paparazzi had left him alone, finally; the ones invited for media coverage already heading inside to get the best views and set up their tools.
"H-hi. You." You stammered, unsure on how to react after your encounter yesterday. It brought a chuckle out of the man.
"I believe I told you it's Reed." He smiled, showing off his dimples. "Though, I haven't had the pleasure of knowing yours, yet."
You swallowed as you stared into his eyes and told him your first name.
Reed repeated it. Your name sounded light on his tongue, like a brush on a canvas.
"That's a beautiful name."
He tore his eyes from yours and briefly glanced down at his watch. "The event starts in twenty. Best to get seated now."
"That's the thing.."
"Excuse me, gentlemen."
The two gallery staffs stopped their chatter to look at Reed. Their eyes widened at the unexpected presence.
"Monsieur!" The manager placed his hand over his chest and bowed curtly, and the staff followed suit.
Reed brushed off the greeting and went straight to the point. "Is it true that you're not the letting the owner of this ticket inside?" He pointed to your ticket that the manager was holding.
"Uh, yes. We're informed that all tickets are in digital form."
"Well," Reed gently took the ticket from the manager's hand. "This one is legit. I personally gave it to my special guest. So if you will.." He smiled; the kind that made the gallery employees shudder.
"Right away, Monsieur!"
"Merci bien." Reed nodded in satisfaction.
The staff quickly allowed you in. You thanked them, feeling relieved that the spectators of your earlier predicament no longer looked at you like a fraudster.
You caught sight of Reed already heading off to the back entrance reserved for staffs, but he turned his head in your direction and sent you a quick wink.
You have to thank him later for saving your dignity.
You immediately frowned at the thought your mind had conjured up.
No. HE got me into this trouble.
You shook your head to shrug off the debate arising in your head and went to find a seat; somewhere at the end of the row where you wouldn't be attracting anymore unwanted attention.
When you had finally settled in your seat and calmed down, your ears finally registered the sound of cello filling the room.
At first, you thought it came from the speakers. But then you craned your neck to look between the heads sitting in front of you and found a man in a suit playing the instrument, live.
The bow glided over the strings purposefully, and his loose curls swung over his forehead with matching intensity. You recognised the melody, Andante Cantabile by Tchaikovsky. It sounded wistful and tender, perfect for the atmosphere inside the hall.
The opening performance ended and you softly clapped along with the other guests. As the cellist stood, you managed to get a better look of the talented man. He held his cello and bow in one hand and bowed, smiling gratefully.
At the same time, Reed emerged from the white partitioned wall that displayed his artworks, and the claps only grew louder at his appearance. You couldn't help but smile at the sight of him.
You spot the cellist's smile breaking into a grin as he gave Reed a little bow. He was about to leave with his cello, but Reed stopped him, placing a hand on his arm. The cellist, wearing a suit with a black bow tie was caught off guard as Reed led him to the center of the room.
"Please. Another round of applause for my good friend, Alex Serian." The room erupted with applause, and the man, whom you now know as Alex Serian, bowed again, this time with a slightly embarrassed smile.
You found Reed chuckling at his bashful response, which you had to admit, was adorable. Finally, with a pat on Alex's shoulder, he disappeared behind the same wall Reed came through.
"Thank you all for coming." You attention again shifted towards Reed, now standing in front of everyone with his artworks displayed behind him. He talked about how his latest works came about with bright eyes and the same excitement as you witnessed yesterday; when you shared your thoughts about a painting that was apparently his.
The memory had you biting your lower lip to suppress the embarrassment that had been plaguing your mind. You barely had any sleep last night thinking of how you must have made a fool of yourself.
Despite it all, you couldn't miss the chance to see Reed Richards's other masterpieces before the general public does. So here you were.
"Thank you again for coming, and please, help yourselves." Reed gestured towards the lines of frames holding his paintings after ending his speech.
Everyone started leaving their seats, thrilled to see his works up close. The media on the other hand, was quick to approach him for more questions, shoving mics into his face.
You took your time with each painting, observing the colours, the intentionally asymmetrical shapes, the brush strokes, the similar art style to the painting you saw yesterday. You found yourself smiling, finding joy in seeing patterns and seeing what makes each painter unique.
Your feet halted before a painting placed on the other side of the room. There were only two main colours. Black for the background, and orange for the subject. At first glance you thought it was mars. But no, it was a fox; curled up into an almost perfect round. The painting took your breath away, partly due to your love of foxes.
You lost track of time studying the fascinating artwork, and before you knew it, you were one of the last few visitors left inside the exhibition room.
"You've stared at this one for a while. I didn't expect the fox to receive most of your attention." A pair of heels softly clanked against the hardwood floor before stopping right beside you. "I'm almost jealous."
Your head whipped in his direction, and you found Reed smiling at you. You instantly mirrored his smile. "It's really beautiful."
"I'm glad one person thinks so."
"I'm serious."
Reed chuckled before playfully bowing with a dramatic flair. "I appreciate your kind words, Milady."
"Stop it." You gently slapped his arm without thinking, chuckling in embarrassment, as you caught some visitors' eyes on both of you. "We're in public." You continued in a hushed tone.
Reed only smiled and watched the twinkle in your eyes as you laughed. "So you won't mind if it's in private?"
His question made you stop, heat suddenly creeping up your cheeks as your heart thumped against your ribs. What the hell is happening?
"I don't—Not like that!"
Reed laughed. "Apologies, love. I was merely teasing." He placed his palm over his heart to show how sorry he was; but the way he bit his lower lip to suppress another chuckle told you that he relished in seeing your reaction.
Just then, another set of footsteps approached you. You both turned to find the man who played the cello earlier, looking slightly... disheveled. He smiled at Reed before sparing a glance at you.
"Alex." Reed tugged his sleeve to pull him over. Alex smiled as Reed introduced you both to each other, and you shook his hand with a polite smile.
Alex then turned to his painter friend and leaned close to whisper in his ear; which you could somehow still hear—very clearly. "Will you stop dragging me around?"
You had to bite the inside of your cheeks to stop yourself from laughing. This man sure didn't appreciate being the center of attention.
"Where were you anyway?" Reed gave his friend a look. Alex's lips parted but no words came out.
"Just went to get some drinks." He said after a beat of silence.
"Right." Reed smirked. You watched their exchange in amusement.
"How did you two know each other?" You asked, redirecting the conversation to something that wouldn't keep pushing Alex to the corner. The man gave you an appreciative look.
"We met in art school." Alex nodded in confirmation. "He made me do his painting assignment." He then added bluntly. The cellist snapped his head towards his friend in betrayal.
"No I didn't."
"Yes, you did. How else did you get an 'A' for that class when all you did was play cello and—"
"Fine, alright?"
Reed grinned in victory at his surrender, forcing the chuckled you had tried to contain out of you. You could tell they'd been friends for a while.
"Come on, dinner's on me." Reed said, voice turning softer as looked at you.
"Me?"
"Yes, and us." He jerked his head towards Alex.
"It's alright," Alex said, "you two can go together. I'll get something on my way back to the hotel."
"Absolutely not. I owe you for that performance."
"You don't owe me anything though." You interjected, feeling almost bad that you might be getting in between their plans.
"It was a mistake on my part that the gallery staffs almost didn't let you in because iof the ticket I gave you. So I do owe you a proper apology." Reed looked at you hopefully. For a second, you thought his eyes looked rounder, like puppies. And it made you want to give in.
"You sure?"
"Very."
Alex watched the whole thing like a tennis game. Reed's eyes on you didn't waver, and he then added,
"Please."
At that word—and the way he said it—Alex's eyebrows raised in surprise, but he didn't say a word.
"Alright." You finally gave in. "I guess I'd enjoy some company for tonight."
The implication that you rarely had company at night had Alex curious. "Why? Are you single?" He inquired, which earned him a jab from Reed.
"Uh, yeah. I am." You answered with a sheepish smile.
Alex's eyes sparkled with mirth and he glanced at his friend with a grin.
"Don't mind him." Reed said, subtly glaring at the man next to him. "Come. I know a place."
The atmosphere of the restaurant was warm and cozy. The three of you ate your meals and filled the silence with lighthearted conversations. You hadn't felt so happy talking to people in a while.
"You haven't shared your thoughts on my paintings yet today." Reed pointed out as he wiped his mouth clean of his tomates farcies.
"It wouldn't matter. I'm no art critique."
"That's exactly why it matters. My art are not for critiques—though they are, unfortunately, important for PR. But ultimately they're for myself, and for the people who find joy and comfort in it."
You sighed, knowing that aside from fine arts, Reed Richards was a master in the art of persuasion—or at least you couldn't seem to resist him.
So you talked, and talked, and the two men listened without cutting you off.
Alex looked at you before his gaze landed on his friend who was listening intently to everything you had to say—and a small, almost fond smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
You finally arrived home after midnight, thanks to Reed and Alex who made sure you got back safely.
You felt your heart fluttering the whole time as you recalled your conversations. The way Reed valued your opinions, the way he listened to you without interrupting, the way his voice would get softer whenever he talked to you.
You wondered if you'd ever get to see him again.
Reed and Alex walked down the dimly-lit pavements back to their own hotel after sending you back.
"You should've gone to that dinner without me." Alex said, breaking the silence of the night.
"What? Why?"
"Because clearly, you didn't need me there. It could've been a date."
"But it wasn't supposed to be a date." Reed looked at him in confusion.
Alex's lips parted in disbelief. Before he could stop himself, he grabbed Reed's neck, holding it in a headlock. "Do you even know how to pick up a woman?"
"Ow! Let go, idiot! I'm not like you."
"You're the idiot! You're literally in love with her!" That immediately shut Reed up.
Alex let him go with a shove, sending the man stumbling on his feet. "And yeah, I'm a ladies man." He shrugged. "So if you don't make your move, maybe I will."
Reed gasped, and his hands suddenly itched to wipe the smirk off the menace he unfortunately called friend's face. "Don't. You. Dare."
"Try me."
Sensing the warning signs in Reed's eyes, Alex instantly took off, with the man in glasses chasing after him into the night.
Deep down in his heart, Reed knew Alex was right.
When he looked at you, he saw a woman who spoke his language—a woman who could interpret the strokes on his canvas.
And Reed knew he had fallen. Hard.
Thank you for reading!! Hope this made your day/night :) reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated. I would love to know your thoughts <3
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coupling: joel miller x female reader x tommy miller
wc: 7.6k
summary: you find a safe place to put your physical want. lets see what your step-brothers think about that.
warnings: no explicit content in this chapter but full story is 18+ MDNI ~ coming of age, characters are minors ~ step-sibling attraction ~ possessive/protective step-brothers ~ jealousy ~ emotional manipulation ~ coercive control/controlling behavior ~ subtle gaslighting ~ implied domestic abuse ~ class differences/wealth disparity ~ threats of violence ~ NEW WARNINGS WILL BE ADDED TO EACH CHAPTER.
authors notes: BABES! I know this be slow burning like a mofo right now, but stick with me, I promise I will make it up to you later! Also! Thank you all for the continued love and support you have shown this fic! It literally makes my day when one of you likes, comments and/or reblogs it. Enjoy!<3
spotify playlist for this fic -Chapter title from guns 'n roses song, welcome to the jungle-
previous chapter ~ AO3 ~ series masterlist ~ main masterlist
~ if you got a hunger for what you see, you’ll take it eventually… you can have anything you want, but you better not take it from me ~
Anna has dragged you to a party in her town –Palomino Hills– about 20 minutes from yours. It’s some senior’s house, parents gone and a keg on the back lawn. It's not a rager by any means, 30… 40 people at most. Drinking. Dancing. Talking. You know, the same old shit people have been doing at parties since the dawn of time. Except the house is the size of your old apartment building, and the driveway's got cars in it that cost more than your mom makes in a year – little foreign things, shiny and low to the ground, parked at angles that make them look more relaxed here than you. Inside, the girls have the kind of hair that is on a strict, 4 to 6 week schedule for touch ups, and the boys love wearing their daddies wealth on their wrists. Seriously, you haven’t seen a dude up in here that isn’t wearing a big shiny watch. Some of the scrawnier boys can barely fill them out, and you can’t help but chuckle to yourself, watching one slide up a kid's forearm every time he lifts his cup. But you have no room to laugh, no doubt sticking out like a sore thumb here.
You're standing in the kitchen holding a Solo cup, mostly using as a prop when a voice beside you says, "You look like you're plotting your escape."
You turn and look up. Finding a tall fella with slicked back, shoulder length sandy blonde hair and blue-gray eyes. Very much resembling Brad Pitt in Legends of the Fall.
Ay Caramba.
His style suggests a mix of preppy and effortlessly cool. That doesn’t surprise you, knowing Palomino Hills contains a heft of wealthier families. He looks nothing like the boys at your school and nothing like the boys in your basement.
"That obvious?" you say.
"Little bit." He smiles, purely whites on full display. “I’m Tate.”
He's a senior at the high school here which gives him a sheen of mystery. He asks you questions and then actually listens to the answers. Doesn't look over your shoulder for someone better the way boys have done with you at other parties. By the end of the night he's asked for your number, and Anna is mouthing OH MY GOD at you from across the crowded living room.
2 days later you stand in the kitchen swinging the long coiled phone cord around and around, then wrap it around your finger as you talk with Tate. He called you when he told you he would. That becomes one of the things you really like about him. He does what he says he's going to do and shows up when he says he'll show up. The complete opposite of your dad. So he gets an A+ for that. When you tell him early on that you want to take things slow physically –you brace for the face boys have made at you in the past, the one that clues you in they aren’t too pleased with your request– he just nods and says, "Whatever you need, I want you to feel comfortable, I'm not like other guys."
It’s not that you want to take all physical things slow, just the full monty, if you catch my drift. So far he seems to be quite alright with all the other things you’re doing together. Plus you feel like you can finally breathe, having a safe place for all your physical wants that you can’t aim at either of your step-brothers without ruining it all.
You keep Tate to yourself for close to a month. Just wanting to see how things play out between you. But you notice how the secret starts to make you feel. You come in from a date still tasting Tate’s chapstick on your lips and slide into Tommy's or Joel’s bed 20 minutes later, and you lie there feeling like you’re doing something wrong. It's not cheating. Tommy's your friend. Joel's your friend. And you and Tate aren’t even official, so there is no line anywhere for you to be on the wrong side of.
So why does it feel like there is?
~~
You know it's kinda soon. You haven't been seeing Tate that long — you're not even his girlfriend. But when he invited you to dinner with his parents, there was something in the way he looked at you that made saying no feel impossible. So you’ve spent the last 3 days losing your mind on what the hell you’re gonna wear. Since the dinner is at their country club.
Well la-tee-fuckin-da.
You don't have country club clothes. Closest thing is a church dress from two Easters ago, and that just won’t do. But you have Anna, thank God. You go to her place where she has a shit-ton of options waiting for you. You settle on a simple dress and her lowest pair of wedges – so you have a fighting chance of not falling or rolling an ankle.
Standing in front of the mirror and tugging at the hem, you try to see what a rich woman would see.
Horse shit.
That's what you keep thinking. That his mother is going to take one look at you and see the horse shit under her overpriced equestrian riding boots. People like that can smell an apartment kid from a mile away. Can smell the sad existence of hamburger helper and secondhand everything from across a dining room, you're sure of it.
You're still tugging at the dress when Anna appears behind you in the mirror, arms crossed, head tilted.
"Okay, staaaahp." She smacks your hand away from the hem. “You look perfect!”
"I look like I'm playing dress-up." Even though you’ve gained copious amounts of confidence in your body since coming back from camp, you’ve never felt comfortable in a dress. They've just never been your thing. The tom-boy inside you is kicking and screaming.
"Don’t be such a turd in the punch bowl! You look like a total knockout!” She spins you by the shoulders to face her, hands staying there, giving you the serious Anna eyes. “Walk in there like you own the place. Fake it till you make it – that's what most rich people do anyhow.” She reaches up, fixing a piece of your hair. "You survived moving into a basement with two feral teenage boys. A country club is nothing."
You chuckle with a wary smile.
The rumble of Tate's car comes up the street right on time. Anna's eyebrows shoot up. "That's your ride, Cinderella!"
You mumble something about turning back into a pumpkin at midnight, she just scoffs at you and walks you to the door. Tate steps out of the car, making his way up her driveway. When he looks up and sees you, he stops dead in his tracks. Continuing to make your way towards him.
"Wow… look at you, babycakes."
"Don't be weird about it,” you tell him, feeling more self-conscious now that you’re out in the light of the late afternoon.
"I'm being nice about it. You look really pretty." He takes your hand in his and leads you to his car, opening the door for you. "Relax. They're gonna love you."
"Have her home by a reasonable hour!" Anna calls from the doorway, with a big smile on her face.
"No promises," Tate shouts back, grinning.
You slide into the seat, smooth the dress over your knees one more time, and off you go.
~~
The car pulls around the circle drive up to the clubhouse. Coming to a stop under an awning held up by giant white columns. A man other than Tate opens your door for you. “Miss,” he offers you his hand, and you oblige. Tate makes his way around the car, just in time to take you off the man's hand. “Thank you, Reginald.”
Reginald… Jesus. You really aren’t in Kansas anymore.
Inside the place smells like lemon furniture polish and whatevers on the menu they’re whippin’ up for dinner. Dark green carpet, gold brass fixtures, oil paintings of men who look like they've never once laughed. Ah the lap of luxury. Not a lap you’d ever want to sit in – too uptight, too cold, too stiff. And not in the good way. You keep your elbows close to your body, afraid you might knock over something worth more than your mom's car.
You make your way through the dining room, weaving through the tables of other snooty patrons. His parents are already at the table. His mother rises first – slim, ash blonde with a touch of silver that blends in well, dainty gold jewelry, the exact woman you feared – you brace for the up-and-down look, the polite frost. Instead she reaches out, taking both your hands. "Oh, there she is! Tate, you didn't tell me she was this lovely – sit by me, honey, come sit by me!"
Well fuck.
Now you're more nervous, for a completely different reason. You actually want her to like you now. You didn’t care so much before when you thought she’d be a cold-hearted bitch.
His father stands next, and the first word that comes to mind is gigantor. This dudes frickin’ huge! Muscular and broad. He reaches out to shake your hand, squeezing your delicate phalanges a little too hard – gigantor doesn’t know his own strength it seems. He orders you a Shirley Temple without making it feel like a kid's drink. Then tells you to get what you want, but gives you his opinion that the filet mignon is the only thing worth eating here, ever since they hired a new head chef and changed the menu.
Orders are placed and the conversation starts ramping up. You're waiting for the, what do your parents do? So they can discuss and laugh about it together later tonight when they're alone, but it never comes. His mother asks about you, about school and she listens, hand on your arm, smiling kindly at you. When you mention the animal shelter you volunteer at sometimes, she gets all the more excited. Telling you about all the charity work she does, one even being with a different animal shelter. Isn't that something, the two of you have to compare notes.
Somewhere between the main course and dessert, you realize you've stopped faking it, till you make it, and you're just… talking freely. Tate's got his arm across the back of your chair and his father is telling stories about his Polo playing days. Not the most riveting, but it doesn’t bore you to tears.
You excuse yourself to the bathroom at one point just to take a breath and stand at the marble sink to look at yourself. These people, who have every reason to look down their noses at you, don't. And you've spent so long feeling like the odd one out. The girl who doesn't quite fit even at her own dinner table, that you figured tonight was going to be a carbon copy of that – except 100 times worse. But tonight, here, surrounded by old money and the upper crust of society, you just slid into place. How fucking bizarre… It shouldn’t mean so much to you but it does.
Goodbyes happen out front under the awning, valet pulling the cars around. His mother hugs you. It’s warm and comforting, and she smells like gardenias. When she pulls back, her hands slide down your arms and her sleeve rides up. There's a bruise on her forearm. A big one.
You almost ask, Are you okay? But you swallow it down. Because it's none of your business, and this night has gone too perfectly to go making it weird at the finish line. She's a thin woman – thin women bruise easily, right? Probably caught her arm on a car door. A cabinet corner. Something of that nature. Her sleeve slips back down, and from the bright smile on her face you don’t think she noticed that you saw it. She says she hopes to see more of you soon. You return the smile and pleasantries, saying you hope the same.
Tate’s parents are the first to drive off. But before leaving the manicured grounds of the country club, he pulls his car to a side parking lot and kills the engine. Then turns to look at you.
Shifting to meet his gaze you ask, “What’s going on?”
“You know what my mom said to me when you went to the bathroom?” He’s smiling, clearly delighted at whatever he’s about to tell you, as you answer by shaking your head at him. “She said, don’t you mess this up Tate.”
Unable to speak, all you feel is shock. His mom likes you… and you weren’t anyone but yourself.
"So I'm not gonna," Tate puts his hands out for you to take. When you do, his face turns serious. "I want you to be my girlfriend. No more keeping it quiet.” His thumbs brush over your hands. "And I wanna meet your family. Since you met mine.”
"Yeah," you say, smiling before you can stop it. "Okay."
It's only later, lying in bed that night in Anna’s guest room, staring at a bare ceiling with no glowing stars on it, that the nerves show up. All your mind can think about are the 2 boys back in the basement, and what happens when they find out.
~~
Your mom, upon hearing the word boyfriend, reacts like you've cured cancer. There is squealing and a hand pressed to her chest. And okay, it's not like he's your first boyfriend. It's that you've never brought one home – never handed one over to her to be fed and fussed at. Dinner is proposed, planned, and by Saturday she's got Ric's favorite going on the stove, carne guisada that's been simmering half the day, homemade flour tortillas, rice, the whole spread. She's trying so hard, and you feel grateful for it. The house smells incredible.
Tate shows up at six on the dot. You hear the loud exhaust announcing his arrival. When you open the door he's standing there in a Ralph Lauren button-down with flowers for you and your mom.
Your mom melts. "Come in, come in! Oh, aren't you just so sweet,” She says, taking both bouquets of flowers from him. His hands now empty, she gets a good look at him. “Myyyyy goodness, look at you!" Might you say it seems like your mom is surprised that you lassoed this strapping young man.
Ric rolls his eyes at your mother with a smile on his face. He moves to greet Tate, one hand settling on your mom's shoulder as he leans past her, the other extended. "Tate. Heard a lot about you." Which is a generous framing of the 48 hours he's known you had a boyfriend.
"All good things, I hope, sir."
Sir. Well, well he seems to be pulling out all the stops. You watch Ric's face but you can’t tell if he’s impressed or suspish.
You all shuffle your way to the dining room and you hear the boys coming up from the basement. “What’s all the commotion?” Tommy asks, rounding the corner, Joel behind him.
Sooooo, here’s the thing. As far as you know, nobody’s told them you had a guest coming over. Let alone that the guest just so happens to be your new boyfriend. You had your chance to tell them both last night when you were all chillin’, and you chickened out. Could have told Tommy when you fell asleep next to him. But guess what… bockkkkk bock bock bock. Told yourself you’d do it in the morning. Then morning came and went. So here you are now staring down the barrel of the gun, wishing you’d done it sooner.
"Boys, this is Tate," your mom chirps. "Your sister’s new boyfriend."
You squeeze your eyes closed for a moment. Please don't be mad, you think at both of them, uselessly. Please. To your astonishment, their faces don’t give much away. They seem fine with it. Odd. They both introduce themselves to Tate. Tommy giving a grin you know all too well, the performance one.
"Great to meet you guys," Tate says warmly. "She talks about you all the time."
She does? You don't remember doing that.
Everyone moves towards the table to sit and that's when you catch Tommy’s eyes. His face, now giving everything away. He’s no longer grinning. He’s just looking at you – hurt, plain as day, and betrayed. You were in my bed last night… and I'm finding out like this?
You hold his gaze hoping the look your face says, I’m so sorry.
Then you look at Joel. He won’t meet your eyes at all. His are fixed on the middle of the table, and he looks upset. Not mad, upset. Sad, upset. And you just want to hug him, tell him you’re sorry too. It's like you can see the gears turning behind all his stillness. How long? Why didn’t she tell me?
You take your seat next to Tate with your stomach in a knot. Counting down the minutes till you get to speak with them alone later tonight.
~~
Dinner, honestly, goes well.
Tate is good at this. He compliments your moms cooking and asks for the story behind the recipe. She tells him it’s Ric’s mom’s recipe, so she can’t take all the credit and Ric reaches over squeezing her hand at some point as she babbles on. Tate watches them with an expression of such warmth that you feel proud of him. Another A+ on the books.
Tate asks Ric about himself, while he keeps a light hand on the back of your chair, not on you – respectful, claiming adjacent.
"So how'd you two meet, exactly?" Tommy asks, tearing a piece of tortilla. His tone is friendly. His eyes… not so much.
"A little get-together at my buddy's place. She was standing in the kitchen looking like she wanted to leave." Tate smiles at you. "Figured I'd give her a reason to stay."
"Hm, how thoughtful of you." Tommy says, unimpressed, words laced with sarcasm.
You try to give Tommy the stink eye, but he won’t look at you, so you let it go.
A little later, Tate's telling a story about his car – the Cobra, how his dad helped him get into cars – and you happen to look at Joel then. He isn't eating. The fork in his hand rests against his plate while Tate talks. He's watching him, studying him.
"You should hear this thing run," Tate says, pulling your eyes away from Joel. "’93 SVT Cobra. Nothing like it."
"Boys are building a Mustang too out in the garage actually," Ric offers, with a note of pride in it. "'67 Fastback. Been at it a few years now."
"No kidding." Tate turns to the brothers, showing interest. "That's awesome. Old ones are cool!”
By dessert, your mom's telling the story about you falling in the toilet at 2 am your first month here. “She never checked the seat, these 2 heathens never put it down." Tate is laughing, and Tommy pipes in, “In our defense, we never had to worry about putting the lid down.” And for a moment the whole table is laughing together. You look around at all of them mid-laugh and think, maybe this will all be just fine.
~~
You walk him out after dinner. The Mustang sittin’ pretty at the curb under the streetlight. Tate takes your hand on the way down the driveway, swinging it a little.
"Well," you say. "I think that went really good! My mom likes you. Like, really likes you. Ric'll come around more, think he just doesn’t really know how to handle all this." You laugh, bumping his shoulder. "But I'm really glad you met them. All of them."
"Me too." He stops at the car, turns, takes both your hands. "Your mom's great! Ric seems solid, but I get what you're saying, him never having a daughter before you." Tate pauses for a moment, then continues. "Your step-brothers, though...."
"What about them?" You quickly respond, a little defensive.
"Nothing, nothing. They just seemed kind of… cold, I guess? To me." He shrugs. "The younger one with the little comments, and the older one barely said two words the whole night. I don't know." He looks at you, blue eyes a little wounded. "Do they always act like that with you? Or is it just me?"
"They're—" You laugh a little, wanting to set the record straight. "That's just them. Tommy's got a smart mouth and Joel's quiet with everybody. That's not – they weren't being cold."
"Okay." He says it fast, hands up, retreating smoothly from the conversation. "Forget I said anything. You know them better than I do." He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and smiles. For a second the act of Joel doing the same that first night in his room flashes in your mind, before Tate speaks again. "I just care about you. I notice stuff, that's all."
He kisses you goodnight, soft and unhurried. The Cobra roars away down the street. You stand in the driveway a minute after he's gone.
Do they always act like that with you?
Not any more they don’t. Sure, when you first moved in. But they weren't cold to him. Were they? Tommy asked questions. Joel's always quiet. That's just them, you know them, you live with them.
When you come in, you have a feeling the boys are gonna be waiting on you. And you should be walking down there annoyed. You didn't do anything wrong. You didn't lie. You just… didn't tell them. Therein lies the problem, because they know you pretty much tell them everything, and you chose to omit this and say nada. Then drop the bomb on them in front of everyone, where they couldn’t do or say anything about it, aside from smile and take it. You did do something wrong, and you can’t feel annoyed. All you feel is upset with yourself, for treating them this way.
You stand at the bottom of the stairs and take a deep breath, not knowing how this will go. You haven't given yourself a moment to play it out, aware your brain will only concoct up the worst outcomes. Rounding the corner, there they sit on the couch, waiting up for you as you anticipated – Tommy at one end, Joel at the other, the middle cushion empty. Your cushion. You don't sit. You stand in front of the couch with the coffee table behind you, hands clasped, eyes on the floor. Ready for your scolding like a kid in the principal's office.
Tommy finally breaks the silence. “So,” he says, stretching the word out. “Tate.” He says the name like someone just handed him a baby he didn't ask to hold – arms straight out, wanting no part of it, waiting for somebody to come take it back. "Real nice car."
"Tommy—" you start, looking over at him.
He cuts you off, putting his hand up. "No, no. Cobra. ‘93. Nothing like it, I hear.”
Your eyes start to burn, feeling the pain you caused them. “I’m sorry,” you drop to your knees in front of them, head hanging with shame while the tears build.
They could let you sit in it. They could make you feel it, could return an ounce of what got dealt to them at the table, and it'd be fair. But as they look down at you like this – small and wrecked, kneeling at their feet – neither one of them has it in them. Because there is nothing you could do that would make them want to watch you hurt. Not one thing. They'd take the ambush a 100 times over before they'd take this.
"Hey. Hey, c'mon, don’t do that.” Tommy's voice has lost all its bite from before. "Come up here with us.” You don't get up. You just shake your head, the first tear falling, hitting the carpet, and you watch as it darkens the fibers. You're about to say sorry again, but there is a hand on your jaw. Joel’s. Two fingers under your chin, gently tipping your face up until you have no choice but to meet his eyes. He's leaned all the way forward off the couch to reach you, forearm on his knee, and his face isn't cold or closed off. It's just Joel, but he’s looking at you the way he looked at you the night he said you’ve got a place here with us.
"Stop," he says, quietly. His thumb catches the tear on your cheek before it can get far. "None of this."
"I should've told you," you get out, wobbly. "I should've told both of you and I didn't and then you had to find out like that…”
“Yeah, you should’ve.” Joel says, not letting you off the hook.
“But hey—” Tommy says, and you turn to look at him, Joel’s hand dropping from your face. "You didn't do it to hurt us. You did it 'cause you were scared of how we'd take it. Right?” He shrugs, mouth tugging sideways.
You nod.
Joel extends his arm out to you, hand open, palm up. “C’mere. Get up here with us.” You take his hand and he pulls you up off your knees, and Tommy pats the middle cushion. You fold down into the space between them. They both scooch in close to you, not giving you the difficult choice of who to lean towards. All 3 of your heads leaning back against the couch.
There is a little bit of comfortable silence before Joel says, "You know we don’t want you to be afraid of us… you can always come to us, tell us anything. No matter what it is.” Tommy finishes his brother's thought. “And will always be here for you.”
Oh great, here comes the water works again.
What have you done to deserve these sweet boys? You shut your eyes tight, a tear or two escaping down your cheek. You clear your throat before speaking, “I know, and I will from now on. I promise.”
On either side of you, the brothers are thinking the same thing. That you're not the problem. The problem drives a cherry red Mustang. And the problem, they both suspect, is just getting started.
For the next couple weeks you can tell their disdain for Tate is growing by the day, though you're unsure as to why, all their short interactions that you’ve seen between them have been friendly. You still end up in one of their rooms most nights. Even on the nights you've been out with Tate, even when his cologne is still on your neck and in your hair. You come home and slip out of the new version of yourself you wore for him, and let yourself be held by boys who still know you better than your boyfriend does, and they continue to hold you like nothing has changed, thankfully. Because you don't know what you'd do if they stopped.
You keep this from Tate, having a feeling he wouldn't be too keen on the whole set up – his girlfriend sleeping in another guy's bed, two other guys' beds actually, step-brothers or not. ‘Cause you don't know the right words to say to explain it in a way that sounds innocent. Because it is innocent.
Isn’t it?
~~
You're not ready. You're supposed to be ready. Tate said seven and it's seven when you hear the Cobra rumble up the street. You’ve been running behind more and more recently. Always trying to make sure you’re at your most presentable for Tate.
You hustle through the kitchen and pop your head out the door to the garage. The big door's rolled up, both brothers puttsing around – Tommy bending over the engine bay of the Fastback, Joel sitting at the workbench with a part in his hand – and beyond them, Tate coming up the driveway, looking like a guy straight outta the Polo Ralph Lauren catalogue.
"Hey! I'm almost ready, just a few more minutes, I swear." You shout, waving him toward the garage. "Just hang out here, talk cars with the guys." You know he hates when you're late, hates waiting on you. So when you see his smile fall, you know you have to get your ass in gear.
“Sure thing, babycakes.” Tate says with a flat tone.
You glance at your step-brothers. Who are still focused on their tasks. “Be nice,” you whisper to them with Tate still out of ear shot. Then duck back inside.
Joel hears the door shut, sets the carburetor down, and takes a deep breath before he swivels around on the stool. He really doesn’t wanna interact with this jackwagon, but knows it’ll make you happy.
Tate stands at the edge of the garage. Joel figures it ‘cause he doesn’t wanna get his ritzy outfit dirty.
Privileged little cocksucker.
Be nice. That’s what you asked of him. So fine. Joel can do a few minutes of nice.
"So this is the project, huh?" Tate asks, finally taking a few steps into the garage. Both boys know he’s looking at the car like it's a hunk-of-junk, their poverty hobby.
"Yep." Tommy straightens up out of the engine bay, and pats the fender. “Pulled the motor over the winter, rebuilding her top to bottom."
"Cool, cool." Tate nods along. "What's it got in it?"
"Right now? A 289. Might stroke it though, we haven't decided." Tommy tosses out. "You know, might just keep it period-correct. How ‘bout ‘ur?"
"Nice. Yeah, mine's got the – it's the Cobra motor." Tate hooks a thumb back toward the street where the red car sits. "Two-forty horse. You should hear it open up."
Joel leans back against the bench, arms crossing. He’s got a suspicion that his car has never seen a wrench that wasn’t wearing a dealership shirt. "Pushrod or dual overhead cam?"
Tate’s eyes widen. "It's the… I mean, it's the SVT setup. They only make so many of 'em a year."
"Huh," Joel says. Tommy's got a rag going through his hands, and Joel can feel his brother arriving at the same place he just arrived at without either of them looking at each other.
Bought. Not built.
This trust fund Ken doll doesn’t know a thing about that car aside from what he read off the brochure. He knows the badge, the number the salesman told his daddy, but he’s never had that hood up a day in his life. He’s the kind of guy who’ll rev that Cobra at every stoplight in town and never know all the small details that go into making that noise.
Just then your laugh comes though the other side of the door. Loud and spilling out from somewhere in the house. All 3 of the boys look at the door. A smile finding both Joel and Tommy’s face – a reflex your laugh now pulls out of them.
"She laughs really loud sometimes." Tate says. "You guys ever noticed that? Can hear it clear across a restaurant." He shakes his head, a little indulgent. "Told her we gotta work on her inside-voice. Now I just give her a little look and she stops."
And just like that the smile dies on Joel's face.
A little look.
Joel thinks about the thrift store. How loud your laugh was when you doubled over in that aisle when he stepped out from the dressing room, asking him to give you a little twirl in those ridiculous JNCOs. Never once has Joel heard that sound and wanted to silence it or wished it quieter. Your laugh has always made him want to laugh right along with you. And the idea that Tate has trained a look that shuts it off –that there's a signal you’re already obeying– makes him feel ill.
Tate stands there and checks his watch. "She always run late like this? Seems like I'm always waiting on her."
Agitated as hell now with this entire conversation, Tommy chucks the rag onto the fender. "You know what, maybe she's just tryin' to look nice for you."
Tate huffs a laugh. “Yeah, I guess. I do have her wearing her hair down more – she looks way better like that."
Joel can feel his few minutes of nice coming to a close. At first he was just annoyed by this silver-spoon-sucking little shit. Spent this whole conversation deciding Tate’s just a harmless idiot. But after both remarks about you, Joel’s starting to see red. Tommy pipes up, trying to keep his cool, searching through the tools next to his brother. "Funny. I’ve always thought she looked nice, however she wants to wear it.”
“We all have our preferences. I just voiced mine to her.” Tate says, before plastering a devious grin on his face. “She’s so eager to please.”
In that moment, Joel thinks back to you kneeling before him and his brother. And the restraint Joel typically holds is nowhere to be found, when the stool screeches back across the concrete as he flies off of it. Two steps of bad intentions already in motion. He’s gonna strangle this polo wearing prick. But Tommy's hand clamps around his brother's upper arm. Hard. He doesn't yank, doesn't make a scene of it – just locks on and holds, planting himself half a step in front of his big brother. Not here. Not now. Joel feels from his brother's action, as the door to the house flies open.
"Okay, okay, I'm ready!" You come out in a rush of vanilla and flowing hair, grabbing Tate's hand and hauling him down the driveway before anybody can say another word. “Bye guys!” You toss over your shoulder, bright and happy and completely clueless as to what all was just said and what was about to happen.
Tommy lets go of Joel's arm. The Cobra fires up at the curb, Tate revs the engine like a deliberate middle finger he couldn’t resist throwing, and pulls away with the sound of his car echoing off every house on the street. The taillights swing around the corner, and everything goes quiet except the radio on the workbench, where Axl's opening scream is just starting in Welcome to the Jungle.
Neither of them says anything. Joel stands there staring out at the road, hands flex at his sides. This country club cum stain has no idea who territory he’s stumbled into. If he keeps fuckin’ around, he’s gonna find out real fast what kind of animals he’s messed with. They both know the version of you Tate gets, a polished up princess, who has an apology on her lips because she’s already been trained to think making him wait is some kinda unforgivable sin. But they know the real you.
They know this preppy parasite has spent his whole life taking, taking, taking. He probably sees you as nothing more than another object to add to his collection of pretty things. A girl he’ll try to shape and mold into what he wants, a girl he’ll teach to obey him. Tate can have the Cobra. The trust fund. The country-club future where he can continue to take everything that’s handed to him – where his mommy still, pretty much, wipes his ass and coddles him. He can have the whole fucking world if he wants it.
But he can’t have you. Not your laugh. Not your messy hair when you can’t be bothered. Not your soft skin. Not your happiness or your sadness. Those things don’t belong to Tate, he doesn’t appreciate them like your step brothers do.
Joel & Tommy know the world is full of men who’d love to hurt you –not just Tate– and having you in their lives has given them a reason to stand guard again. Has given something back to both of them that they lost the morning their mother was wheeled out of the house – someone to look after, someone to keep safe. They couldn't save their mom. They were kids, they were too small, they didn't have the power or the knowledge. But they aren't kids anymore.
Guys like Tate always trip over their own act eventually. The mask will slip where you can see it. And until then if he frightens you, hurts you, puts his hands on you in a way you haven't asked for, or makes you feel any other way than good.
They’ll kill him.
~~
Couple nights later, Tate pulls up in front of the driveway, exhaust rumbling. He gets out and leans his back on the car next to the passenger door, waiting for you there. Tate sees Joel and Tommy in the garage once again, fiddling with the project car. You open the front door, stepping out of the house even more dolled up than normal. As you reach the car Tate gives you a grin. He grabs your face and pulls you in for a kiss. “Damn babycakes,” he says, pulling out of the kiss to look down at you. “Looking so fine and on time.”
Your brothers don’t even try to hide the way they watch. Stepping out, around the car, walking towards the opening of the garage. Both of them with a heavy wrench in their hands. Joel slaps one end of his against the palm of his opposite hand as they come to a stop. Tommy’s wrench loose in his hand at his side, mirrors Joel’s stance half a second later – the way he often mirrors Joel. Two boys who learned the same body language growing up in the same den.
Tate glances over at them, then back at you with a small, dismissive laugh. “Your guard dogs on duty tonight?”
Stealing a look over your shoulder at the pair of them, and yeah, they do look defensive standing there, squared up, shoulder to shoulder, every line of their bodies communicating something protective. But even with their rigid posture you swear you see a flash of dismay in their eyes. You’ve been so busy lately with school, friends and now Tate, that you haven’t had much time to hang out or talk with them. You push down the panicked feeling threatening to overwhelm you. The feeling of this new person in your life is going to really start to change things between you and them. That every step you take toward Tate is a step you take away from them. You give Joel and Tommy a worried smile, hoping it conveys, please don't let this change us and slide into the passenger seat.
It’s gotta be just classic territorial step-brother shit, right? Instinctive. Just brothers not wanting to see their sister get hurt. The kind of thing Ric would be proud of if he saw. That's all this is. You repeat this to yourself on the drive, while Tate’s hand finds your thigh.
~~
Joel crosses the basement to your room. Finding the door open and bed empty, he heads towards Tommy's room. Some part of him hoping to find you already curled up in his brother's sheets, back from wherever Tate took you, safe and done with the night. But when he knocks and opens the door, the only person in Tommy's bed is Tommy, sitting up against the headboard with a magazine.
He looks up when Joel comes in, the question already answered by the lack of your presents, but he asks anyway. "She's not back?"
"No." Tommy tosses the magazine aside.
Joel stays standing, one hand braced on the doorframe. The clock on Tommy's nightstand reads 11:47. You left at 7:00.
"Where the hell did he take her?" Tommy asks.
"I don't know."
"It's almost midnight, Joel."
"I'm aware." Joel pushes off the frame, shuts the door and starts pacing – 2 steps toward the desk, 2 steps back, the room too small for the restlessness running through him.
Tommy swings his legs off the bed, plants both feet on the floor, his leg bouncing with nervous energy. "That guy's phoney as fuck,” he says looking towards his big brother. “I really don't fuckin' like him.”
“I don’t either, Tommy.”
"And the way he talked about us tonight. Guard dogs… fuckin’ guard dogs, Joel. Can you believe that shit?!”
“I heard him.” Joel stops pacing. “He's tryin' to make her think we're the problem. So when we do say somethin', she's already been primed to brush it off."
Tommy's quiet for a second, processing. “So manipulative."
Joel doesn't argue. Tommy's right, and the fact that Tommy can see it so clearly when Tommy usually charges through life headfirst without pausing to read the room tells Joel everything he needs to know about how wrong this feels.
Joel drops into the desk chair, elbows coming to rest on his knees, hands holding the side of his face. "Somethin's really off about him. I feel it in my gut. Somethin' ain't right – aside from the things he says about her."
Tommy leans forward, picking at the fraying knee of his jeans. "I feel it too. Thought maybe I was just bein'—" He waves a hand. "I dunno. Jealous or whatever."
"Are you?" Joel’s head quickly lifts to see his brother.
Tommy looks at him, and in his face Joel can see the honesty Tommy has never been good at hiding. "Yeah. I am. But that's not what this is. This is somethin' else."
Joel nods. Because he's jealous too – in a way that has nothing to do with Tate's Mustang or his looks and everything to do with the fact that you chose someone else's passenger seat and Joel had to stand in a garage and watch you go. But Tommy's right. The jealousy is just an overtone. What's underneath the jealousy is a gut feeling.
"We need to talk to her," Joel says. “We sit her down and we tell her what we see."
"You think she’s gonna get upset with us?”
"Maybe."
"What if she pulls away from us even more than she already has..." Tommy shakes his head and falls back on the bed. "What if she stops comin' to our rooms? We just lose her to this sweater vest wearing twat?"
"No." Joel says it hard enough that Tommy lifts his head from the bed. "Listen to me. We’re gonna be nice, just tell her what we see. We say our piece and regardless of how that goes – whether she listens or tells us to go to hell – we treat her the exact same as we have been. No pulling back. We don't get cold with her. If she still wants to come into one of our rooms at night, we let her. We don't shut her out."
Tommy stares at his brother with uncertainty. He was already halfway to considering exactly what Joel just forbade. Because pulling back is what he does when something scares him.
"I'm serious. Her fuckin’ dad walked away from her, Tommy. You think I'm gonna be the next guy who makes her feel like she's not wanted? You think I'm gonna let you be that? We're not gonna be the guys who disappear because she's doing somethin' we don't like or who make her feel like she’s only worth keepin' around when she does what we want."
The frustration drains out of Tommy’s face, understanding taking its place as Joel continues.
“She needs to know she can always come to us. No matter what. Like we told her. Because she's gonna need us. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. But something is up with that guy, we both know it, and sooner or later, she’s gonna know it too and we gotta be there for her when she does. Got it?"
"Yeah." Tommy sits back up, nodding. "Yeah, I got it."
"Good."
At 12:14, headlights sweep across the basement window and they hear the all too familiar sound dipshit’s exhaust. Then a car door, followed by the basement side door opening and closing, carefully and quietly. Tommy lets out a long breath, Joel stands up from the chair.
“We talk to her soon.” Joel says in a hushed voice.
Tommy nods in agreement as they listen to you move through the basement, getting ready for bed – shoes off, bathroom, water running. Your footsteps come towards their bedrooms. You pause outside of the younger brother's door. Then they hear a soft knock on Joel's.
Joel looks at Tommy. Tommy lifts his chin. Go.
Joel opens Tommy’s door, closing it behind him, to see you standing there in front of his door waiting. Your makeup washed off, your eyes tired, and one of his t-shirts gracing your frame.
"Oh hey," you say, looking at him surprised and nervous. "Can I—"
"Get in there," Joel says, with a small smile and the tilt of his head towards his room.
You smile back, big and grateful. You climb into his bed, tucking your face into his neck, right where it belongs. He pulls you close and whispers c’mere estrellita, there you go – he feels your whole body relax and part of him lets go too. But the worry and vigilance. Those stay. Those stay as long as Tate is in your life.
No.
Those stay as long as you are alive and breathing.
I'd love to hear your thoughts! They truly help keep us writers motivated and writing for you babes! Also consider re-blogging so others can find and enjoy the fic as well! <3
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Another great chapter, I’m so amazed by this fic! 😍😍😍
First of all I love your humor and I love the way you handled Tate, making us discover his character little by little, at the beginning he even seems nice and then as the chapter went on I started to hate him more and more, what a fake, little bitch, snobbish and judgmental guy 😤
He doesn't want a girlfriend, he wants a doll to show off and shape as he pleases, how disgusting!
I hope reader will realize this soon, although I can understand why she fell for it, the glam, the fake gallantry and politeness and the love bombing… UGH.
I have a feeling his poor mother got caught up in this pattern before she realized what she was getting herself into, giving the bruise… I feel so sorry for her.
And oh my god, the boys! I loved the way they handled themselves, with great emotional intelligence, knowing how to wait and see how the situation unfolded without directly opposing him. And I'm happy they're ready to face whatever comes next with her, because that's what she needs. Sometimes mistakes are only visible when they're thrown in your face, but it's only right that people who truly care about you know how to help you without holding anything back and being truly there for you. They’re so precious, I want to cry 🥹
Thank you! ☺️ I always look forward to your reviews! Sorry it took me a little longer to respond this time! It’s been a busy week!
Very astute observations about Tate & his family! We’ll see if the reader is able to get her head out of her ass or if she will keep on trying to live in bliss.
Yes, the boys handled themselves very well! They are such sweet boys, that truly care about her and their continued actions are gonna further prove that!
The angst and drama are gonna be heavy in the next chapter, but don’t fret, at the end of it we are gonna strike a match and let this slow burn start a blaze! 🤭
coupling: joel miller x female reader x tommy miller
wc: 8.1k
summary: your mom falls in love, elopes and suddenly you're uprooted from your shitty apartment and moved into a house with her new husband and his two sons, joel & tommy. your mom thinks you're the brady bunch, but you wholeheartedly disagree. eventually you get the hell out of dodge for a summer camp gig where you find a version of yourself you didn't know existed. and the step-brothers who never looked twice are about to notice.
warnings: 18+ MDNI: coming of age story involving minors, emotional bullying, toxic step-sibling dynamics, neglectful parenting, crying, emotional hurt, self-esteem & body image issues NEW WARNINGS WILL BE ADDED TO EACH CHAPTER. YOU CAN SEE A SPOILER LIST OF WARNINGS BY CLICKING ON THE SERIES MASTERLIST BELOW THE AUTHORS NOTES.
authors note: hey party people! i hope you enjoy! this first chapter is a very difficult time for the reader, joel and tommy aren't very nice to her -especially tommy- but stick with me it gets much better between the 3 of them in the chapters to come *wink*
series masterlist / ao3 / my masterlist
“I’m serious about him,” your mom says, standing at the stove in her wrinkled office blouse, the smell of cheap spaghetti sauce bubbling behind her. “We’re moving to his house at the end of the month.”
“Moving in?!” you repeat, realizing it’s not a joke.
“Mmhm, it just makes sense.”
Like hell it does.
Come to find out during the rest of this conversation with her they eloped at the courthouse last Saturday while you were left alone to fend for yourself. Eating an expired box of lasagna hamburger helper and watching re-runs of Home Improvement. And she tells you this like you’re supposed to be grateful because you'll finally be escaping this shitty apartment and you’ll have a yard, a garage, and won’t have to listen to the neighbor above you practice their Irish step dancing at all hours any more.
Your mothers always been one to make hasty decisions but never ones this quick or this life altering. Eloping after only 3 months together, 3 months isn’t enough time to know somebody, no matter how many times she repeats, when you know, you know.
Though at least it’s with Ricardo Miller –or Ric as he insists– and not one of the other deadbeat exes she’s dragged through the apartment – i.e. the one dude who talked like he was selling extended warranties and lived off her paycheck after your dad bailed. But Ric comes as a package deal. Not just the house with the yard and the garage, but with 2 sons. Joel, 15, same as you, and Tommy a year younger. Who are now effectively as of last Saturday at around 2:30pm, your new step-brothers.
Oddly enough the men your mom dated in the past either had no kids or they had sons, not once did they ever have a daughter. So you were always stuck with the prospect of possible step-brothers. Which, when you were younger was fine, always leaning more rough-n-tumble tomboy-ish anyway. Playing sports, never afraid to get dirty, part of you genuinely liked doing the things that were more boyish, but looking back now, you know a piece of you just wanted to be apart, and not be the odd one out.
The secondhand smoke from the Marlboro Ultra Light your mom just lit up assaults your nose before she cracks the drivers side window, reminding you what day it is. Move-in day. Your mother had squealed with excitement at you this morning after you emerged from your room. In response you had given her a tight smile and jazz hands. Now heading towards your new house, you really start to ponder what your relationship with your new step-brothers will look like now that you're older and quite different from the person you used to be. More reserved and quiet now. You really hope you’ll get along with these 2 boys and can end up being friends, you don’t see why not, you’ve always been able to make friends with anyone. But seeing as your mom decided to jump into a whole new life so quickly, you’ve heard little about them, only seen a photo or two, and have yet to actually meet.
You arrive at the house, and you’ll give your mom credit where credit is due. This house is definitely a couple steps up from the apartment. It’s a 2 story house, white exterior and navy blue door with a clunky brass knocker on it, windows adorned with shutters you’re sure don’t work as intended – these purely for aesthetics only. Straight away you can tell Ric is probably like one of those old farts who tells people to get off my lawn, because here in Texas where the summers are brutally hot and the grass should be a dry and crunchy light beige color, his is a lush green.
The ’92 Toyota Camry, your mother’s beloved champagne-colored chariot, pulls into the driveway, Ric’s truck is already backed in with the tailgate down and your whole life stacked in uneven cardboard boxes that he, you and your mom loaded up this morning. The last bits of your life, all here to be placed under his roof.
Your mom kills the engine and just sits there, both hands on the wheel, smiling at the house like it’s the answer to her white picket prayers. Through the windshield, you watch Ric directing his sons on what to do, he points somewhere and one of his sons follows through. Even though you can tell the teenage boys aren’t super happy about having to do manual labor on a Saturday.
You notice Joel first, on the ground beside the truck, taking whatever gets handed to him. He’s in faded jeans and a loose old T-shirt you can tell used to belong to somebody else before it belonged to him. Then there’s Tommy. He is taller than he looked in the picture your mom showed you, wearing a Nirvana shirt with the sleeves cut off and a rip across one knee of his jeans. You can very much tell the brothers have a similar style and probably share most of their clothes, since they’re only a year apart in age.
“You okay?” she asks, glancing over.
You wanna laugh in her face. That question has become one of her favorites these past couple of months, mostly because it can be answered with two words to let her off the hook.
“I’m fine,” you say.
She nods, choosing to believe you.
Outside, Tommy jumps down from the truck bed, his Converse landing with a smack. Joel says something to him and gives a playful wack upside the head. Tommy answers with a face and his tongue poking out from between his lips.
Oh, Lord. Brothers.
Your mom checks herself in the rearview mirror. “Ready?” she asks, floofing her bangs.
Not even close.
But she’s already opening her door. You get out after her, feeling the Texas heat radiate up off the driveway. Ric looks over first and lifts a hand in greeting, smiling wide and welcoming. The boys turn with him and you know how sometimes people look at you and you can feel them deciding what kind of person you are before you’ve even said a word? Yeah… Tommy does that, his eyes move shamelessly up and down you. He grins a little, like he’s been handed something new and entertaining. Joel’s look is shorter. He doesn’t rake over you the same way, he just looks at you with a blank expression.
“Well helloooo there pretty lady, fancy runnin’ into you here.” Ric says with a chuckle, coming forward to kiss your mom on the cheek.
Hardy har har. Looks like he got dad jokes.
Ric turns to you then. “And there’s our girl.”
Our girl.
You fight a look of disgust that wants to take shape on your face. You do not care for that wording one bit, though maybe that’s unfair. You know he means well, he’s a nice guy, you’ve met him a handful of times, never getting a weird pedo vibe from him, unlike that one dude your mom dated, the one who asked you if you wanted to play Twister with him when you were 12. So you let his wording slide. Small mercies.
“Hey Ric,” you say, fitting a small pleasant smile on your face.
“These here are my boys.” He gestures back toward them. “Tommy and Joel.”
You say hi. Joel says hi back and gives you a little salute with two fingers.
Tommy says, “Hey,” with a face that suggests the word has several hidden meanings, none of which are nice.
Your mom is beaming, seemingly already convinced y’all are the Brady Bunch.
“Why don’t you boys show her where her room is?” Ric suggests, looking at his boys. Tommy glances toward the house, then at Joel, like maybe one of them can dodge it but Ric points at the stack still in the truck. “Take one of these boxes with you, they go to her room.”
Joel grabs a box, then Tommy and he jerks his head toward the house. “C’mon.”
You follow Tommy as he cuts through the living room –not giving you any time to take in the space around you that you’ll be calling home– and heads for the steps that lead to the basement –okay… 3 story house, you stand corrected– and you follow him down with Joel on your heels. The staircase is narrow, boxed in by solid walls on both sides, so you're single file the whole way down. At the bottom, Tommy turns right and the space opens up to the living room. He informs you that he and Joel occupy the main living area of the basement and their rooms are on the other side of it at the far end. It's a cozy cave of guitars and game controllers, with dark wood paneling, a big stereo, and a worn-in plaid couch, along with a TV on a stand against one wall.
You’re led back to the bottom of the stairs, there going the other way is a small hallway with 2 doors. Tommy walks through one of those doors. “And here we are.” He drops the box at the foot of your bed –that Ric has so graciously already put together for you, huh, maybe this guy will be good for your mom afterall– as your eyes move around the space.
Your room is small, square, same plain wood paneling along the walls. There’s one little window high up near the ceiling where a strip of daylight comes in level with the lawn outside. If you stood on the mattress, you figure you could hoist yourself up and shimmy out of it, if you ever needed a possible escape route.
“Cute,” your mother says from behind you, arriving breathless with two smaller boxes in her arms. “Isn’t it cute?”
She’s clearly trying to get you to love it.
“Yeah, it’s nice,” you lie, enthusiastically.
Joel sets his box down by the dresser, his eyes moving once around the room, then to the hallway, then back to you. That’s when you realize that the other door you passed was a bathroom and you’ll be sharing it with them. You look up to the ceiling and let out a breath through your nose, hoping this won’t be a point of contention between you and the brothers.
Tommy notices and says, “Just don’t take forever in there and we’ll get along fine.”
Your head turns to look at him. “I don’t take forever,” you say nicely with a smile.
Tommy widens his eyes trying to act innocent. “Didn’t say you did.”
Then under his breath he mutters –but yeah, it doesn’t look like it– quiet enough that your mom and her old ass ears miss his insult. But you hear it, and Joel’s close enough to hear it too. The words hurt and make you feel like shit. You don't glob makeup on or anything, but you brush your hair, put in little efforts here and there. You're far from a bridge troll and at least always thought of yourself as pleasant looking, but you guess you are pretty plain.
Joel finally speaks for the first time. “Tommy,” he says with a slight reprimand to his voice.
Tommy lifts both hands. “What? I’m just saying.”
You look down at the floor, now feeling ugly –u-g-l-y, you ain't got no alibi ugly– and smaller than ever. Your mother, oblivious to the interaction that just happened and to your current feelings, claps once and says, “This is going to be SO good, I can feel it.”
~~
After that day, one of the first things you learn about Joel and Tommy is that they take long showers. What in the hell are they doing in there?? This noticeably starts affecting your new life, 2 weeks into living here. Standing in the hallway at 7:15 am with your towel and shampoo tucked under your arm – you already know better than to leave your shampoo in the bathroom, found that out week 1 when you suspect over half of it was squirted down the drain – waiting and waiting. Meanwhile, the water has already been running for 20 minutes. You let out a frustrated sigh and politely knock again.
"Occupied." Tommy says cheerfully and unbothered, while the water keeps flowing.
"I have school," you say through the door.
"So do I."
"Then why are you still—"
"Relax, Goody. I'll be out in a minute."
You continue to stand there in the hallway with your shampoo and your towel, doubting he’ll be out in the next minute. What’s hard is knowing somewhere upstairs your mom and Ric are having breakfast together, all happy, and you're down here losing a war of attrition against one of your new step brothers.
The door finally opens six minutes later. Tommy comes out in a cloud of steam with a towel around his waist and his hair dripping, looking pleased with himself. He glances at you, sees the worry and upset look on your face, and grins.
"See? A minute," he says, and disappears around the corner.
Now you stand in the steam he left behind, the mirror completely fogged, and you just know there's probably not a single drop of hot water left.
The brothers don’t really ever take you into consideration and Tommy most of all finds it amusing if he inconveniences you. They have their own world downstairs, their own hours, and are always with each other. Your bedroom, carved out of their territory, just a door they walk near on the way to the bathroom. You keep your room tidy. You do your dishes. You go to bed at a reasonable hour. You are, in every outward way, the model of a person who is not causing problems. Yet they don’t become your friends, like you’d hoped for, instead all there is is turbulence.
It's Tommy who coins it, during the first week of living here. You're at the kitchen table with your school books fanned out — even though classes only just started, you're trying to get ahead, knocking out a reading assignment before dinner — when Tommy spots the highlighters lined up by color and pulls a face. "Geesh," he says, nudging Joel as he trails in behind him from outside. "See? Told you she was a goody."
Goody. As in two-shoes. As in no fun.
Apparently they've already decided what kind of girl you are before they really know a single thing about you, and you can’t figure out how to prove them wrong without sounding pathetic. So you don't try. You don't let it show on your face how much the new nickname hurts you. But that night, back in your room, a few tears slip down your face, there is only so much you can take. And everyday you see just how happy your mom is with Ric and how well he treats her, and you don’t want to be the person who ruins it, but this house you live in now, definitely doesn’t feel like home to you.
~~
Weeks go by. Then a few months. The weather changes and you keep learning more about your new step-brothers. In the cooler months the boys wear old ratty flannels over their T-shirts and Tommy digs out a few colorful sweaters and cardigans, trying to look like his idol Kurt Cobain.
Ric and your mom stay in their own little world upstairs, They make dinner together. They fall asleep on the couch watching old movies. They go to estate sales on Saturdays and come back with things to make his house their house. Eye roll.
Which means you, Joel and Tommy are basically unsupervised, all the time. The boys take full advantage of this. Friends over on school nights, music until whenever, the basement running on its own hours entirely. You can hear it through the wall when you're trying to sleep — laughter, guitars strumming, noise of teenage boys who have never once been told to keep it the fuck down. Clearly, never having to fight for their right to party. You’ve gathered that Ric trusts his sons fully, because the brothers have a lot of people over, more than your mom seems to be aware of. All coming in through the basement door. You like to think if your mom knew her 15 year old daughter was down here constantly surrounded by 14 and 15 year old boys, she might say something to Ric. But she never seems none the wiser. And you never let on about it.
You discover more about the brothers listening though the walls at night, like how Tommy is always trying to be the center of attention. Surprise, surprise. He laughs first and loudest. Joel hangs back more, but not in a shy way. You’ve gathered he’s a pretty confident person around his friends. And the 2 of them together are impossible. They move around each other without thinking. One drops something, the other picks it up. It’s like they share the same instincts, forged from years of roughhousing, shared space, and a silent alliance against the rest of the world. One forgets his wallet on the counter; the other is already tossing it to him before he even pats his pockets. They finish each other’s sentences, usually with some smartass remark that only makes sense to them. And they share everything; clothes, inside jokes, friends, food. You find it obnoxious and also, against your better judgement, a little fascinating.
You slowly develop a new life of your own there, though. You aren't sitting downstairs pining for their approval like some loser. You have school. A few friends. You spend as much time out of the house and away from them as you can.
Most days you hang around with Jenna and Riley, 2 friends you made since moving here. You steal Tommy’s beat up bmx bike outta the garage, to go to the Sonic in town. You all pool your money together, split a large order of tots and share a Route 44 Cherry Coke. On cooler evenings you ride the back roads, kicking up gravel, racing each other to the old water tower on the edge of town just to sit and watch the world move below.
Some weekends you help out at the county animal shelter because the dogs don’t care that you’re the new kid or what’s going on at your house. You play with the big mutts in the dusty yard out back and sneak them extra treats when no one’s looking. You've always preferred the big ones — the ones other people pass right by because they look like their too much to handle. Those are the ones that make you feel the most safe cause they just wanna be close to you, wanna prove their loyalty to you. They just wanna love you and be loved back. You like that.
So no, you're not completely miserable. It more so feels like death by a thousand stings. Because your step-bothers can be so infuriating. They take your laundry out of the dryer before it’s done. They both talk over you at dinner. Always leaving the toilet seat up, you learned to check after falling in once in the middle of the night. They use the last of the toilet paper and don’t replace the roll.
But there is the one thing Tommy does that just chaps your ass like nothing else, and it happens at least once a month and you know he does this shit on purpose. You caught him doing it before and he just smirked like it was funny.
You wake up, get ready for school, and drag yourself into the kitchen hoping for something easy before the bus comes. Your eyes land on the Frosted Flakes box sitting there on the shelf. For a second your mood lifts.
Hell yeah.
You’re already tasting the sweet crunch, imagining pouring a big bowl and drowning it in milk. You reach up excited now and pull the box down with actual energy for the first time that morning, but the box feels way too light. That rush of excitement collapses instantly into pure annoyance, then disappointment. You stand there staring at the stupid colorful box in your hands, the bright tiger on the front still smiling like everything’s fine. They're Grrrreat!
You open the top anyway, hoping maybe there’s a handful left at the bottom. There never is. Just an empty bag shoved back in the box like trash. It makes you want to slam the empty box on the counter. Instead you just crush it hard between your hands. It’s such a small thing, but it fucks up your whole morning every single time. That brief spark of this is gonna be good followed by the letdown. It feels exactly like living here.
Yet you still don’t hate them, just wish they’d be nicer to you. What you do hate is how they can make you feel like a stupid little girl with one look and how they can be so inconsiderate of you, but so instinctively considerate with each other. Mostly, you hate that after a while, being called Goody starts to feel less like an insult and more like a role you’ve been shoved in. So you play it. You keep your grades up. Keep your room neat. Keep your mouth shut more than either of them deserves. You become very, very good at not being seen or heard.
Time still carries on, winter comes and goes, and to your dismay, the bathroom situation never improves. The noise doesn’t either. You finally invest in a cheap pair of ear plugs with your allowance but they only help so much.
~~
By the time school is 3 weeks away from letting out for summer, your eyes feel like they're gonna bleed and you are starting to feel a deep-seated anger that you truly have never felt before. Every slammed door, every late-night jam sesh from the boys’ side of the basement is like a hand shaking your mattress, pushing you past the point of delirium.
It’s been 8 months of Tommy and Joel’s friends coming and going in packs, always loud, shouting over each other, playing music or video games. Now on the rare occasion Ric will holler down the stairs to keep the volume down before he goes to bed, but you know once he gets into the bedroom with your mom and their big box fan, they won’t hear a thing. It won’t be 10 minutes later somebody’s laughing again, the TV or music is up, the bathroom door is slamming, somebody’s banging something against the staircase wall, and there goes another decent night of sleep.
So when the flyer goes up on the school bulletin board for a 10 week counselor program at a lakeside camp a bones throw from Austin, you tear off one of the tabs before you even finish reading it.
It’s not for the fresh air. It is not about some grand destiny and finding yourself in nature or any of that hippie dippy bullshit they put on the flyer. It’s solely about leaving. You sign up because your brain feels like stew and the thought of being trapped downstairs all summer listening to the boys and their friends shred the same three Nirvana riffs just might cause you to be committed.
You're filling out the application at the kitchen table, your mom brings over dinner and the rest of the family arrives. "Camp counselor, huh?" she asks as she sets down the main course and peers over your shoulder. “Will they let 15 year olds do that?”
“Mmhm, plus I’ll turn 16 while I’m there,” you say, continuing to write.
Your mom sits down with a sad look on her face. “Oh, I didn’t even think about that. I suppose we can celebrate it when you get back. Where’s the camp?”
“Somewhere on Lake Travis,” you inform her.
Ric, to his credit, thinks it sounds practical. “Looks good on applications,” he says around a forkful of food “Responsibility. Leadership and all that.”
Tommy, lounging in his chair with one knee up and laughing says, “You all gonna gather ‘round the campfire and sing kumbaya?”
You roll your eyes to yourself and keep writing.
“And braid friendship bracelets?,” Joel adds smirking.
~~
You get an acceptance letter 2 weeks later that feels like a pardon from the president and the whole house knows by dinner that night – thanks to your mom of course.
She’s thrilled, probably more so because she will have something new to talk about with her friends. “10 whole weeks!” she says. “We’re all sure gonna miss you!”
Sureeeeeee you will.
Then Tommy buts in. “Yeah,” he says, pressing a hand to his chest, “We’re gonna be inconsolable.”
Joel chuckles. Tommy lifts his brows, cutting a look to Joel. “Think they got a merit badge for bein’ a goody? Maybe they’ll teach her how to loosen the hell up out there.”
“Watch your mouth boy,” Ric says sharply, pointing his fork at him.
Tommy’s shit-eating grin immediately slips from his face.
“Both of y’all knock it off,” Ric adds, looking from Tommy to Joel. “Ain’t a damn thing wrong with her wanting to do something worthwhile with her summer, and you two knuckleheads ain’t gonna sit here and make a joke out of it.”
Joel drops his eyes to his plate as Tommy mutters, “Was just kiddin’ around.”
“Well, I’m not,” Ric says. “She’s a sweetheart and good girl. Better sense than most kids her age, definitely more than the pair of you put together. I’d be real pleased if more young people acted the way she does.”
While Ric’s words are nice and all, you have never wished more than right now that teleportation was a real thing and something you had the ability to do. Your mom just smiles, pleased, at the lovely things her beau just said about you. And here you are the good girl at the dinner table, held up like an example. Such a little sweetheart.
~~
Later that night, Tommy comes up to you, stands with his shoulder leaning against the bathroom door frame, while you're brushing your teeth.
“Better be a good girl and run along to bed now, wouldn’t want you up past your bedtime,” he says.
You look up at him in the mirror, spit into the sink and reach for the towel, not answering him. You can feel your eyes start to build tears, and it only gets worse the harder you try to hold them back. It's been months of this - of him treating you like shit. It's becoming too much.
“Aww,” Tommy smiles and leans in towards you. “You gonna cry?”
“No! Shut up,” you say, looking down at the hand towel you’re holding.
His grin widens as he pushes off the frame satisfied with himself and heads down the hallway, straight past Joel, whose back is resting against the wall, arms folded. He wandered over to use the bathroom, but ended up hearing the whole exchange between you and his brother.
You make eye contact with Joel and look down fast, but not fast enough, tears finally slipping loose. Humiliating in their timing, happening in front of Joel. But something in his face changes, his arms drop, he pushes off the wall and reaches toward you, the movement surprising him as much as it does you.
“Hey—”
You back up away from his reach and flee before he can say anything else, before your body can betray you any further. You make it to your room, slamming the door shut and twisting the lock with shaking fingers.
You back away from the door, wiping furiously at your face with the back of your hands, angry now on top of everything else. Angry at Tommy and angry at Joel for always just standing there, laughing along. But now he wants to act like he gives a shit about your feelings cause he witnessed the effects of Tommy’s berating.
The floor creaks outside your door. Then Joel’s voice comes through the wood. He says your name, you squeeze your eyes shut. “Go away!” you shout, a sob breaking out of you. “I can’t wait to get away from both of you!”
A moment passes and Joel speaks again. “I’m sorry, I’ll—”
You cut him off. “I said go away!”
The floor makes another little sound as Joel stands there, and then you hear the sound of his retreating footsteps make their way down the hall. You stand in the middle of your room listening until he’s gone. Only then do you crawl into bed, pull the blanket over your head. Now upset and angry with yourself too, because for the first time since moving into this house, one of them saw you break.
~~
You get the feeling that Joel must have said something to Tommy about what happened after he teased you the other night, because for the next week -the week before you leave for camp- Joel and Tommy steer clear of you. You’re grateful.
A few days before you leave, your mom takes you to K-Mart and lets you pick out two pairs of shorts and a new one-piece bathing suit that doesn’t feel matronly but is still modest, and lives up to your Goody name.
The morning you leave, the basement is quiet, assuming both the boys are still dead to the world this early, and part of you would love to be loud and interrupt their sleep, but you don't wanna have to interact with the pair and most importantly you don’t want to be like them.
Tip-toeing down the hall, you sit your duffel at the bottom of the staircase. Looking up, you see Joel, sitting on the couch, faintly lit by the bathroom night light coming from the hallway.
He looks over. “You need any help?” he whispers.
The offer catches you off guard, part of you wants to ask if he has a fever.
“I’ve got it,” you coldly reply.
Now you can’t be sure due to how dark it is but dare you say Joel looks a little hurt.
~~
The camp bus is set to leave from the H-E-B parking lot in town. Your mother hugs you twice. Ric says, “Have fun, kiddo,” and squeezes your shoulder. Tommy was still asleep when you left and Joel despite being awake doesn’t come, though you didn’t expect him to.
Boarding the bus, your nose notes the smell of sunscreen and someone's body spray fighting a losing battle. You carry your backpack down the aisle and take a window seat by yourself. After the bus pulls off and you wave goodbye, you spend the first 15 minutes doing a threat assessment. Which girls look friendly. Which ones came already locked in with their own people and have no interest in expansion. At the next stop sign, a brunette with a high ponytail drops into the seat beside you in cutoff shorts.
“Hi! You look normal enough. Mind if I risk it?”
“That’s a bold assumption,” you say chuckling.
“Anna,” she smiles, sticking out her hand.
You tell her your name, and that is that. By the time the bus gets to the lake, you've swapped stories. Anna has told you about the time she accidentally set her aunt’s patio umbrella on fire with a magnifying glass. You’ve told her about your step-family, presenting it like a joke you don’t care much about. She seems to read between the lines anyway and just nudges your shoulder with hers and says, “Well, their loss. You’re funny.”
It surprises you how much you need to hear something like that right now. And it gets you more excited for what else is to come at camp.
~~
Your cabin is a narrow row of bunks with screened windows and one small bathroom with a toilet and a sink. It should feel cramped. Somehow it doesn't. Here it just feels communal instead of invasive, the way things at home feel invasive. Nobody stays in there forever. Nobody leaves the floor wet on purpose.
That first night, you wake up on instinct around 1:30am, certain there must be shouting, or music, or the sound of roughhousing on the other side of the basement. There is only the fan. A throat being cleared in sleep. Somebody turning over in a bunk hard enough to make the frame creak. You lie there in the dark and feel your whole body slowly realize it can finally relax.
By the end of the first week, the dark circles under your eyes start fading. And by the second, you stop waking up at every small noise. The lake itself is prettier than it had looked in the brochure. There are dragonflies that skim low over the surface and disappear before you can track them. Then there are mornings when mist hangs over the water making everything feel calm and serene. You come to love the routine of camp. Waking up early. The way breakfast smells from across the field. The chaos of girls getting ready in the cabin. The scheduled activities.
At first, you wear the new one-piece your mother bought you and sit with your knees together and laugh with your mouth mostly closed and say sorry too often. Sorry for reaching across someone. Sorry for being in the way. Sorry for being sorry.
Anna notices. Saying things like you apologize too much, you know you don’t have to do that here with us. And other things such as why do you always do that, when you tug your shorts down after standing, you have good legs, stop hiding them.
By the third week, little things begin to shift.
Anna lends you a different swimsuit, then a different top, then a pair of shorts that show more thigh than you would’ve dared on your own. She doesn’t push you to wear them, though she does have the subtlety of a fire alarm, but it seems some of her confidence rubs off on you.
At first, wearing one of her bikinis makes you feel overly exposed. You keep tugging at the fabric that covers your tits, crossing your arms, glancing around to see if anyone is staring.
“Everybody has seen what you’ve got to offer before babe,” Anna says, sunning beside you on the dock. “But with jugs like those attached to the rest of that bangin’ body, be prepared for some stares.”
You sheepishly look down and try to hold back a smile. The confidence in her words embolden you, you stop folding in on yourself and just let yourself be.
After that, things change faster. You get a little color. Then a little more. Your shoulders deepen from pale to golden honey. The bridge of your nose freckles. Your hair goes lighter in places where you spray the lemon scented Sun-In spray on it. One day you catch your reflection in a small bathroom mirror, looking miles different from the girl who showed up in sensible shorts with her whole personality tucked in.
One of the senior counselors, a girl named Liza with bleached bangs, pierces your ears in the craft cabin after curfew with a needle sterilized over a lighter. And not just the lobes, but small silver hoops up along the cartilage, 3 on one side and 2 on the other. You adore how they look on you. Then Anna tries to talk you into a nipple piercing while you're at it.
"Absolutely not," you say.
"Oh come on, you'd love it."
"Anna."
"Fine. Eventually you'd love it."
By week four you're laughing louder. By week five you’re rolling the legs of your shorts up twice instead of once and not tugging them back down every time you stand. By week six you catch boys looking. You start to love the male attention you're getting. Becoming bolder, holding eye contact with them just long enough that the boys grin back at you.
Then flirtation with Grant starts. He’s one of the senior counselors that oversees water sports, which means you see him every afternoon at the dock while helping the small kids. He’s really sweet and easygoing. The first time he really notices you, you’re dragging a canoe up onto shore, he steps in and lifts the other end like it’s nothing.
“Dang girl, let me help you,” he says. “You trying to impress somebody?”
“Is it working?” you say, eyeing him.
“…Maybe,” he says, with a grin and a look where you can tell he wasn’t expecting you to say that.
After that, he starts finding reasons to talk to you. What you like most is that he doesn’t call you a Goody.
~~
Before you know it, the middle of July is here, along with your 16th birthday. You told Anna not to make a big deal of it, and wouldn’t you know it, she doesn’t listen. Shocker.
So of course, on the night of your birthday, after lights out, Anna leads you down to the dock where a loose half-circle of junior and senior counselors have gathered. Somebody has smuggled in a bottle of rum. Somebody else has brought a cake in a smashed plastic container. The lake is like black glass and the near full moon lays a silver path across it, so bright, it looks like you could walk across it. They light the candles and sing to you, badly. You make a face, laugh and tell them to shut up, embarrassed by being the center of attention. A paper plate with cake gets pressed into your hand and the rum burns all the way down.
That’s when Anna starts a game of truth or dare. She doesn't start with you, which you are so thankful for. She works her way around the circle, you watch and laugh, thinking maybe you're going to get through this without becoming the subject.
Then it gets to Grant.
"Truth or dare," Anna says, and you can hear the smile in it without looking at her.
Grant doesn’t hesitate. “Dare.”
A few people oooh like idiots. Anna tips her head, pretending to think, though you bet she’s had this cocked and loaded since the game began.
“I dare you,” she says, drawing it out, “to kiss the birthday girl.”
The dock erupts. People clapping. Somebody pounds a heel against the wood. Anna looks at you so pleased with herself, part of you wants to throttle her.
Grant glances at you first. That is what you remember later. That he looks at you first. Not at Anna. Not at the crowd. At you. Suddenly the sweatshirt you wore to help keep the chill of the night off of you, is now holding in the flames that burst over your skin. You know everybody is watching. You know that 6 weeks ago this would have sent you straight into yourself, a turtle retreating under its shell.
Instead, you lift one shoulder, licking your lips and say, “C’mere handsome, make my birthday wish come true.”
The whole circle loses its mind.
Grant laughs a little under his breath, and moves closer. One hand comes up, holding your face then his soft lips press against yours, lips now moving together slowly in unison as all sound fades. When he draws back, the cheering rushes in all at once. You give a coy laugh. Grant is grinning at you now.
“Worth the wish?” he asks, a little flushed.
You can still feel the shape of the lips on your mouth. “Definitely.”
Anna is shrieking like she has personally orchestrated the moon landing, and you can’t find it in you to be too upset at her after that kiss.
Lying in your bunk after the night comes to a close, you press your fingers to your lips and stare up into the dark. It isn’t really about Grant, well not only about him. It’s about the fact that somewhere between the H-E-B parking lot and that kiss, between the one-piece swimsuit and Anna’s relentless campaign against your old self, you realize how much more at ease you are in your own skin.
~~
Your duffel is fuller leaving than it was arriving. A borrowed paperback one of the girls gave to you. A camp T-shirt you cut up because Liza told you to stop dressing like the assistant manager of a Christian bookstore. A Polaroid from the dock, all of you squinting sun-drunk into the camera, Anna half climbing onto your back. A bottle of vanilla body spray that Dee brought and didn’t like, so she gave it to you. Anna tosses you one of her tank tops, which you put on to head home in. White and tight, hugging your tits and accentuating your waist perfectly, paired with the same shorts you arrived in, only now you’ve taken shears to them, making them super short. Your legs are darker and your hair is lighter. The messy bun atop your head allows the silver on your ears to flash when you turn your head.
Grant meets you at your cabin door, the morning it’s time to leave and takes your duffel, carrying it for you. The bus lot is last-minute chaos. Girls calling to each other and crying. The adult counselors checking names off clipboards.
Grant bends to slide your duffel under the bus, then turns back to you.
"So," he says. "You were fun to have around, I’m gonna miss you." He opens his arms and you step in, he pulls you flush up against him, his chin brushing your temple.
When he leans back, one hand stays at your waist, the other reaches into the pocket of his shorts and pulls out a folded piece of paper. “Just in case.”
You take it, already smiling before even opening it. Inside is his number, and beneath it, in his handwriting, In case you need someone to talk to. Or advice about guys.
You glance up at him. “Advice about guys?”
“I know at least one.”
You laugh, folding the paper back up. “And he’s an expert?”
“Debatable,” he says. Then, a little softer, “The first part was the important one.”
There is that feeling again, that bright little lift low in your stomach – the same one you got when you kissed him. You know it's not because you think Grant is the love of your life. But because how he actually gives a fuck about you, and about all the things you told him about your home life between makeout sessions behind the mess hall.
Behind you, Anna shouts, “We’re boarding babe! C’mon!”
You turn halfway and yell, “Get on the bus, I’ll be there in a sec.”
Grant laughs, looking over your shoulder at her, then looks back at you. “I mean it,” he says. “I’m always here if you need someone in your corner”
“I know, thank you, really.”
His gaze dips to your mouth, then returns to your eyes. His lips meet yours in a simple goodbye kiss. His thumbs brush once at your sides through the cotton of the tank top, then he lets you go.
“Go on, pretty girl.” he says, nodding toward the bus.
Your hand closes around the folded paper, stepping back. You stand there for a moment looking at him and it occurs to you that you are going to miss him or maybe more the feeling he gives you and not so much him. You’re not naive, you figure the odds of ever seeing him again are slim, you’re okay with that, you can make peace with that. You know how to handle a person no longer being in your life.
“Bye, Grant.”
You turn and head toward the bus, your duffel already swallowed beneath it, your flip-flops slapping warm pavement. You climb onto the bus with his number tucked in your palm. You drop into the seat beside Anna and shove at her shoulder. “Move over.”
She eyes the paper in your hand. “Did he give you his number?”
Your hips raise up and you shove it into the pocket of your shorts. “Maybe.”
She clutches her chest. “My work here is done.”
As the bus pulls away, you glance out the window. Grant lifts a hand. You lift yours back. Then the camp begins to recede. The dock. The cabins. The trail to the lake. The place where you became more yourself.
But with every mile home, the old life starts coming back into view.
~~
The ride home feels shorter, you wish it was longer, not eager in the slightest to come back to what awaits you. Before you know it, the bus hisses to a stop in the same H-E-B lot you shoved off from. Your mother is already there, standing beside the champagne chariot in sunglasses, one hand lifted against the glare. You de-board, grab your duffle, say bye to Anna –excited to have learned at camp she lives one town over, so you’ll be able to hangout– and head toward your mom as she calls out, “There’s my girl! Lord, look at you!” Pulling you into a hug. She leans back to get a better look, both hands on your shoulders.
“You got tan,” she says, then squints at one ear then the other. “And pierced.”
“Mhm.” You say, hoping she doesn’t disapprove.
“You look beautiful! I’ve missed you so much, the house just isn’t the same without you, honey.”
The old duffel gets chucked in the back seat. Your mother talks all through the drive. She asks a little about the camp but says you can talk more about it at dinner.
“I’m sure Ric and the boys would love to hear all about it too!”
You’re kidding… right?
It’s nice to see your Mom’s still delusional.
Then she asks if you met any boys, which makes you turn and look at her because she hasn't asked you that sort of question in a while.
"What?" she says, smiling at the road ahead. “I’m your mother, not a nun.”
You let out a short laugh but don’t answer her question and she doesn’t ask again. You watch the road along with her. The familiar turnoff's coming back one by one. The gas station with the busted Coke sign. The feed store with the faded mural on the side.
Your mother keeps talking, filling the car with what she and Ric have been up to while you were gone, but you’re not really listening. The closer you get to your neighborhood, the more you start to feel the outline of the basement again. You look down at your hands instead, trying to distract yourself. Silver rings circle your fingers now, two on your left hand, one thin one on your right thumb. Nails painted a dark blue with that Wet ‘n Wild shimmer Dee let you borrow. You twist one of the rings absently, then lift one bare foot into the seat without thinking, your knee bent toward your chest. Your mother glances over and catches sight of it.
“Is that a toe ring?”
You wiggle your little piggies, a little grin tugging at your mouth. “Maybe.”
“Who are you?” She laughs. “And what have you done with my daughter?”
You rest your temple against the seat and look at her, returning the laugh. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Oh, listen to this girl,” she says, delighted, and reaches over to tap your knee. “Camp put some mouth on you.”
Maybe it did. Or maybe the mouth was always there, tucked away with a dozen other things you got used to hiding. The radio fills the rest of the drive. That Collective Soul song, December, the one that's been everywhere all summer.
When the Camry finally turns onto your street, you sit up a little straighter without thinking. Body bracing for impact, the old you bracing for impact. But you aren’t that person anymore, you left that little timid bitch at camp. You pop your gum once, cross your arms and settle back against the seat. If those two boys want to make your life difficult, they can fucking try. They haven't met the real you yet.
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Next Chapter
If you're tagged it's cause you showed interest in the last couple posts I’ve made about this series or cause I thought you might be interested, if you don't want to be tagged just let me know. If your not tagged and you would like to be just ask and I'll add you to the list. <3
Tommy being a little shit is very Tommy coded, and Joel being silent and watchful is exactly what I’d expect from him.
I really like the way you wrote her transformation at camp because something like that can really be defining for a lot of people.
Also the subtly of her mother’s neglect like, it really manifests in different ways. It’s not just not feeding your kid or being outright abusive but the lack of noticing. It’s all harmful and you didn’t wonderfully ✨
Behemoth - Vanity Fair First Look - Pedro Pascal as Alex Serian
I have been reading the screenplay and I CANNOT wait to see this movie! 🫠 I also can’t wait for the fan fics all you babes write on this new character! 💕
Four years after the outbreak, Joel and Tommy Miller are hardened smugglers in the Boston QZ: mean, violent, and willing to do whatever it takes to survive.
When they’re paid an obscene amount to smuggle you across the ruined country to Columbus QZ, they didn't ask what secrets you carry to be worth that much. They just expect an easy job.
You're supposed to be just cargo. They will soon discover this cargo has teeth… and the power to make even the worst men start to crack.
Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content, Post-Cordyceps Outbreak (The Last of Us), Stockholm Syndrome, Dark Romance, Tommy is mean but not too much, Tommy Miller Fanfic, Enemies to Lovers, Tommy was corrupted by Joel, Vaginal Sex, Fireflies (The Last of Us), Slow Burn, Canon-Typical Violence
Comment here if you would like to join the taglist :)
coupling: joel miller x female reader x tommy miller
wc: 7.6k
summary: you find a safe place to put your physical want. lets see what your step-brothers think about that.
warnings: no explicit content in this chapter but full story is 18+ MDNI ~ coming of age, characters are minors ~ step-sibling attraction ~ possessive/protective step-brothers ~ jealousy ~ emotional manipulation ~ coercive control/controlling behavior ~ subtle gaslighting ~ implied domestic abuse ~ class differences/wealth disparity ~ threats of violence ~ NEW WARNINGS WILL BE ADDED TO EACH CHAPTER.
authors notes: BABES! I know this be slow burning like a mofo right now, but stick with me, I promise I will make it up to you later! Also! Thank you all for the continued love and support you have shown this fic! It literally makes my day when one of you likes, comments and/or reblogs it. Enjoy!<3
spotify playlist for this fic -Chapter title from guns 'n roses song, welcome to the jungle-
previous chapter ~ AO3 ~ series masterlist ~ main masterlist
~ if you got a hunger for what you see, you’ll take it eventually… you can have anything you want, but you better not take it from me ~
Anna has dragged you to a party in her town –Palomino Hills– about 20 minutes from yours. It’s some senior’s house, parents gone and a keg on the back lawn. It's not a rager by any means, 30… 40 people at most. Drinking. Dancing. Talking. You know, the same old shit people have been doing at parties since the dawn of time. Except the house is the size of your old apartment building, and the driveway's got cars in it that cost more than your mom makes in a year – little foreign things, shiny and low to the ground, parked at angles that make them look more relaxed here than you. Inside, the girls have the kind of hair that is on a strict, 4 to 6 week schedule for touch ups, and the boys love wearing their daddies wealth on their wrists. Seriously, you haven’t seen a dude up in here that isn’t wearing a big shiny watch. Some of the scrawnier boys can barely fill them out, and you can’t help but chuckle to yourself, watching one slide up a kid's forearm every time he lifts his cup. But you have no room to laugh, no doubt sticking out like a sore thumb here.
You're standing in the kitchen holding a Solo cup, mostly using as a prop when a voice beside you says, "You look like you're plotting your escape."
You turn and look up. Finding a tall fella with slicked back, shoulder length sandy blonde hair and blue-gray eyes. Very much resembling Brad Pitt in Legends of the Fall.
Ay Caramba.
His style suggests a mix of preppy and effortlessly cool. That doesn’t surprise you, knowing Palomino Hills contains a heft of wealthier families. He looks nothing like the boys at your school and nothing like the boys in your basement.
"That obvious?" you say.
"Little bit." He smiles, purely whites on full display. “I’m Tate.”
He's a senior at the high school here which gives him a sheen of mystery. He asks you questions and then actually listens to the answers. Doesn't look over your shoulder for someone better the way boys have done with you at other parties. By the end of the night he's asked for your number, and Anna is mouthing OH MY GOD at you from across the crowded living room.
2 days later you stand in the kitchen swinging the long coiled phone cord around and around, then wrap it around your finger as you talk with Tate. He called you when he told you he would. That becomes one of the things you really like about him. He does what he says he's going to do and shows up when he says he'll show up. The complete opposite of your dad. So he gets an A+ for that. When you tell him early on that you want to take things slow physically –you brace for the face boys have made at you in the past, the one that clues you in they aren’t too pleased with your request– he just nods and says, "Whatever you need, I want you to feel comfortable, I'm not like other guys."
It’s not that you want to take all physical things slow, just the full monty, if you catch my drift. So far he seems to be quite alright with all the other things you’re doing together. Plus you feel like you can finally breathe, having a safe place for all your physical wants that you can’t aim at either of your step-brothers without ruining it all.
You keep Tate to yourself for close to a month. Just wanting to see how things play out between you. But you notice how the secret starts to make you feel. You come in from a date still tasting Tate’s chapstick on your lips and slide into Tommy's or Joel’s bed 20 minutes later, and you lie there feeling like you’re doing something wrong. It's not cheating. Tommy's your friend. Joel's your friend. And you and Tate aren’t even official, so there is no line anywhere for you to be on the wrong side of.
So why does it feel like there is?
~~
You know it's kinda soon. You haven't been seeing Tate that long — you're not even his girlfriend. But when he invited you to dinner with his parents, there was something in the way he looked at you that made saying no feel impossible. So you’ve spent the last 3 days losing your mind on what the hell you’re gonna wear. Since the dinner is at their country club.
Well la-tee-fuckin-da.
You don't have country club clothes. Closest thing is a church dress from two Easters ago, and that just won’t do. But you have Anna, thank God. You go to her place where she has a shit-ton of options waiting for you. You settle on a simple dress and her lowest pair of wedges – so you have a fighting chance of not falling or rolling an ankle.
Standing in front of the mirror and tugging at the hem, you try to see what a rich woman would see.
Horse shit.
That's what you keep thinking. That his mother is going to take one look at you and see the horse shit under her overpriced equestrian riding boots. People like that can smell an apartment kid from a mile away. Can smell the sad existence of hamburger helper and secondhand everything from across a dining room, you're sure of it.
You're still tugging at the dress when Anna appears behind you in the mirror, arms crossed, head tilted.
"Okay, staaaahp." She smacks your hand away from the hem. “You look perfect!”
"I look like I'm playing dress-up." Even though you’ve gained copious amounts of confidence in your body since coming back from camp, you’ve never felt comfortable in a dress. They've just never been your thing. The tom-boy inside you is kicking and screaming.
"Don’t be such a turd in the punch bowl! You look like a total knockout!” She spins you by the shoulders to face her, hands staying there, giving you the serious Anna eyes. “Walk in there like you own the place. Fake it till you make it – that's what most rich people do anyhow.” She reaches up, fixing a piece of your hair. "You survived moving into a basement with two feral teenage boys. A country club is nothing."
You chuckle with a wary smile.
The rumble of Tate's car comes up the street right on time. Anna's eyebrows shoot up. "That's your ride, Cinderella!"
You mumble something about turning back into a pumpkin at midnight, she just scoffs at you and walks you to the door. Tate steps out of the car, making his way up her driveway. When he looks up and sees you, he stops dead in his tracks. Continuing to make your way towards him.
"Wow… look at you, babycakes."
"Don't be weird about it,” you tell him, feeling more self-conscious now that you’re out in the light of the late afternoon.
"I'm being nice about it. You look really pretty." He takes your hand in his and leads you to his car, opening the door for you. "Relax. They're gonna love you."
"Have her home by a reasonable hour!" Anna calls from the doorway, with a big smile on her face.
"No promises," Tate shouts back, grinning.
You slide into the seat, smooth the dress over your knees one more time, and off you go.
~~
The car pulls around the circle drive up to the clubhouse. Coming to a stop under an awning held up by giant white columns. A man other than Tate opens your door for you. “Miss,” he offers you his hand, and you oblige. Tate makes his way around the car, just in time to take you off the man's hand. “Thank you, Reginald.”
Reginald… Jesus. You really aren’t in Kansas anymore.
Inside the place smells like lemon furniture polish and whatevers on the menu they’re whippin’ up for dinner. Dark green carpet, gold brass fixtures, oil paintings of men who look like they've never once laughed. Ah the lap of luxury. Not a lap you’d ever want to sit in – too uptight, too cold, too stiff. And not in the good way. You keep your elbows close to your body, afraid you might knock over something worth more than your mom's car.
You make your way through the dining room, weaving through the tables of other snooty patrons. His parents are already at the table. His mother rises first – slim, ash blonde with a touch of silver that blends in well, dainty gold jewelry, the exact woman you feared – you brace for the up-and-down look, the polite frost. Instead she reaches out, taking both your hands. "Oh, there she is! Tate, you didn't tell me she was this lovely – sit by me, honey, come sit by me!"
Well fuck.
Now you're more nervous, for a completely different reason. You actually want her to like you now. You didn’t care so much before when you thought she’d be a cold-hearted bitch.
His father stands next, and the first word that comes to mind is gigantor. This dudes frickin’ huge! Muscular and broad. He reaches out to shake your hand, squeezing your delicate phalanges a little too hard – gigantor doesn’t know his own strength it seems. He orders you a Shirley Temple without making it feel like a kid's drink. Then tells you to get what you want, but gives you his opinion that the filet mignon is the only thing worth eating here, ever since they hired a new head chef and changed the menu.
Orders are placed and the conversation starts ramping up. You're waiting for the, what do your parents do? So they can discuss and laugh about it together later tonight when they're alone, but it never comes. His mother asks about you, about school and she listens, hand on your arm, smiling kindly at you. When you mention the animal shelter you volunteer at sometimes, she gets all the more excited. Telling you about all the charity work she does, one even being with a different animal shelter. Isn't that something, the two of you have to compare notes.
Somewhere between the main course and dessert, you realize you've stopped faking it, till you make it, and you're just… talking freely. Tate's got his arm across the back of your chair and his father is telling stories about his Polo playing days. Not the most riveting, but it doesn’t bore you to tears.
You excuse yourself to the bathroom at one point just to take a breath and stand at the marble sink to look at yourself. These people, who have every reason to look down their noses at you, don't. And you've spent so long feeling like the odd one out. The girl who doesn't quite fit even at her own dinner table, that you figured tonight was going to be a carbon copy of that – except 100 times worse. But tonight, here, surrounded by old money and the upper crust of society, you just slid into place. How fucking bizarre… It shouldn’t mean so much to you but it does.
Goodbyes happen out front under the awning, valet pulling the cars around. His mother hugs you. It’s warm and comforting, and she smells like gardenias. When she pulls back, her hands slide down your arms and her sleeve rides up. There's a bruise on her forearm. A big one.
You almost ask, Are you okay? But you swallow it down. Because it's none of your business, and this night has gone too perfectly to go making it weird at the finish line. She's a thin woman – thin women bruise easily, right? Probably caught her arm on a car door. A cabinet corner. Something of that nature. Her sleeve slips back down, and from the bright smile on her face you don’t think she noticed that you saw it. She says she hopes to see more of you soon. You return the smile and pleasantries, saying you hope the same.
Tate’s parents are the first to drive off. But before leaving the manicured grounds of the country club, he pulls his car to a side parking lot and kills the engine. Then turns to look at you.
Shifting to meet his gaze you ask, “What’s going on?”
“You know what my mom said to me when you went to the bathroom?” He’s smiling, clearly delighted at whatever he’s about to tell you, as you answer by shaking your head at him. “She said, don’t you mess this up Tate.”
Unable to speak, all you feel is shock. His mom likes you… and you weren’t anyone but yourself.
"So I'm not gonna," Tate puts his hands out for you to take. When you do, his face turns serious. "I want you to be my girlfriend. No more keeping it quiet.” His thumbs brush over your hands. "And I wanna meet your family. Since you met mine.”
"Yeah," you say, smiling before you can stop it. "Okay."
It's only later, lying in bed that night in Anna’s guest room, staring at a bare ceiling with no glowing stars on it, that the nerves show up. All your mind can think about are the 2 boys back in the basement, and what happens when they find out.
~~
Your mom, upon hearing the word boyfriend, reacts like you've cured cancer. There is squealing and a hand pressed to her chest. And okay, it's not like he's your first boyfriend. It's that you've never brought one home – never handed one over to her to be fed and fussed at. Dinner is proposed, planned, and by Saturday she's got Ric's favorite going on the stove, carne guisada that's been simmering half the day, homemade flour tortillas, rice, the whole spread. She's trying so hard, and you feel grateful for it. The house smells incredible.
Tate shows up at six on the dot. You hear the loud exhaust announcing his arrival. When you open the door he's standing there in a Ralph Lauren button-down with flowers for you and your mom.
Your mom melts. "Come in, come in! Oh, aren't you just so sweet,” She says, taking both bouquets of flowers from him. His hands now empty, she gets a good look at him. “Myyyyy goodness, look at you!" Might you say it seems like your mom is surprised that you lassoed this strapping young man.
Ric rolls his eyes at your mother with a smile on his face. He moves to greet Tate, one hand settling on your mom's shoulder as he leans past her, the other extended. "Tate. Heard a lot about you." Which is a generous framing of the 48 hours he's known you had a boyfriend.
"All good things, I hope, sir."
Sir. Well, well he seems to be pulling out all the stops. You watch Ric's face but you can’t tell if he’s impressed or suspish.
You all shuffle your way to the dining room and you hear the boys coming up from the basement. “What’s all the commotion?” Tommy asks, rounding the corner, Joel behind him.
Sooooo, here’s the thing. As far as you know, nobody’s told them you had a guest coming over. Let alone that the guest just so happens to be your new boyfriend. You had your chance to tell them both last night when you were all chillin’, and you chickened out. Could have told Tommy when you fell asleep next to him. But guess what… bockkkkk bock bock bock. Told yourself you’d do it in the morning. Then morning came and went. So here you are now staring down the barrel of the gun, wishing you’d done it sooner.
"Boys, this is Tate," your mom chirps. "Your sister’s new boyfriend."
You squeeze your eyes closed for a moment. Please don't be mad, you think at both of them, uselessly. Please. To your astonishment, their faces don’t give much away. They seem fine with it. Odd. They both introduce themselves to Tate. Tommy giving a grin you know all too well, the performance one.
"Great to meet you guys," Tate says warmly. "She talks about you all the time."
She does? You don't remember doing that.
Everyone moves towards the table to sit and that's when you catch Tommy’s eyes. His face, now giving everything away. He’s no longer grinning. He’s just looking at you – hurt, plain as day, and betrayed. You were in my bed last night… and I'm finding out like this?
You hold his gaze hoping the look your face says, I’m so sorry.
Then you look at Joel. He won’t meet your eyes at all. His are fixed on the middle of the table, and he looks upset. Not mad, upset. Sad, upset. And you just want to hug him, tell him you’re sorry too. It's like you can see the gears turning behind all his stillness. How long? Why didn’t she tell me?
You take your seat next to Tate with your stomach in a knot. Counting down the minutes till you get to speak with them alone later tonight.
~~
Dinner, honestly, goes well.
Tate is good at this. He compliments your moms cooking and asks for the story behind the recipe. She tells him it’s Ric’s mom’s recipe, so she can’t take all the credit and Ric reaches over squeezing her hand at some point as she babbles on. Tate watches them with an expression of such warmth that you feel proud of him. Another A+ on the books.
Tate asks Ric about himself, while he keeps a light hand on the back of your chair, not on you – respectful, claiming adjacent.
"So how'd you two meet, exactly?" Tommy asks, tearing a piece of tortilla. His tone is friendly. His eyes… not so much.
"A little get-together at my buddy's place. She was standing in the kitchen looking like she wanted to leave." Tate smiles at you. "Figured I'd give her a reason to stay."
"Hm, how thoughtful of you." Tommy says, unimpressed, words laced with sarcasm.
You try to give Tommy the stink eye, but he won’t look at you, so you let it go.
A little later, Tate's telling a story about his car – the Cobra, how his dad helped him get into cars – and you happen to look at Joel then. He isn't eating. The fork in his hand rests against his plate while Tate talks. He's watching him, studying him.
"You should hear this thing run," Tate says, pulling your eyes away from Joel. "’93 SVT Cobra. Nothing like it."
"Boys are building a Mustang too out in the garage actually," Ric offers, with a note of pride in it. "'67 Fastback. Been at it a few years now."
"No kidding." Tate turns to the brothers, showing interest. "That's awesome. Old ones are cool!”
By dessert, your mom's telling the story about you falling in the toilet at 2 am your first month here. “She never checked the seat, these 2 heathens never put it down." Tate is laughing, and Tommy pipes in, “In our defense, we never had to worry about putting the lid down.” And for a moment the whole table is laughing together. You look around at all of them mid-laugh and think, maybe this will all be just fine.
~~
You walk him out after dinner. The Mustang sittin’ pretty at the curb under the streetlight. Tate takes your hand on the way down the driveway, swinging it a little.
"Well," you say. "I think that went really good! My mom likes you. Like, really likes you. Ric'll come around more, think he just doesn’t really know how to handle all this." You laugh, bumping his shoulder. "But I'm really glad you met them. All of them."
"Me too." He stops at the car, turns, takes both your hands. "Your mom's great! Ric seems solid, but I get what you're saying, him never having a daughter before you." Tate pauses for a moment, then continues. "Your step-brothers, though...."
"What about them?" You quickly respond, a little defensive.
"Nothing, nothing. They just seemed kind of… cold, I guess? To me." He shrugs. "The younger one with the little comments, and the older one barely said two words the whole night. I don't know." He looks at you, brown eyes warm and a little wounded. "Do they always act like that with you? Or is it just me?"
"They're—" You laugh a little, wanting to set the record straight. "That's just them. Tommy's got a smart mouth and Joel's quiet with everybody. That's not – they weren't being cold."
"Okay." He says it fast, hands up, retreating smoothly from the conversation. "Forget I said anything. You know them better than I do." He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and smiles. For a second the act of Joel doing the same that first night in his room flashes in your mind, before Tate speaks again. "I just care about you. I notice stuff, that's all."
He kisses you goodnight, soft and unhurried. The Cobra roars away down the street. You stand in the driveway a minute after he's gone.
Do they always act like that with you?
Not any more they don’t. Sure, when you first moved in. But they weren't cold to him. Were they? Tommy asked questions. Joel's always quiet. That's just them, you know them, you live with them.
When you come in, you have a feeling the boys are gonna be waiting on you. And you should be walking down there annoyed. You didn't do anything wrong. You didn't lie. You just… didn't tell them. Therein lies the problem, because they know you pretty much tell them everything, and you chose to omit this and say nada. Then drop the bomb on them in front of everyone, where they couldn’t do or say anything about it, aside from smile and take it. You did do something wrong, and you can’t feel annoyed. All you feel is upset with yourself, for treating them this way.
You stand at the bottom of the stairs and take a deep breath, not knowing how this will go. You haven't given yourself a moment to play it out, aware your brain will only concoct up the worst outcomes. Rounding the corner, there they sit on the couch, waiting up for you as you anticipated – Tommy at one end, Joel at the other, the middle cushion empty. Your cushion. You don't sit. You stand in front of the couch with the coffee table behind you, hands clasped, eyes on the floor. Ready for your scolding like a kid in the principal's office.
Tommy finally breaks the silence. “So,” he says, stretching the word out. “Tate.” He says the name like someone just handed him a baby he didn't ask to hold – arms straight out, wanting no part of it, waiting for somebody to come take it back. "Real nice car."
"Tommy—" you start, looking over at him.
He cuts you off, putting his hand up. "No, no. Cobra. ‘93. Nothing like it, I hear.”
Your eyes start to burn, feeling the pain you caused them. “I’m sorry,” you drop to your knees in front of them, head hanging with shame while the tears build.
They could let you sit in it. They could make you feel it, could return an ounce of what got dealt to them at the table, and it'd be fair. But as they look down at you like this – small and wrecked, kneeling at their feet – neither one of them has it in them. Because there is nothing you could do that would make them want to watch you hurt. Not one thing. They'd take the ambush a 100 times over before they'd take this.
"Hey. Hey, c'mon, don’t do that.” Tommy's voice has lost all its bite from before. "Come up here with us.” You don't get up. You just shake your head, the first tear falling, hitting the carpet, and you watch as it darkens the fibers. You're about to say sorry again, but there is a hand on your jaw. Joel’s. Two fingers under your chin, gently tipping your face up until you have no choice but to meet his eyes. He's leaned all the way forward off the couch to reach you, forearm on his knee, and his face isn't cold or closed off. It's just Joel, but he’s looking at you the way he looked at you the night he said you’ve got a place here with us.
"Stop," he says, quietly. His thumb catches the tear on your cheek before it can get far. "None of this."
"I should've told you," you get out, wobbly. "I should've told both of you and I didn't and then you had to find out like that…”
“Yeah, you should’ve.” Joel says, not letting you off the hook.
“But hey—” Tommy says, and you turn to look at him, Joel’s hand dropping from your face. "You didn't do it to hurt us. You did it 'cause you were scared of how we'd take it. Right?” He shrugs, mouth tugging sideways.
You nod.
Joel extends his arm out to you, hand open, palm up. “C’mere. Get up here with us.” You take his hand and he pulls you up off your knees, and Tommy pats the middle cushion. You fold down into the space between them. They both scooch in close to you, not giving you the difficult choice of who to lean towards. All 3 of your heads leaning back against the couch.
There is a little bit of comfortable silence before Joel says, "You know we don’t want you to be afraid of us… you can always come to us, tell us anything. No matter what it is.” Tommy finishes his brother's thought. “And will always be here for you.”
Oh great, here comes the water works again.
What have you done to deserve these sweet boys? You shut your eyes tight, a tear or two escaping down your cheek. You clear your throat before speaking, “I know, and I will from now on. I promise.”
On either side of you, the brothers are thinking the same thing. That you're not the problem. The problem drives a cherry red Mustang. And the problem, they both suspect, is just getting started.
For the next couple weeks you can tell their disdain for Tate is growing by the day, though you're unsure as to why, all their short interactions that you’ve seen between them have been friendly. You still end up in one of their rooms most nights. Even on the nights you've been out with Tate, even when his cologne is still on your neck and in your hair. You come home and slip out of the new version of yourself you wore for him, and let yourself be held by boys who still know you better than your boyfriend does, and they continue to hold you like nothing has changed, thankfully. Because you don't know what you'd do if they stopped.
You keep this from Tate, having a feeling he wouldn't be too keen on the whole set up – his girlfriend sleeping in another guy's bed, two other guys' beds actually, step-brothers or not. ‘Cause you don't know the right words to say to explain it in a way that sounds innocent. Because it is innocent.
Isn’t it?
~~
You're not ready. You're supposed to be ready. Tate said seven and it's seven when you hear the Cobra rumble up the street. You’ve been running behind more and more recently. Always trying to make sure you’re at your most presentable for Tate.
You hustle through the kitchen and pop your head out the door to the garage. The big door's rolled up, both brothers puttsing around – Tommy bending over the engine bay of the Fastback, Joel sitting at the workbench with a part in his hand – and beyond them, Tate coming up the driveway, looking like a guy straight outta the Polo Ralph Lauren catalogue.
"Hey! I'm almost ready, just a few more minutes, I swear." You shout, waving him toward the garage. "Just hang out here, talk cars with the guys." You know he hates when you're late, hates waiting on you. So when you see his smile fall, you know you have to get your ass in gear.
“Sure thing, babycakes.” Tate says with a flat tone.
You glance at your step-brothers. Who are still focused on their tasks. “Be nice,” you whisper to them with Tate still out of ear shot. Then duck back inside.
Joel hears the door shut, sets the carburetor down, and takes a deep breath before he swivels around on the stool. He really doesn’t wanna interact with this jackwagon, but knows it’ll make you happy.
Tate stands at the edge of the garage. Joel figures it ‘cause he doesn’t wanna get his ritzy outfit dirty.
Privileged little cocksucker.
Be nice. That’s what you asked of him. So fine. Joel can do a few minutes of nice.
"So this is the project, huh?" Tate asks, finally taking a few steps into the garage. Both boys know he’s looking at the car like it's a hunk-of-junk, their poverty hobby.
"Yep." Tommy straightens up out of the engine bay, and pats the fender. “Pulled the motor over the winter, rebuilding her top to bottom."
"Cool, cool." Tate nods along. "What's it got in it?"
"Right now? A 289. Might stroke it though, we haven't decided." Tommy tosses out. "You know, might just keep it period-correct. How ‘bout ‘ur?"
"Nice. Yeah, mine's got the – it's the Cobra motor." Tate hooks a thumb back toward the street where the red car sits. "Two-forty horse. You should hear it open up."
Joel leans back against the bench, arms crossing. He’s got a suspicion that his car has never seen a wrench that wasn’t wearing a dealership shirt. "Pushrod or dual overhead cam?"
Tate’s eyes widen. "It's the… I mean, it's the SVT setup. They only make so many of 'em a year."
"Huh," Joel says. Tommy's got a rag going through his hands, and Joel can feel his brother arriving at the same place he just arrived at without either of them looking at each other.
Bought. Not built.
This trust fund Ken doll doesn’t know a thing about that car aside from what he read off the brochure. He knows the badge, the number the salesman told his daddy, but he’s never had that hood up a day in his life. He’s the kind of guy who’ll rev that Cobra at every stoplight in town and never know all the small details that go into making that noise.
Just then your laugh comes though the other side of the door. Loud and spilling out from somewhere in the house. All 3 of the boys look at the door. A smile finding both Joel and Tommy’s face – a reflex your laugh now pulls out of them.
"She laughs really loud sometimes." Tate says. "You guys ever noticed that? Can hear it clear across a restaurant." He shakes his head, a little indulgent. "Told her we gotta work on her inside-voice. Now I just give her a little look and she stops."
And just like that the smile dies on Joel's face.
A little look.
Joel thinks about the thrift store. How loud your laugh was when you doubled over in that aisle when he stepped out from the dressing room, asking him to give you a little twirl in those ridiculous JNCOs. Never once has Joel heard that sound and wanted to silence it or wished it quieter. Your laugh has always made him want to laugh right along with you. And the idea that Tate has trained a look that shuts it off –that there's a signal you’re already obeying– makes him feel ill.
Tate stands there and checks his watch. "She always run late like this? Seems like I'm always waiting on her."
Agitated as hell now with this entire conversation, Tommy chucks the rag onto the fender. "You know what, maybe she's just tryin' to look nice for you."
Tate huffs a laugh. “Yeah, I guess. I do have her wearing her hair down more – she looks way better like that."
Joel can feel his few minutes of nice coming to a close. At first he was just annoyed by this silver-spoon-sucking little shit. Spent this whole conversation deciding Tate’s just a harmless idiot. But after both remarks about you, Joel’s starting to see red. Tommy pipes up, trying to keep his cool, searching through the tools next to his brother. "Funny. I’ve always thought she looked nice, however she wants to wear it.”
“We all have our preferences. I just voiced mine to her.” Tate says, before plastering a devious grin on his face. “She’s so eager to please.”
In that moment, Joel thinks back to you kneeling before him and his brother. And the restraint Joel typically holds is nowhere to be found, when the stool screeches back across the concrete as he flies off of it. Two steps of bad intentions already in motion. He’s gonna strangle this polo wearing prick. But Tommy's hand clamps around his brother's upper arm. Hard. He doesn't yank, doesn't make a scene of it – just locks on and holds, planting himself half a step in front of his big brother. Not here. Not now. Joel feels from his brother's action, as the door to the house flies open.
"Okay, okay, I'm ready!" You come out in a rush of vanilla and flowing hair, grabbing Tate's hand and hauling him down the driveway before anybody can say another word. “Bye guys!” You toss over your shoulder, bright and happy and completely clueless as to what all was just said and what was about to happen.
Tommy lets go of Joel's arm. The Cobra fires up at the curb, Tate revs the engine like a deliberate middle finger he couldn’t resist throwing, and pulls away with the sound of his car echoing off every house on the street. The taillights swing around the corner, and everything goes quiet except the radio on the workbench, where Axl's opening scream is just starting in Welcome to the Jungle.
Neither of them says anything. Joel stands there staring out at the road, hands flex at his sides. This country club cum stain has no idea who territory he’s stumbled into. If he keeps fuckin’ around, he’s gonna find out real fast what kind of animals he’s messed with. They both know the version of you Tate gets, a polished up princess, who has an apology on her lips because she’s already been trained to think making him wait is some kinda unforgivable sin. But they know the real you.
They know this preppy parasite has spent his whole life taking, taking, taking. He probably sees you as nothing more than another object to add to his collection of pretty things. A girl he’ll try to shape and mold into what he wants, a girl he’ll teach to obey him. Tate can have the Cobra. The trust fund. The country-club future where he can continue to take everything that’s handed to him – where his mommy still, pretty much, wipes his ass and coddles him. He can have the whole fucking world if he wants it.
But he can’t have you. Not your laugh. Not your messy hair when you can’t be bothered. Not your soft skin. Not your happiness or your sadness. Those things don’t belong to Tate, he doesn’t appreciate them like your step brothers do.
Joel & Tommy know the world is full of men who’d love to hurt you –not just Tate– and having you in their lives has given them a reason to stand guard again. Has given something back to both of them that they lost the morning their mother was wheeled out of the house – someone to look after, someone to keep safe. They couldn't save their mom. They were kids, they were too small, they didn't have the power or the knowledge. But they aren't kids anymore.
Guys like Tate always trip over their own act eventually. The mask will slip where you can see it. And until then if he frightens you, hurts you, puts his hands on you in a way you haven't asked for, or makes you feel any other way than good.
They’ll kill him.
~~
Couple nights later, Tate pulls up in front of the driveway, exhaust rumbling. He gets out and leans his back on the car next to the passenger door, waiting for you there. Tate sees Joel and Tommy in the garage once again, fiddling with the project car. You open the front door, stepping out of the house even more dolled up than normal. As you reach the car Tate gives you a grin. He grabs your face and pulls you in for a kiss. “Damn babycakes,” he says, pulling out of the kiss to look down at you. “Looking so fine and on time.”
Your brothers don’t even try to hide the way they watch. Stepping out, around the car, walking towards the opening of the garage. Both of them with a heavy wrench in their hands. Joel slaps one end of his against the palm of his opposite hand as they come to a stop. Tommy’s wrench loose in his hand at his side, mirrors Joel’s stance half a second later – the way he often mirrors Joel. Two boys who learned the same body language growing up in the same den.
Tate glances over at them, then back at you with a small, dismissive laugh. “Your guard dogs on duty tonight?”
Stealing a look over your shoulder at the pair of them, and yeah, they do look defensive standing there, squared up, shoulder to shoulder, every line of their bodies communicating something protective. But even with their rigid posture you swear you see a flash of dismay in their eyes. You’ve been so busy lately with school, friends and now Tate, that you haven’t had much time to hang out or talk with them. You push down the panicked feeling threatening to overwhelm you. The feeling of this new person in your life is going to really start to change things between you and them. That every step you take toward Tate is a step you take away from them. You give Joel and Tommy a worried smile, hoping it conveys, please don't let this change us and slide into the passenger seat.
It’s gotta be just classic territorial step-brother shit, right? Instinctive. Just brothers not wanting to see their sister get hurt. The kind of thing Ric would be proud of if he saw. That's all this is. You repeat this to yourself on the drive, while Tate’s hand finds your thigh.
~~
Joel crosses the basement to your room. Finding the door open and bed empty, he heads towards Tommy's room. Some part of him hoping to find you already curled up in his brother's sheets, back from wherever Tate took you, safe and done with the night. But when he knocks and opens the door, the only person in Tommy's bed is Tommy, sitting up against the headboard with a magazine.
He looks up when Joel comes in, the question already answered by the lack of your presents, but he asks anyway. "She's not back?"
"No." Tommy tosses the magazine aside.
Joel stays standing, one hand braced on the doorframe. The clock on Tommy's nightstand reads 11:47. You left at 7:00.
"Where the hell did he take her?" Tommy asks.
"I don't know."
"It's almost midnight, Joel."
"I'm aware." Joel pushes off the frame, shuts the door and starts pacing – 2 steps toward the desk, 2 steps back, the room too small for the restlessness running through him.
Tommy swings his legs off the bed, plants both feet on the floor, his leg bouncing with nervous energy. "That guy's phoney as fuck,” he says looking towards his big brother. “I really don't fuckin' like him.”
“I don’t either, Tommy.”
"And the way he talked about us tonight. Guard dogs… fuckin’ guard dogs, Joel. Can you believe that shit?!”
“I heard him.” Joel stops pacing. “He's tryin' to make her think we're the problem. So when we do say somethin', she's already been primed to brush it off."
Tommy's quiet for a second, processing. “So manipulative."
Joel doesn't argue. Tommy's right, and the fact that Tommy can see it so clearly when Tommy usually charges through life headfirst without pausing to read the room tells Joel everything he needs to know about how wrong this feels.
Joel drops into the desk chair, elbows coming to rest on his knees, hands holding the side of his face. "Somethin's really off about him. I feel it in my gut. Somethin' ain't right – aside from the things he says about her."
Tommy leans forward, picking at the fraying knee of his jeans. "I feel it too. Thought maybe I was just bein'—" He waves a hand. "I dunno. Jealous or whatever."
"Are you?" Joel’s head quickly lifts to see his brother.
Tommy looks at him, and in his face Joel can see the honesty Tommy has never been good at hiding. "Yeah. I am. But that's not what this is. This is somethin' else."
Joel nods. Because he's jealous too – in a way that has nothing to do with Tate's Mustang or his looks and everything to do with the fact that you chose someone else's passenger seat and Joel had to stand in a garage and watch you go. But Tommy's right. The jealousy is just an overtone. What's underneath the jealousy is a gut feeling.
"We need to talk to her," Joel says. “We sit her down and we tell her what we see."
"You think she’s gonna get upset with us?”
"Maybe."
"What if she pulls away from us even more than she already has..." Tommy shakes his head and falls back on the bed. "What if she stops comin' to our rooms? We just lose her to this sweater vest wearing twat?"
"No." Joel says it hard enough that Tommy lifts his head from the bed. "Listen to me. We’re gonna be nice, just tell her what we see. We say our piece and regardless of how that goes – whether she listens or tells us to go to hell – we treat her the exact same as we have been. No pulling back. We don't get cold with her. If she still wants to come into one of our rooms at night, we let her. We don't shut her out."
Tommy stares at his brother with uncertainty. He was already halfway to considering exactly what Joel just forbade. Because pulling back is what he does when something scares him.
"I'm serious. Her fuckin’ dad walked away from her, Tommy. You think I'm gonna be the next guy who makes her feel like she's not wanted? You think I'm gonna let you be that? We're not gonna be the guys who disappear because she's doing somethin' we don't like or who make her feel like she’s only worth keepin' around when she does what we want."
The frustration drains out of Tommy’s face, understanding taking its place as Joel continues.
“She needs to know she can always come to us. No matter what. Like we told her. Because she's gonna need us. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. But something is up with that guy, we both know it, and sooner or later, she’s gonna know it too and we gotta be there for her when she does. Got it?"
"Yeah." Tommy sits back up, nodding. "Yeah, I got it."
"Good."
At 12:14, headlights sweep across the basement window and they hear the all too familiar sound dipshit’s exhaust. Then a car door, followed by the basement side door opening and closing, carefully and quietly. Tommy lets out a long breath, Joel stands up from the chair.
“We talk to her soon.” Joel says in a hushed voice.
Tommy nods in agreement as they listen to you move through the basement, getting ready for bed – shoes off, bathroom, water running. Your footsteps come towards their bedrooms. You pause outside of the younger brother's door. Then they hear a soft knock on Joel's.
Joel looks at Tommy. Tommy lifts his chin. Go.
Joel opens Tommy’s door, closing it behind him, to see you standing there in front of his door waiting. Your makeup washed off, your eyes tired, and one of his t-shirts gracing your frame.
"Oh hey," you say, looking at him surprised and nervous. "Can I—"
"Get in there," Joel says, with a small smile and the tilt of his head towards his room.
You smile back, big and grateful. You climb into his bed, tucking your face into his neck, right where it belongs. He pulls you close and whispers c’mere estrellita, there you go – he feels your whole body relax and part of him lets go too. But the worry and vigilance. Those stay. Those stay as long as Tate is in your life.
No.
Those stay as long as you are alive and breathing.
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If you're tagged it's cause you showed interest in at least one of the posts for this story or cause I thought you might be interested, if you don't want to be tagged just let me know. If your not tagged and you would like to be just ask and I'll add you to the list. <3
coupling: joel miller x female reader x tommy miller
wc: 7.6k
summary: you find a safe place to put your physical want. lets see what your step-brothers think about that.
warnings: no explicit content in this chapter but full story is 18+ MDNI ~ coming of age, characters are minors ~ step-sibling attraction ~ possessive/protective step-brothers ~ jealousy ~ emotional manipulation ~ coercive control/controlling behavior ~ subtle gaslighting ~ implied domestic abuse ~ class differences/wealth disparity ~ threats of violence ~ NEW WARNINGS WILL BE ADDED TO EACH CHAPTER.
authors notes: BABES! I know this be slow burning like a mofo right now, but stick with me, I promise I will make it up to you later! Also! Thank you all for the continued love and support you have shown this fic! It literally makes my day when one of you likes, comments and/or reblogs it. Enjoy!<3
spotify playlist for this fic -Chapter title from guns 'n roses song, welcome to the jungle-
previous chapter ~ AO3 ~ series masterlist ~ main masterlist
~ if you got a hunger for what you see, you’ll take it eventually… you can have anything you want, but you better not take it from me ~
Anna has dragged you to a party in her town –Palomino Hills– about 20 minutes from yours. It’s some senior’s house, parents gone and a keg on the back lawn. It's not a rager by any means, 30… 40 people at most. Drinking. Dancing. Talking. You know, the same old shit people have been doing at parties since the dawn of time. Except the house is the size of your old apartment building, and the driveway's got cars in it that cost more than your mom makes in a year – little foreign things, shiny and low to the ground, parked at angles that make them look more relaxed here than you. Inside, the girls have the kind of hair that is on a strict, 4 to 6 week schedule for touch ups, and the boys love wearing their daddies wealth on their wrists. Seriously, you haven’t seen a dude up in here that isn’t wearing a big shiny watch. Some of the scrawnier boys can barely fill them out, and you can’t help but chuckle to yourself, watching one slide up a kid's forearm every time he lifts his cup. But you have no room to laugh, no doubt sticking out like a sore thumb here.
You're standing in the kitchen holding a Solo cup, mostly using as a prop when a voice beside you says, "You look like you're plotting your escape."
You turn and look up. Finding a tall fella with slicked back, shoulder length sandy blonde hair and blue-gray eyes. Very much resembling Brad Pitt in Legends of the Fall.
Ay Caramba.
His style suggests a mix of preppy and effortlessly cool. That doesn’t surprise you, knowing Palomino Hills contains a heft of wealthier families. He looks nothing like the boys at your school and nothing like the boys in your basement.
"That obvious?" you say.
"Little bit." He smiles, purely whites on full display. “I’m Tate.”
He's a senior at the high school here which gives him a sheen of mystery. He asks you questions and then actually listens to the answers. Doesn't look over your shoulder for someone better the way boys have done with you at other parties. By the end of the night he's asked for your number, and Anna is mouthing OH MY GOD at you from across the crowded living room.
2 days later you stand in the kitchen swinging the long coiled phone cord around and around, then wrap it around your finger as you talk with Tate. He called you when he told you he would. That becomes one of the things you really like about him. He does what he says he's going to do and shows up when he says he'll show up. The complete opposite of your dad. So he gets an A+ for that. When you tell him early on that you want to take things slow physically –you brace for the face boys have made at you in the past, the one that clues you in they aren’t too pleased with your request– he just nods and says, "Whatever you need, I want you to feel comfortable, I'm not like other guys."
It’s not that you want to take all physical things slow, just the full monty, if you catch my drift. So far he seems to be quite alright with all the other things you’re doing together. Plus you feel like you can finally breathe, having a safe place for all your physical wants that you can’t aim at either of your step-brothers without ruining it all.
You keep Tate to yourself for close to a month. Just wanting to see how things play out between you. But you notice how the secret starts to make you feel. You come in from a date still tasting Tate’s chapstick on your lips and slide into Tommy's or Joel’s bed 20 minutes later, and you lie there feeling like you’re doing something wrong. It's not cheating. Tommy's your friend. Joel's your friend. And you and Tate aren’t even official, so there is no line anywhere for you to be on the wrong side of.
So why does it feel like there is?
~~
You know it's kinda soon. You haven't been seeing Tate that long — you're not even his girlfriend. But when he invited you to dinner with his parents, there was something in the way he looked at you that made saying no feel impossible. So you’ve spent the last 3 days losing your mind on what the hell you’re gonna wear. Since the dinner is at their country club.
Well la-tee-fuckin-da.
You don't have country club clothes. Closest thing is a church dress from two Easters ago, and that just won’t do. But you have Anna, thank God. You go to her place where she has a shit-ton of options waiting for you. You settle on a simple dress and her lowest pair of wedges – so you have a fighting chance of not falling or rolling an ankle.
Standing in front of the mirror and tugging at the hem, you try to see what a rich woman would see.
Horse shit.
That's what you keep thinking. That his mother is going to take one look at you and see the horse shit under her overpriced equestrian riding boots. People like that can smell an apartment kid from a mile away. Can smell the sad existence of hamburger helper and secondhand everything from across a dining room, you're sure of it.
You're still tugging at the dress when Anna appears behind you in the mirror, arms crossed, head tilted.
"Okay, staaaahp." She smacks your hand away from the hem. “You look perfect!”
"I look like I'm playing dress-up." Even though you’ve gained copious amounts of confidence in your body since coming back from camp, you’ve never felt comfortable in a dress. They've just never been your thing. The tom-boy inside you is kicking and screaming.
"Don’t be such a turd in the punch bowl! You look like a total knockout!” She spins you by the shoulders to face her, hands staying there, giving you the serious Anna eyes. “Walk in there like you own the place. Fake it till you make it – that's what most rich people do anyhow.” She reaches up, fixing a piece of your hair. "You survived moving into a basement with two feral teenage boys. A country club is nothing."
You chuckle with a wary smile.
The rumble of Tate's car comes up the street right on time. Anna's eyebrows shoot up. "That's your ride, Cinderella!"
You mumble something about turning back into a pumpkin at midnight, she just scoffs at you and walks you to the door. Tate steps out of the car, making his way up her driveway. When he looks up and sees you, he stops dead in his tracks. Continuing to make your way towards him.
"Wow… look at you, babycakes."
"Don't be weird about it,” you tell him, feeling more self-conscious now that you’re out in the light of the late afternoon.
"I'm being nice about it. You look really pretty." He takes your hand in his and leads you to his car, opening the door for you. "Relax. They're gonna love you."
"Have her home by a reasonable hour!" Anna calls from the doorway, with a big smile on her face.
"No promises," Tate shouts back, grinning.
You slide into the seat, smooth the dress over your knees one more time, and off you go.
~~
The car pulls around the circle drive up to the clubhouse. Coming to a stop under an awning held up by giant white columns. A man other than Tate opens your door for you. “Miss,” he offers you his hand, and you oblige. Tate makes his way around the car, just in time to take you off the man's hand. “Thank you, Reginald.”
Reginald… Jesus. You really aren’t in Kansas anymore.
Inside the place smells like lemon furniture polish and whatevers on the menu they’re whippin’ up for dinner. Dark green carpet, gold brass fixtures, oil paintings of men who look like they've never once laughed. Ah the lap of luxury. Not a lap you’d ever want to sit in – too uptight, too cold, too stiff. And not in the good way. You keep your elbows close to your body, afraid you might knock over something worth more than your mom's car.
You make your way through the dining room, weaving through the tables of other snooty patrons. His parents are already at the table. His mother rises first – slim, ash blonde with a touch of silver that blends in well, dainty gold jewelry, the exact woman you feared – you brace for the up-and-down look, the polite frost. Instead she reaches out, taking both your hands. "Oh, there she is! Tate, you didn't tell me she was this lovely – sit by me, honey, come sit by me!"
Well fuck.
Now you're more nervous, for a completely different reason. You actually want her to like you now. You didn’t care so much before when you thought she’d be a cold-hearted bitch.
His father stands next, and the first word that comes to mind is gigantor. This dudes frickin’ huge! Muscular and broad. He reaches out to shake your hand, squeezing your delicate phalanges a little too hard – gigantor doesn’t know his own strength it seems. He orders you a Shirley Temple without making it feel like a kid's drink. Then tells you to get what you want, but gives you his opinion that the filet mignon is the only thing worth eating here, ever since they hired a new head chef and changed the menu.
Orders are placed and the conversation starts ramping up. You're waiting for the, what do your parents do? So they can discuss and laugh about it together later tonight when they're alone, but it never comes. His mother asks about you, about school and she listens, hand on your arm, smiling kindly at you. When you mention the animal shelter you volunteer at sometimes, she gets all the more excited. Telling you about all the charity work she does, one even being with a different animal shelter. Isn't that something, the two of you have to compare notes.
Somewhere between the main course and dessert, you realize you've stopped faking it, till you make it, and you're just… talking freely. Tate's got his arm across the back of your chair and his father is telling stories about his Polo playing days. Not the most riveting, but it doesn’t bore you to tears.
You excuse yourself to the bathroom at one point just to take a breath and stand at the marble sink to look at yourself. These people, who have every reason to look down their noses at you, don't. And you've spent so long feeling like the odd one out. The girl who doesn't quite fit even at her own dinner table, that you figured tonight was going to be a carbon copy of that – except 100 times worse. But tonight, here, surrounded by old money and the upper crust of society, you just slid into place. How fucking bizarre… It shouldn’t mean so much to you but it does.
Goodbyes happen out front under the awning, valet pulling the cars around. His mother hugs you. It’s warm and comforting, and she smells like gardenias. When she pulls back, her hands slide down your arms and her sleeve rides up. There's a bruise on her forearm. A big one.
You almost ask, Are you okay? But you swallow it down. Because it's none of your business, and this night has gone too perfectly to go making it weird at the finish line. She's a thin woman – thin women bruise easily, right? Probably caught her arm on a car door. A cabinet corner. Something of that nature. Her sleeve slips back down, and from the bright smile on her face you don’t think she noticed that you saw it. She says she hopes to see more of you soon. You return the smile and pleasantries, saying you hope the same.
Tate’s parents are the first to drive off. But before leaving the manicured grounds of the country club, he pulls his car to a side parking lot and kills the engine. Then turns to look at you.
Shifting to meet his gaze you ask, “What’s going on?”
“You know what my mom said to me when you went to the bathroom?” He’s smiling, clearly delighted at whatever he’s about to tell you, as you answer by shaking your head at him. “She said, don’t you mess this up Tate.”
Unable to speak, all you feel is shock. His mom likes you… and you weren’t anyone but yourself.
"So I'm not gonna," Tate puts his hands out for you to take. When you do, his face turns serious. "I want you to be my girlfriend. No more keeping it quiet.” His thumbs brush over your hands. "And I wanna meet your family. Since you met mine.”
"Yeah," you say, smiling before you can stop it. "Okay."
It's only later, lying in bed that night in Anna’s guest room, staring at a bare ceiling with no glowing stars on it, that the nerves show up. All your mind can think about are the 2 boys back in the basement, and what happens when they find out.
~~
Your mom, upon hearing the word boyfriend, reacts like you've cured cancer. There is squealing and a hand pressed to her chest. And okay, it's not like he's your first boyfriend. It's that you've never brought one home – never handed one over to her to be fed and fussed at. Dinner is proposed, planned, and by Saturday she's got Ric's favorite going on the stove, carne guisada that's been simmering half the day, homemade flour tortillas, rice, the whole spread. She's trying so hard, and you feel grateful for it. The house smells incredible.
Tate shows up at six on the dot. You hear the loud exhaust announcing his arrival. When you open the door he's standing there in a Ralph Lauren button-down with flowers for you and your mom.
Your mom melts. "Come in, come in! Oh, aren't you just so sweet,” She says, taking both bouquets of flowers from him. His hands now empty, she gets a good look at him. “Myyyyy goodness, look at you!" Might you say it seems like your mom is surprised that you lassoed this strapping young man.
Ric rolls his eyes at your mother with a smile on his face. He moves to greet Tate, one hand settling on your mom's shoulder as he leans past her, the other extended. "Tate. Heard a lot about you." Which is a generous framing of the 48 hours he's known you had a boyfriend.
"All good things, I hope, sir."
Sir. Well, well he seems to be pulling out all the stops. You watch Ric's face but you can’t tell if he’s impressed or suspish.
You all shuffle your way to the dining room and you hear the boys coming up from the basement. “What’s all the commotion?” Tommy asks, rounding the corner, Joel behind him.
Sooooo, here’s the thing. As far as you know, nobody’s told them you had a guest coming over. Let alone that the guest just so happens to be your new boyfriend. You had your chance to tell them both last night when you were all chillin’, and you chickened out. Could have told Tommy when you fell asleep next to him. But guess what… bockkkkk bock bock bock. Told yourself you’d do it in the morning. Then morning came and went. So here you are now staring down the barrel of the gun, wishing you’d done it sooner.
"Boys, this is Tate," your mom chirps. "Your sister’s new boyfriend."
You squeeze your eyes closed for a moment. Please don't be mad, you think at both of them, uselessly. Please. To your astonishment, their faces don’t give much away. They seem fine with it. Odd. They both introduce themselves to Tate. Tommy giving a grin you know all too well, the performance one.
"Great to meet you guys," Tate says warmly. "She talks about you all the time."
She does? You don't remember doing that.
Everyone moves towards the table to sit and that's when you catch Tommy’s eyes. His face, now giving everything away. He’s no longer grinning. He’s just looking at you – hurt, plain as day, and betrayed. You were in my bed last night… and I'm finding out like this?
You hold his gaze hoping the look your face says, I’m so sorry.
Then you look at Joel. He won’t meet your eyes at all. His are fixed on the middle of the table, and he looks upset. Not mad, upset. Sad, upset. And you just want to hug him, tell him you’re sorry too. It's like you can see the gears turning behind all his stillness. How long? Why didn’t she tell me?
You take your seat next to Tate with your stomach in a knot. Counting down the minutes till you get to speak with them alone later tonight.
~~
Dinner, honestly, goes well.
Tate is good at this. He compliments your moms cooking and asks for the story behind the recipe. She tells him it’s Ric’s mom’s recipe, so she can’t take all the credit and Ric reaches over squeezing her hand at some point as she babbles on. Tate watches them with an expression of such warmth that you feel proud of him. Another A+ on the books.
Tate asks Ric about himself, while he keeps a light hand on the back of your chair, not on you – respectful, claiming adjacent.
"So how'd you two meet, exactly?" Tommy asks, tearing a piece of tortilla. His tone is friendly. His eyes… not so much.
"A little get-together at my buddy's place. She was standing in the kitchen looking like she wanted to leave." Tate smiles at you. "Figured I'd give her a reason to stay."
"Hm, how thoughtful of you." Tommy says, unimpressed, words laced with sarcasm.
You try to give Tommy the stink eye, but he won’t look at you, so you let it go.
A little later, Tate's telling a story about his car – the Cobra, how his dad helped him get into cars – and you happen to look at Joel then. He isn't eating. The fork in his hand rests against his plate while Tate talks. He's watching him, studying him.
"You should hear this thing run," Tate says, pulling your eyes away from Joel. "’93 SVT Cobra. Nothing like it."
"Boys are building a Mustang too out in the garage actually," Ric offers, with a note of pride in it. "'67 Fastback. Been at it a few years now."
"No kidding." Tate turns to the brothers, showing interest. "That's awesome. Old ones are cool!”
By dessert, your mom's telling the story about you falling in the toilet at 2 am your first month here. “She never checked the seat, these 2 heathens never put it down." Tate is laughing, and Tommy pipes in, “In our defense, we never had to worry about putting the lid down.” And for a moment the whole table is laughing together. You look around at all of them mid-laugh and think, maybe this will all be just fine.
~~
You walk him out after dinner. The Mustang sittin’ pretty at the curb under the streetlight. Tate takes your hand on the way down the driveway, swinging it a little.
"Well," you say. "I think that went really good! My mom likes you. Like, really likes you. Ric'll come around more, think he just doesn’t really know how to handle all this." You laugh, bumping his shoulder. "But I'm really glad you met them. All of them."
"Me too." He stops at the car, turns, takes both your hands. "Your mom's great! Ric seems solid, but I get what you're saying, him never having a daughter before you." Tate pauses for a moment, then continues. "Your step-brothers, though...."
"What about them?" You quickly respond, a little defensive.
"Nothing, nothing. They just seemed kind of… cold, I guess? To me." He shrugs. "The younger one with the little comments, and the older one barely said two words the whole night. I don't know." He looks at you, brown eyes warm and a little wounded. "Do they always act like that with you? Or is it just me?"
"They're—" You laugh a little, wanting to set the record straight. "That's just them. Tommy's got a smart mouth and Joel's quiet with everybody. That's not – they weren't being cold."
"Okay." He says it fast, hands up, retreating smoothly from the conversation. "Forget I said anything. You know them better than I do." He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and smiles. For a second the act of Joel doing the same that first night in his room flashes in your mind, before Tate speaks again. "I just care about you. I notice stuff, that's all."
He kisses you goodnight, soft and unhurried. The Cobra roars away down the street. You stand in the driveway a minute after he's gone.
Do they always act like that with you?
Not any more they don’t. Sure, when you first moved in. But they weren't cold to him. Were they? Tommy asked questions. Joel's always quiet. That's just them, you know them, you live with them.
When you come in, you have a feeling the boys are gonna be waiting on you. And you should be walking down there annoyed. You didn't do anything wrong. You didn't lie. You just… didn't tell them. Therein lies the problem, because they know you pretty much tell them everything, and you chose to omit this and say nada. Then drop the bomb on them in front of everyone, where they couldn’t do or say anything about it, aside from smile and take it. You did do something wrong, and you can’t feel annoyed. All you feel is upset with yourself, for treating them this way.
You stand at the bottom of the stairs and take a deep breath, not knowing how this will go. You haven't given yourself a moment to play it out, aware your brain will only concoct up the worst outcomes. Rounding the corner, there they sit on the couch, waiting up for you as you anticipated – Tommy at one end, Joel at the other, the middle cushion empty. Your cushion. You don't sit. You stand in front of the couch with the coffee table behind you, hands clasped, eyes on the floor. Ready for your scolding like a kid in the principal's office.
Tommy finally breaks the silence. “So,” he says, stretching the word out. “Tate.” He says the name like someone just handed him a baby he didn't ask to hold – arms straight out, wanting no part of it, waiting for somebody to come take it back. "Real nice car."
"Tommy—" you start, looking over at him.
He cuts you off, putting his hand up. "No, no. Cobra. ‘93. Nothing like it, I hear.”
Your eyes start to burn, feeling the pain you caused them. “I’m sorry,” you drop to your knees in front of them, head hanging with shame while the tears build.
They could let you sit in it. They could make you feel it, could return an ounce of what got dealt to them at the table, and it'd be fair. But as they look down at you like this – small and wrecked, kneeling at their feet – neither one of them has it in them. Because there is nothing you could do that would make them want to watch you hurt. Not one thing. They'd take the ambush a 100 times over before they'd take this.
"Hey. Hey, c'mon, don’t do that.” Tommy's voice has lost all its bite from before. "Come up here with us.” You don't get up. You just shake your head, the first tear falling, hitting the carpet, and you watch as it darkens the fibers. You're about to say sorry again, but there is a hand on your jaw. Joel’s. Two fingers under your chin, gently tipping your face up until you have no choice but to meet his eyes. He's leaned all the way forward off the couch to reach you, forearm on his knee, and his face isn't cold or closed off. It's just Joel, but he’s looking at you the way he looked at you the night he said you’ve got a place here with us.
"Stop," he says, quietly. His thumb catches the tear on your cheek before it can get far. "None of this."
"I should've told you," you get out, wobbly. "I should've told both of you and I didn't and then you had to find out like that…”
“Yeah, you should’ve.” Joel says, not letting you off the hook.
“But hey—” Tommy says, and you turn to look at him, Joel’s hand dropping from your face. "You didn't do it to hurt us. You did it 'cause you were scared of how we'd take it. Right?” He shrugs, mouth tugging sideways.
You nod.
Joel extends his arm out to you, hand open, palm up. “C’mere. Get up here with us.” You take his hand and he pulls you up off your knees, and Tommy pats the middle cushion. You fold down into the space between them. They both scooch in close to you, not giving you the difficult choice of who to lean towards. All 3 of your heads leaning back against the couch.
There is a little bit of comfortable silence before Joel says, "You know we don’t want you to be afraid of us… you can always come to us, tell us anything. No matter what it is.” Tommy finishes his brother's thought. “And will always be here for you.”
Oh great, here comes the water works again.
What have you done to deserve these sweet boys? You shut your eyes tight, a tear or two escaping down your cheek. You clear your throat before speaking, “I know, and I will from now on. I promise.”
On either side of you, the brothers are thinking the same thing. That you're not the problem. The problem drives a cherry red Mustang. And the problem, they both suspect, is just getting started.
For the next couple weeks you can tell their disdain for Tate is growing by the day, though you're unsure as to why, all their short interactions that you’ve seen between them have been friendly. You still end up in one of their rooms most nights. Even on the nights you've been out with Tate, even when his cologne is still on your neck and in your hair. You come home and slip out of the new version of yourself you wore for him, and let yourself be held by boys who still know you better than your boyfriend does, and they continue to hold you like nothing has changed, thankfully. Because you don't know what you'd do if they stopped.
You keep this from Tate, having a feeling he wouldn't be too keen on the whole set up – his girlfriend sleeping in another guy's bed, two other guys' beds actually, step-brothers or not. ‘Cause you don't know the right words to say to explain it in a way that sounds innocent. Because it is innocent.
Isn’t it?
~~
You're not ready. You're supposed to be ready. Tate said seven and it's seven when you hear the Cobra rumble up the street. You’ve been running behind more and more recently. Always trying to make sure you’re at your most presentable for Tate.
You hustle through the kitchen and pop your head out the door to the garage. The big door's rolled up, both brothers puttsing around – Tommy bending over the engine bay of the Fastback, Joel sitting at the workbench with a part in his hand – and beyond them, Tate coming up the driveway, looking like a guy straight outta the Polo Ralph Lauren catalogue.
"Hey! I'm almost ready, just a few more minutes, I swear." You shout, waving him toward the garage. "Just hang out here, talk cars with the guys." You know he hates when you're late, hates waiting on you. So when you see his smile fall, you know you have to get your ass in gear.
“Sure thing, babycakes.” Tate says with a flat tone.
You glance at your step-brothers. Who are still focused on their tasks. “Be nice,” you whisper to them with Tate still out of ear shot. Then duck back inside.
Joel hears the door shut, sets the carburetor down, and takes a deep breath before he swivels around on the stool. He really doesn’t wanna interact with this jackwagon, but knows it’ll make you happy.
Tate stands at the edge of the garage. Joel figures it ‘cause he doesn’t wanna get his ritzy outfit dirty.
Privileged little cocksucker.
Be nice. That’s what you asked of him. So fine. Joel can do a few minutes of nice.
"So this is the project, huh?" Tate asks, finally taking a few steps into the garage. Both boys know he’s looking at the car like it's a hunk-of-junk, their poverty hobby.
"Yep." Tommy straightens up out of the engine bay, and pats the fender. “Pulled the motor over the winter, rebuilding her top to bottom."
"Cool, cool." Tate nods along. "What's it got in it?"
"Right now? A 289. Might stroke it though, we haven't decided." Tommy tosses out. "You know, might just keep it period-correct. How ‘bout ‘ur?"
"Nice. Yeah, mine's got the – it's the Cobra motor." Tate hooks a thumb back toward the street where the red car sits. "Two-forty horse. You should hear it open up."
Joel leans back against the bench, arms crossing. He’s got a suspicion that his car has never seen a wrench that wasn’t wearing a dealership shirt. "Pushrod or dual overhead cam?"
Tate’s eyes widen. "It's the… I mean, it's the SVT setup. They only make so many of 'em a year."
"Huh," Joel says. Tommy's got a rag going through his hands, and Joel can feel his brother arriving at the same place he just arrived at without either of them looking at each other.
Bought. Not built.
This trust fund Ken doll doesn’t know a thing about that car aside from what he read off the brochure. He knows the badge, the number the salesman told his daddy, but he’s never had that hood up a day in his life. He’s the kind of guy who’ll rev that Cobra at every stoplight in town and never know all the small details that go into making that noise.
Just then your laugh comes though the other side of the door. Loud and spilling out from somewhere in the house. All 3 of the boys look at the door. A smile finding both Joel and Tommy’s face – a reflex your laugh now pulls out of them.
"She laughs really loud sometimes." Tate says. "You guys ever noticed that? Can hear it clear across a restaurant." He shakes his head, a little indulgent. "Told her we gotta work on her inside-voice. Now I just give her a little look and she stops."
And just like that the smile dies on Joel's face.
A little look.
Joel thinks about the thrift store. How loud your laugh was when you doubled over in that aisle when he stepped out from the dressing room, asking him to give you a little twirl in those ridiculous JNCOs. Never once has Joel heard that sound and wanted to silence it or wished it quieter. Your laugh has always made him want to laugh right along with you. And the idea that Tate has trained a look that shuts it off –that there's a signal you’re already obeying– makes him feel ill.
Tate stands there and checks his watch. "She always run late like this? Seems like I'm always waiting on her."
Agitated as hell now with this entire conversation, Tommy chucks the rag onto the fender. "You know what, maybe she's just tryin' to look nice for you."
Tate huffs a laugh. “Yeah, I guess. I do have her wearing her hair down more – she looks way better like that."
Joel can feel his few minutes of nice coming to a close. At first he was just annoyed by this silver-spoon-sucking little shit. Spent this whole conversation deciding Tate’s just a harmless idiot. But after both remarks about you, Joel’s starting to see red. Tommy pipes up, trying to keep his cool, searching through the tools next to his brother. "Funny. I’ve always thought she looked nice, however she wants to wear it.”
“We all have our preferences. I just voiced mine to her.” Tate says, before plastering a devious grin on his face. “She’s so eager to please.”
In that moment, Joel thinks back to you kneeling before him and his brother. And the restraint Joel typically holds is nowhere to be found, when the stool screeches back across the concrete as he flies off of it. Two steps of bad intentions already in motion. He’s gonna strangle this polo wearing prick. But Tommy's hand clamps around his brother's upper arm. Hard. He doesn't yank, doesn't make a scene of it – just locks on and holds, planting himself half a step in front of his big brother. Not here. Not now. Joel feels from his brother's action, as the door to the house flies open.
"Okay, okay, I'm ready!" You come out in a rush of vanilla and flowing hair, grabbing Tate's hand and hauling him down the driveway before anybody can say another word. “Bye guys!” You toss over your shoulder, bright and happy and completely clueless as to what all was just said and what was about to happen.
Tommy lets go of Joel's arm. The Cobra fires up at the curb, Tate revs the engine like a deliberate middle finger he couldn’t resist throwing, and pulls away with the sound of his car echoing off every house on the street. The taillights swing around the corner, and everything goes quiet except the radio on the workbench, where Axl's opening scream is just starting in Welcome to the Jungle.
Neither of them says anything. Joel stands there staring out at the road, hands flex at his sides. This country club cum stain has no idea who territory he’s stumbled into. If he keeps fuckin’ around, he’s gonna find out real fast what kind of animals he’s messed with. They both know the version of you Tate gets, a polished up princess, who has an apology on her lips because she’s already been trained to think making him wait is some kinda unforgivable sin. But they know the real you.
They know this preppy parasite has spent his whole life taking, taking, taking. He probably sees you as nothing more than another object to add to his collection of pretty things. A girl he’ll try to shape and mold into what he wants, a girl he’ll teach to obey him. Tate can have the Cobra. The trust fund. The country-club future where he can continue to take everything that’s handed to him – where his mommy still, pretty much, wipes his ass and coddles him. He can have the whole fucking world if he wants it.
But he can’t have you. Not your laugh. Not your messy hair when you can’t be bothered. Not your soft skin. Not your happiness or your sadness. Those things don’t belong to Tate, he doesn’t appreciate them like your step brothers do.
Joel & Tommy know the world is full of men who’d love to hurt you –not just Tate– and having you in their lives has given them a reason to stand guard again. Has given something back to both of them that they lost the morning their mother was wheeled out of the house – someone to look after, someone to keep safe. They couldn't save their mom. They were kids, they were too small, they didn't have the power or the knowledge. But they aren't kids anymore.
Guys like Tate always trip over their own act eventually. The mask will slip where you can see it. And until then if he frightens you, hurts you, puts his hands on you in a way you haven't asked for, or makes you feel any other way than good.
They’ll kill him.
~~
Couple nights later, Tate pulls up in front of the driveway, exhaust rumbling. He gets out and leans his back on the car next to the passenger door, waiting for you there. Tate sees Joel and Tommy in the garage once again, fiddling with the project car. You open the front door, stepping out of the house even more dolled up than normal. As you reach the car Tate gives you a grin. He grabs your face and pulls you in for a kiss. “Damn babycakes,” he says, pulling out of the kiss to look down at you. “Looking so fine and on time.”
Your brothers don’t even try to hide the way they watch. Stepping out, around the car, walking towards the opening of the garage. Both of them with a heavy wrench in their hands. Joel slaps one end of his against the palm of his opposite hand as they come to a stop. Tommy’s wrench loose in his hand at his side, mirrors Joel’s stance half a second later – the way he often mirrors Joel. Two boys who learned the same body language growing up in the same den.
Tate glances over at them, then back at you with a small, dismissive laugh. “Your guard dogs on duty tonight?”
Stealing a look over your shoulder at the pair of them, and yeah, they do look defensive standing there, squared up, shoulder to shoulder, every line of their bodies communicating something protective. But even with their rigid posture you swear you see a flash of dismay in their eyes. You’ve been so busy lately with school, friends and now Tate, that you haven’t had much time to hang out or talk with them. You push down the panicked feeling threatening to overwhelm you. The feeling of this new person in your life is going to really start to change things between you and them. That every step you take toward Tate is a step you take away from them. You give Joel and Tommy a worried smile, hoping it conveys, please don't let this change us and slide into the passenger seat.
It’s gotta be just classic territorial step-brother shit, right? Instinctive. Just brothers not wanting to see their sister get hurt. The kind of thing Ric would be proud of if he saw. That's all this is. You repeat this to yourself on the drive, while Tate’s hand finds your thigh.
~~
Joel crosses the basement to your room. Finding the door open and bed empty, he heads towards Tommy's room. Some part of him hoping to find you already curled up in his brother's sheets, back from wherever Tate took you, safe and done with the night. But when he knocks and opens the door, the only person in Tommy's bed is Tommy, sitting up against the headboard with a magazine.
He looks up when Joel comes in, the question already answered by the lack of your presents, but he asks anyway. "She's not back?"
"No." Tommy tosses the magazine aside.
Joel stays standing, one hand braced on the doorframe. The clock on Tommy's nightstand reads 11:47. You left at 7:00.
"Where the hell did he take her?" Tommy asks.
"I don't know."
"It's almost midnight, Joel."
"I'm aware." Joel pushes off the frame, shuts the door and starts pacing – 2 steps toward the desk, 2 steps back, the room too small for the restlessness running through him.
Tommy swings his legs off the bed, plants both feet on the floor, his leg bouncing with nervous energy. "That guy's phoney as fuck,” he says looking towards his big brother. “I really don't fuckin' like him.”
“I don’t either, Tommy.”
"And the way he talked about us tonight. Guard dogs… fuckin’ guard dogs, Joel. Can you believe that shit?!”
“I heard him.” Joel stops pacing. “He's tryin' to make her think we're the problem. So when we do say somethin', she's already been primed to brush it off."
Tommy's quiet for a second, processing. “So manipulative."
Joel doesn't argue. Tommy's right, and the fact that Tommy can see it so clearly when Tommy usually charges through life headfirst without pausing to read the room tells Joel everything he needs to know about how wrong this feels.
Joel drops into the desk chair, elbows coming to rest on his knees, hands holding the side of his face. "Somethin's really off about him. I feel it in my gut. Somethin' ain't right – aside from the things he says about her."
Tommy leans forward, picking at the fraying knee of his jeans. "I feel it too. Thought maybe I was just bein'—" He waves a hand. "I dunno. Jealous or whatever."
"Are you?" Joel’s head quickly lifts to see his brother.
Tommy looks at him, and in his face Joel can see the honesty Tommy has never been good at hiding. "Yeah. I am. But that's not what this is. This is somethin' else."
Joel nods. Because he's jealous too – in a way that has nothing to do with Tate's Mustang or his looks and everything to do with the fact that you chose someone else's passenger seat and Joel had to stand in a garage and watch you go. But Tommy's right. The jealousy is just an overtone. What's underneath the jealousy is a gut feeling.
"We need to talk to her," Joel says. “We sit her down and we tell her what we see."
"You think she’s gonna get upset with us?”
"Maybe."
"What if she pulls away from us even more than she already has..." Tommy shakes his head and falls back on the bed. "What if she stops comin' to our rooms? We just lose her to this sweater vest wearing twat?"
"No." Joel says it hard enough that Tommy lifts his head from the bed. "Listen to me. We’re gonna be nice, just tell her what we see. We say our piece and regardless of how that goes – whether she listens or tells us to go to hell – we treat her the exact same as we have been. No pulling back. We don't get cold with her. If she still wants to come into one of our rooms at night, we let her. We don't shut her out."
Tommy stares at his brother with uncertainty. He was already halfway to considering exactly what Joel just forbade. Because pulling back is what he does when something scares him.
"I'm serious. Her fuckin’ dad walked away from her, Tommy. You think I'm gonna be the next guy who makes her feel like she's not wanted? You think I'm gonna let you be that? We're not gonna be the guys who disappear because she's doing somethin' we don't like or who make her feel like she’s only worth keepin' around when she does what we want."
The frustration drains out of Tommy’s face, understanding taking its place as Joel continues.
“She needs to know she can always come to us. No matter what. Like we told her. Because she's gonna need us. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. But something is up with that guy, we both know it, and sooner or later, she’s gonna know it too and we gotta be there for her when she does. Got it?"
"Yeah." Tommy sits back up, nodding. "Yeah, I got it."
"Good."
At 12:14, headlights sweep across the basement window and they hear the all too familiar sound dipshit’s exhaust. Then a car door, followed by the basement side door opening and closing, carefully and quietly. Tommy lets out a long breath, Joel stands up from the chair.
“We talk to her soon.” Joel says in a hushed voice.
Tommy nods in agreement as they listen to you move through the basement, getting ready for bed – shoes off, bathroom, water running. Your footsteps come towards their bedrooms. You pause outside of the younger brother's door. Then they hear a soft knock on Joel's.
Joel looks at Tommy. Tommy lifts his chin. Go.
Joel opens Tommy’s door, closing it behind him, to see you standing there in front of his door waiting. Your makeup washed off, your eyes tired, and one of his t-shirts gracing your frame.
"Oh hey," you say, looking at him surprised and nervous. "Can I—"
"Get in there," Joel says, with a small smile and the tilt of his head towards his room.
You smile back, big and grateful. You climb into his bed, tucking your face into his neck, right where it belongs. He pulls you close and whispers c’mere estrellita, there you go – he feels your whole body relax and part of him lets go too. But the worry and vigilance. Those stay. Those stay as long as Tate is in your life.
No.
Those stay as long as you are alive and breathing.
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If you're tagged it's cause you showed interest in at least one of the posts for this story or cause I thought you might be interested, if you don't want to be tagged just let me know. If your not tagged and you would like to be just ask and I'll add you to the list. <3
coupling: joel miller x female reader x tommy miller
wc: 7.6k
summary: you find a safe place to put your physical want. lets see what your step-brothers think about that.
warnings: no explicit content in this chapter but full story is 18+ MDNI ~ coming of age, characters are minors ~ step-sibling attraction ~ possessive/protective step-brothers ~ jealousy ~ emotional manipulation ~ coercive control/controlling behavior ~ subtle gaslighting ~ implied domestic abuse ~ class differences/wealth disparity ~ threats of violence ~ NEW WARNINGS WILL BE ADDED TO EACH CHAPTER.
authors notes: BABES! I know this be slow burning like a mofo right now, but stick with me, I promise I will make it up to you later! Also! Thank you all for the continued love and support you have shown this fic! It literally makes my day when one of you likes, comments and/or reblogs it. Enjoy!<3
spotify playlist for this fic -Chapter title from guns 'n roses song, welcome to the jungle-
previous chapter ~ AO3 ~ series masterlist ~ main masterlist
~ if you got a hunger for what you see, you’ll take it eventually… you can have anything you want, but you better not take it from me ~
Anna has dragged you to a party in her town –Palomino Hills– about 20 minutes from yours. It’s some senior’s house, parents gone and a keg on the back lawn. It's not a rager by any means, 30… 40 people at most. Drinking. Dancing. Talking. You know, the same old shit people have been doing at parties since the dawn of time. Except the house is the size of your old apartment building, and the driveway's got cars in it that cost more than your mom makes in a year – little foreign things, shiny and low to the ground, parked at angles that make them look more relaxed here than you. Inside, the girls have the kind of hair that is on a strict, 4 to 6 week schedule for touch ups, and the boys love wearing their daddies wealth on their wrists. Seriously, you haven’t seen a dude up in here that isn’t wearing a big shiny watch. Some of the scrawnier boys can barely fill them out, and you can’t help but chuckle to yourself, watching one slide up a kid's forearm every time he lifts his cup. But you have no room to laugh, no doubt sticking out like a sore thumb here.
You're standing in the kitchen holding a Solo cup, mostly using as a prop when a voice beside you says, "You look like you're plotting your escape."
You turn and look up. Finding a tall fella with slicked back, shoulder length sandy blonde hair and blue-gray eyes. Very much resembling Brad Pitt in Legends of the Fall.
Ay Caramba.
His style suggests a mix of preppy and effortlessly cool. That doesn’t surprise you, knowing Palomino Hills contains a heft of wealthier families. He looks nothing like the boys at your school and nothing like the boys in your basement.
"That obvious?" you say.
"Little bit." He smiles, purely whites on full display. “I’m Tate.”
He's a senior at the high school here which gives him a sheen of mystery. He asks you questions and then actually listens to the answers. Doesn't look over your shoulder for someone better the way boys have done with you at other parties. By the end of the night he's asked for your number, and Anna is mouthing OH MY GOD at you from across the crowded living room.
2 days later you stand in the kitchen swinging the long coiled phone cord around and around, then wrap it around your finger as you talk with Tate. He called you when he told you he would. That becomes one of the things you really like about him. He does what he says he's going to do and shows up when he says he'll show up. The complete opposite of your dad. So he gets an A+ for that. When you tell him early on that you want to take things slow physically –you brace for the face boys have made at you in the past, the one that clues you in they aren’t too pleased with your request– he just nods and says, "Whatever you need, I want you to feel comfortable, I'm not like other guys."
It’s not that you want to take all physical things slow, just the full monty, if you catch my drift. So far he seems to be quite alright with all the other things you’re doing together. Plus you feel like you can finally breathe, having a safe place for all your physical wants that you can’t aim at either of your step-brothers without ruining it all.
You keep Tate to yourself for close to a month. Just wanting to see how things play out between you. But you notice how the secret starts to make you feel. You come in from a date still tasting Tate’s chapstick on your lips and slide into Tommy's or Joel’s bed 20 minutes later, and you lie there feeling like you’re doing something wrong. It's not cheating. Tommy's your friend. Joel's your friend. And you and Tate aren’t even official, so there is no line anywhere for you to be on the wrong side of.
So why does it feel like there is?
~~
You know it's kinda soon. You haven't been seeing Tate that long — you're not even his girlfriend. But when he invited you to dinner with his parents, there was something in the way he looked at you that made saying no feel impossible. So you’ve spent the last 3 days losing your mind on what the hell you’re gonna wear. Since the dinner is at their country club.
Well la-tee-fuckin-da.
You don't have country club clothes. Closest thing is a church dress from two Easters ago, and that just won’t do. But you have Anna, thank God. You go to her place where she has a shit-ton of options waiting for you. You settle on a simple dress and her lowest pair of wedges – so you have a fighting chance of not falling or rolling an ankle.
Standing in front of the mirror and tugging at the hem, you try to see what a rich woman would see.
Horse shit.
That's what you keep thinking. That his mother is going to take one look at you and see the horse shit under her overpriced equestrian riding boots. People like that can smell an apartment kid from a mile away. Can smell the sad existence of hamburger helper and secondhand everything from across a dining room, you're sure of it.
You're still tugging at the dress when Anna appears behind you in the mirror, arms crossed, head tilted.
"Okay, staaaahp." She smacks your hand away from the hem. “You look perfect!”
"I look like I'm playing dress-up." Even though you’ve gained copious amounts of confidence in your body since coming back from camp, you’ve never felt comfortable in a dress. They've just never been your thing. The tom-boy inside you is kicking and screaming.
"Don’t be such a turd in the punch bowl! You look like a total knockout!” She spins you by the shoulders to face her, hands staying there, giving you the serious Anna eyes. “Walk in there like you own the place. Fake it till you make it – that's what most rich people do anyhow.” She reaches up, fixing a piece of your hair. "You survived moving into a basement with two feral teenage boys. A country club is nothing."
You chuckle with a wary smile.
The rumble of Tate's car comes up the street right on time. Anna's eyebrows shoot up. "That's your ride, Cinderella!"
You mumble something about turning back into a pumpkin at midnight, she just scoffs at you and walks you to the door. Tate steps out of the car, making his way up her driveway. When he looks up and sees you, he stops dead in his tracks. Continuing to make your way towards him.
"Wow… look at you, babycakes."
"Don't be weird about it,” you tell him, feeling more self-conscious now that you’re out in the light of the late afternoon.
"I'm being nice about it. You look really pretty." He takes your hand in his and leads you to his car, opening the door for you. "Relax. They're gonna love you."
"Have her home by a reasonable hour!" Anna calls from the doorway, with a big smile on her face.
"No promises," Tate shouts back, grinning.
You slide into the seat, smooth the dress over your knees one more time, and off you go.
~~
The car pulls around the circle drive up to the clubhouse. Coming to a stop under an awning held up by giant white columns. A man other than Tate opens your door for you. “Miss,” he offers you his hand, and you oblige. Tate makes his way around the car, just in time to take you off the man's hand. “Thank you, Reginald.”
Reginald… Jesus. You really aren’t in Kansas anymore.
Inside the place smells like lemon furniture polish and whatevers on the menu they’re whippin’ up for dinner. Dark green carpet, gold brass fixtures, oil paintings of men who look like they've never once laughed. Ah the lap of luxury. Not a lap you’d ever want to sit in – too uptight, too cold, too stiff. And not in the good way. You keep your elbows close to your body, afraid you might knock over something worth more than your mom's car.
You make your way through the dining room, weaving through the tables of other snooty patrons. His parents are already at the table. His mother rises first – slim, ash blonde with a touch of silver that blends in well, dainty gold jewelry, the exact woman you feared – you brace for the up-and-down look, the polite frost. Instead she reaches out, taking both your hands. "Oh, there she is! Tate, you didn't tell me she was this lovely – sit by me, honey, come sit by me!"
Well fuck.
Now you're more nervous, for a completely different reason. You actually want her to like you now. You didn’t care so much before when you thought she’d be a cold-hearted bitch.
His father stands next, and the first word that comes to mind is gigantor. This dudes frickin’ huge! Muscular and broad. He reaches out to shake your hand, squeezing your delicate phalanges a little too hard – gigantor doesn’t know his own strength it seems. He orders you a Shirley Temple without making it feel like a kid's drink. Then tells you to get what you want, but gives you his opinion that the filet mignon is the only thing worth eating here, ever since they hired a new head chef and changed the menu.
Orders are placed and the conversation starts ramping up. You're waiting for the, what do your parents do? So they can discuss and laugh about it together later tonight when they're alone, but it never comes. His mother asks about you, about school and she listens, hand on your arm, smiling kindly at you. When you mention the animal shelter you volunteer at sometimes, she gets all the more excited. Telling you about all the charity work she does, one even being with a different animal shelter. Isn't that something, the two of you have to compare notes.
Somewhere between the main course and dessert, you realize you've stopped faking it, till you make it, and you're just… talking freely. Tate's got his arm across the back of your chair and his father is telling stories about his Polo playing days. Not the most riveting, but it doesn’t bore you to tears.
You excuse yourself to the bathroom at one point just to take a breath and stand at the marble sink to look at yourself. These people, who have every reason to look down their noses at you, don't. And you've spent so long feeling like the odd one out. The girl who doesn't quite fit even at her own dinner table, that you figured tonight was going to be a carbon copy of that – except 100 times worse. But tonight, here, surrounded by old money and the upper crust of society, you just slid into place. How fucking bizarre… It shouldn’t mean so much to you but it does.
Goodbyes happen out front under the awning, valet pulling the cars around. His mother hugs you. It’s warm and comforting, and she smells like gardenias. When she pulls back, her hands slide down your arms and her sleeve rides up. There's a bruise on her forearm. A big one.
You almost ask, Are you okay? But you swallow it down. Because it's none of your business, and this night has gone too perfectly to go making it weird at the finish line. She's a thin woman – thin women bruise easily, right? Probably caught her arm on a car door. A cabinet corner. Something of that nature. Her sleeve slips back down, and from the bright smile on her face you don’t think she noticed that you saw it. She says she hopes to see more of you soon. You return the smile and pleasantries, saying you hope the same.
Tate’s parents are the first to drive off. But before leaving the manicured grounds of the country club, he pulls his car to a side parking lot and kills the engine. Then turns to look at you.
Shifting to meet his gaze you ask, “What’s going on?”
“You know what my mom said to me when you went to the bathroom?” He’s smiling, clearly delighted at whatever he’s about to tell you, as you answer by shaking your head at him. “She said, don’t you mess this up Tate.”
Unable to speak, all you feel is shock. His mom likes you… and you weren’t anyone but yourself.
"So I'm not gonna," Tate puts his hands out for you to take. When you do, his face turns serious. "I want you to be my girlfriend. No more keeping it quiet.” His thumbs brush over your hands. "And I wanna meet your family. Since you met mine.”
"Yeah," you say, smiling before you can stop it. "Okay."
It's only later, lying in bed that night in Anna’s guest room, staring at a bare ceiling with no glowing stars on it, that the nerves show up. All your mind can think about are the 2 boys back in the basement, and what happens when they find out.
~~
Your mom, upon hearing the word boyfriend, reacts like you've cured cancer. There is squealing and a hand pressed to her chest. And okay, it's not like he's your first boyfriend. It's that you've never brought one home – never handed one over to her to be fed and fussed at. Dinner is proposed, planned, and by Saturday she's got Ric's favorite going on the stove, carne guisada that's been simmering half the day, homemade flour tortillas, rice, the whole spread. She's trying so hard, and you feel grateful for it. The house smells incredible.
Tate shows up at six on the dot. You hear the loud exhaust announcing his arrival. When you open the door he's standing there in a Ralph Lauren button-down with flowers for you and your mom.
Your mom melts. "Come in, come in! Oh, aren't you just so sweet,” She says, taking both bouquets of flowers from him. His hands now empty, she gets a good look at him. “Myyyyy goodness, look at you!" Might you say it seems like your mom is surprised that you lassoed this strapping young man.
Ric rolls his eyes at your mother with a smile on his face. He moves to greet Tate, one hand settling on your mom's shoulder as he leans past her, the other extended. "Tate. Heard a lot about you." Which is a generous framing of the 48 hours he's known you had a boyfriend.
"All good things, I hope, sir."
Sir. Well, well he seems to be pulling out all the stops. You watch Ric's face but you can’t tell if he’s impressed or suspish.
You all shuffle your way to the dining room and you hear the boys coming up from the basement. “What’s all the commotion?” Tommy asks, rounding the corner, Joel behind him.
Sooooo, here’s the thing. As far as you know, nobody’s told them you had a guest coming over. Let alone that the guest just so happens to be your new boyfriend. You had your chance to tell them both last night when you were all chillin’, and you chickened out. Could have told Tommy when you fell asleep next to him. But guess what… bockkkkk bock bock bock. Told yourself you’d do it in the morning. Then morning came and went. So here you are now staring down the barrel of the gun, wishing you’d done it sooner.
"Boys, this is Tate," your mom chirps. "Your sister’s new boyfriend."
You squeeze your eyes closed for a moment. Please don't be mad, you think at both of them, uselessly. Please. To your astonishment, their faces don’t give much away. They seem fine with it. Odd. They both introduce themselves to Tate. Tommy giving a grin you know all too well, the performance one.
"Great to meet you guys," Tate says warmly. "She talks about you all the time."
She does? You don't remember doing that.
Everyone moves towards the table to sit and that's when you catch Tommy’s eyes. His face, now giving everything away. He’s no longer grinning. He’s just looking at you – hurt, plain as day, and betrayed. You were in my bed last night… and I'm finding out like this?
You hold his gaze hoping the look your face says, I’m so sorry.
Then you look at Joel. He won’t meet your eyes at all. His are fixed on the middle of the table, and he looks upset. Not mad, upset. Sad, upset. And you just want to hug him, tell him you’re sorry too. It's like you can see the gears turning behind all his stillness. How long? Why didn’t she tell me?
You take your seat next to Tate with your stomach in a knot. Counting down the minutes till you get to speak with them alone later tonight.
~~
Dinner, honestly, goes well.
Tate is good at this. He compliments your moms cooking and asks for the story behind the recipe. She tells him it’s Ric’s mom’s recipe, so she can’t take all the credit and Ric reaches over squeezing her hand at some point as she babbles on. Tate watches them with an expression of such warmth that you feel proud of him. Another A+ on the books.
Tate asks Ric about himself, while he keeps a light hand on the back of your chair, not on you – respectful, claiming adjacent.
"So how'd you two meet, exactly?" Tommy asks, tearing a piece of tortilla. His tone is friendly. His eyes… not so much.
"A little get-together at my buddy's place. She was standing in the kitchen looking like she wanted to leave." Tate smiles at you. "Figured I'd give her a reason to stay."
"Hm, how thoughtful of you." Tommy says, unimpressed, words laced with sarcasm.
You try to give Tommy the stink eye, but he won’t look at you, so you let it go.
A little later, Tate's telling a story about his car – the Cobra, how his dad helped him get into cars – and you happen to look at Joel then. He isn't eating. The fork in his hand rests against his plate while Tate talks. He's watching him, studying him.
"You should hear this thing run," Tate says, pulling your eyes away from Joel. "’93 SVT Cobra. Nothing like it."
"Boys are building a Mustang too out in the garage actually," Ric offers, with a note of pride in it. "'67 Fastback. Been at it a few years now."
"No kidding." Tate turns to the brothers, showing interest. "That's awesome. Old ones are cool!”
By dessert, your mom's telling the story about you falling in the toilet at 2 am your first month here. “She never checked the seat, these 2 heathens never put it down." Tate is laughing, and Tommy pipes in, “In our defense, we never had to worry about putting the lid down.” And for a moment the whole table is laughing together. You look around at all of them mid-laugh and think, maybe this will all be just fine.
~~
You walk him out after dinner. The Mustang sittin’ pretty at the curb under the streetlight. Tate takes your hand on the way down the driveway, swinging it a little.
"Well," you say. "I think that went really good! My mom likes you. Like, really likes you. Ric'll come around more, think he just doesn’t really know how to handle all this." You laugh, bumping his shoulder. "But I'm really glad you met them. All of them."
"Me too." He stops at the car, turns, takes both your hands. "Your mom's great! Ric seems solid, but I get what you're saying, him never having a daughter before you." Tate pauses for a moment, then continues. "Your step-brothers, though...."
"What about them?" You quickly respond, a little defensive.
"Nothing, nothing. They just seemed kind of… cold, I guess? To me." He shrugs. "The younger one with the little comments, and the older one barely said two words the whole night. I don't know." He looks at you, brown eyes warm and a little wounded. "Do they always act like that with you? Or is it just me?"
"They're—" You laugh a little, wanting to set the record straight. "That's just them. Tommy's got a smart mouth and Joel's quiet with everybody. That's not – they weren't being cold."
"Okay." He says it fast, hands up, retreating smoothly from the conversation. "Forget I said anything. You know them better than I do." He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and smiles. For a second the act of Joel doing the same that first night in his room flashes in your mind, before Tate speaks again. "I just care about you. I notice stuff, that's all."
He kisses you goodnight, soft and unhurried. The Cobra roars away down the street. You stand in the driveway a minute after he's gone.
Do they always act like that with you?
Not any more they don’t. Sure, when you first moved in. But they weren't cold to him. Were they? Tommy asked questions. Joel's always quiet. That's just them, you know them, you live with them.
When you come in, you have a feeling the boys are gonna be waiting on you. And you should be walking down there annoyed. You didn't do anything wrong. You didn't lie. You just… didn't tell them. Therein lies the problem, because they know you pretty much tell them everything, and you chose to omit this and say nada. Then drop the bomb on them in front of everyone, where they couldn’t do or say anything about it, aside from smile and take it. You did do something wrong, and you can’t feel annoyed. All you feel is upset with yourself, for treating them this way.
You stand at the bottom of the stairs and take a deep breath, not knowing how this will go. You haven't given yourself a moment to play it out, aware your brain will only concoct up the worst outcomes. Rounding the corner, there they sit on the couch, waiting up for you as you anticipated – Tommy at one end, Joel at the other, the middle cushion empty. Your cushion. You don't sit. You stand in front of the couch with the coffee table behind you, hands clasped, eyes on the floor. Ready for your scolding like a kid in the principal's office.
Tommy finally breaks the silence. “So,” he says, stretching the word out. “Tate.” He says the name like someone just handed him a baby he didn't ask to hold – arms straight out, wanting no part of it, waiting for somebody to come take it back. "Real nice car."
"Tommy—" you start, looking over at him.
He cuts you off, putting his hand up. "No, no. Cobra. ‘93. Nothing like it, I hear.”
Your eyes start to burn, feeling the pain you caused them. “I’m sorry,” you drop to your knees in front of them, head hanging with shame while the tears build.
They could let you sit in it. They could make you feel it, could return an ounce of what got dealt to them at the table, and it'd be fair. But as they look down at you like this – small and wrecked, kneeling at their feet – neither one of them has it in them. Because there is nothing you could do that would make them want to watch you hurt. Not one thing. They'd take the ambush a 100 times over before they'd take this.
"Hey. Hey, c'mon, don’t do that.” Tommy's voice has lost all its bite from before. "Come up here with us.” You don't get up. You just shake your head, the first tear falling, hitting the carpet, and you watch as it darkens the fibers. You're about to say sorry again, but there is a hand on your jaw. Joel’s. Two fingers under your chin, gently tipping your face up until you have no choice but to meet his eyes. He's leaned all the way forward off the couch to reach you, forearm on his knee, and his face isn't cold or closed off. It's just Joel, but he’s looking at you the way he looked at you the night he said you’ve got a place here with us.
"Stop," he says, quietly. His thumb catches the tear on your cheek before it can get far. "None of this."
"I should've told you," you get out, wobbly. "I should've told both of you and I didn't and then you had to find out like that…”
“Yeah, you should’ve.” Joel says, not letting you off the hook.
“But hey—” Tommy says, and you turn to look at him, Joel’s hand dropping from your face. "You didn't do it to hurt us. You did it 'cause you were scared of how we'd take it. Right?” He shrugs, mouth tugging sideways.
You nod.
Joel extends his arm out to you, hand open, palm up. “C’mere. Get up here with us.” You take his hand and he pulls you up off your knees, and Tommy pats the middle cushion. You fold down into the space between them. They both scooch in close to you, not giving you the difficult choice of who to lean towards. All 3 of your heads leaning back against the couch.
There is a little bit of comfortable silence before Joel says, "You know we don’t want you to be afraid of us… you can always come to us, tell us anything. No matter what it is.” Tommy finishes his brother's thought. “And will always be here for you.”
Oh great, here comes the water works again.
What have you done to deserve these sweet boys? You shut your eyes tight, a tear or two escaping down your cheek. You clear your throat before speaking, “I know, and I will from now on. I promise.”
On either side of you, the brothers are thinking the same thing. That you're not the problem. The problem drives a cherry red Mustang. And the problem, they both suspect, is just getting started.
For the next couple weeks you can tell their disdain for Tate is growing by the day, though you're unsure as to why, all their short interactions that you’ve seen between them have been friendly. You still end up in one of their rooms most nights. Even on the nights you've been out with Tate, even when his cologne is still on your neck and in your hair. You come home and slip out of the new version of yourself you wore for him, and let yourself be held by boys who still know you better than your boyfriend does, and they continue to hold you like nothing has changed, thankfully. Because you don't know what you'd do if they stopped.
You keep this from Tate, having a feeling he wouldn't be too keen on the whole set up – his girlfriend sleeping in another guy's bed, two other guys' beds actually, step-brothers or not. ‘Cause you don't know the right words to say to explain it in a way that sounds innocent. Because it is innocent.
Isn’t it?
~~
You're not ready. You're supposed to be ready. Tate said seven and it's seven when you hear the Cobra rumble up the street. You’ve been running behind more and more recently. Always trying to make sure you’re at your most presentable for Tate.
You hustle through the kitchen and pop your head out the door to the garage. The big door's rolled up, both brothers puttsing around – Tommy bending over the engine bay of the Fastback, Joel sitting at the workbench with a part in his hand – and beyond them, Tate coming up the driveway, looking like a guy straight outta the Polo Ralph Lauren catalogue.
"Hey! I'm almost ready, just a few more minutes, I swear." You shout, waving him toward the garage. "Just hang out here, talk cars with the guys." You know he hates when you're late, hates waiting on you. So when you see his smile fall, you know you have to get your ass in gear.
“Sure thing, babycakes.” Tate says with a flat tone.
You glance at your step-brothers. Who are still focused on their tasks. “Be nice,” you whisper to them with Tate still out of ear shot. Then duck back inside.
Joel hears the door shut, sets the carburetor down, and takes a deep breath before he swivels around on the stool. He really doesn’t wanna interact with this jackwagon, but knows it’ll make you happy.
Tate stands at the edge of the garage. Joel figures it ‘cause he doesn’t wanna get his ritzy outfit dirty.
Privileged little cocksucker.
Be nice. That’s what you asked of him. So fine. Joel can do a few minutes of nice.
"So this is the project, huh?" Tate asks, finally taking a few steps into the garage. Both boys know he’s looking at the car like it's a hunk-of-junk, their poverty hobby.
"Yep." Tommy straightens up out of the engine bay, and pats the fender. “Pulled the motor over the winter, rebuilding her top to bottom."
"Cool, cool." Tate nods along. "What's it got in it?"
"Right now? A 289. Might stroke it though, we haven't decided." Tommy tosses out. "You know, might just keep it period-correct. How ‘bout ‘ur?"
"Nice. Yeah, mine's got the – it's the Cobra motor." Tate hooks a thumb back toward the street where the red car sits. "Two-forty horse. You should hear it open up."
Joel leans back against the bench, arms crossing. He’s got a suspicion that his car has never seen a wrench that wasn’t wearing a dealership shirt. "Pushrod or dual overhead cam?"
Tate’s eyes widen. "It's the… I mean, it's the SVT setup. They only make so many of 'em a year."
"Huh," Joel says. Tommy's got a rag going through his hands, and Joel can feel his brother arriving at the same place he just arrived at without either of them looking at each other.
Bought. Not built.
This trust fund Ken doll doesn’t know a thing about that car aside from what he read off the brochure. He knows the badge, the number the salesman told his daddy, but he’s never had that hood up a day in his life. He’s the kind of guy who’ll rev that Cobra at every stoplight in town and never know all the small details that go into making that noise.
Just then your laugh comes though the other side of the door. Loud and spilling out from somewhere in the house. All 3 of the boys look at the door. A smile finding both Joel and Tommy’s face – a reflex your laugh now pulls out of them.
"She laughs really loud sometimes." Tate says. "You guys ever noticed that? Can hear it clear across a restaurant." He shakes his head, a little indulgent. "Told her we gotta work on her inside-voice. Now I just give her a little look and she stops."
And just like that the smile dies on Joel's face.
A little look.
Joel thinks about the thrift store. How loud your laugh was when you doubled over in that aisle when he stepped out from the dressing room, asking him to give you a little twirl in those ridiculous JNCOs. Never once has Joel heard that sound and wanted to silence it or wished it quieter. Your laugh has always made him want to laugh right along with you. And the idea that Tate has trained a look that shuts it off –that there's a signal you’re already obeying– makes him feel ill.
Tate stands there and checks his watch. "She always run late like this? Seems like I'm always waiting on her."
Agitated as hell now with this entire conversation, Tommy chucks the rag onto the fender. "You know what, maybe she's just tryin' to look nice for you."
Tate huffs a laugh. “Yeah, I guess. I do have her wearing her hair down more – she looks way better like that."
Joel can feel his few minutes of nice coming to a close. At first he was just annoyed by this silver-spoon-sucking little shit. Spent this whole conversation deciding Tate’s just a harmless idiot. But after both remarks about you, Joel’s starting to see red. Tommy pipes up, trying to keep his cool, searching through the tools next to his brother. "Funny. I’ve always thought she looked nice, however she wants to wear it.”
“We all have our preferences. I just voiced mine to her.” Tate says, before plastering a devious grin on his face. “She’s so eager to please.”
In that moment, Joel thinks back to you kneeling before him and his brother. And the restraint Joel typically holds is nowhere to be found, when the stool screeches back across the concrete as he flies off of it. Two steps of bad intentions already in motion. He’s gonna strangle this polo wearing prick. But Tommy's hand clamps around his brother's upper arm. Hard. He doesn't yank, doesn't make a scene of it – just locks on and holds, planting himself half a step in front of his big brother. Not here. Not now. Joel feels from his brother's action, as the door to the house flies open.
"Okay, okay, I'm ready!" You come out in a rush of vanilla and flowing hair, grabbing Tate's hand and hauling him down the driveway before anybody can say another word. “Bye guys!” You toss over your shoulder, bright and happy and completely clueless as to what all was just said and what was about to happen.
Tommy lets go of Joel's arm. The Cobra fires up at the curb, Tate revs the engine like a deliberate middle finger he couldn’t resist throwing, and pulls away with the sound of his car echoing off every house on the street. The taillights swing around the corner, and everything goes quiet except the radio on the workbench, where Axl's opening scream is just starting in Welcome to the Jungle.
Neither of them says anything. Joel stands there staring out at the road, hands flex at his sides. This country club cum stain has no idea who territory he’s stumbled into. If he keeps fuckin’ around, he’s gonna find out real fast what kind of animals he’s messed with. They both know the version of you Tate gets, a polished up princess, who has an apology on her lips because she’s already been trained to think making him wait is some kinda unforgivable sin. But they know the real you.
They know this preppy parasite has spent his whole life taking, taking, taking. He probably sees you as nothing more than another object to add to his collection of pretty things. A girl he’ll try to shape and mold into what he wants, a girl he’ll teach to obey him. Tate can have the Cobra. The trust fund. The country-club future where he can continue to take everything that’s handed to him – where his mommy still, pretty much, wipes his ass and coddles him. He can have the whole fucking world if he wants it.
But he can’t have you. Not your laugh. Not your messy hair when you can’t be bothered. Not your soft skin. Not your happiness or your sadness. Those things don’t belong to Tate, he doesn’t appreciate them like your step brothers do.
Joel & Tommy know the world is full of men who’d love to hurt you –not just Tate– and having you in their lives has given them a reason to stand guard again. Has given something back to both of them that they lost the morning their mother was wheeled out of the house – someone to look after, someone to keep safe. They couldn't save their mom. They were kids, they were too small, they didn't have the power or the knowledge. But they aren't kids anymore.
Guys like Tate always trip over their own act eventually. The mask will slip where you can see it. And until then if he frightens you, hurts you, puts his hands on you in a way you haven't asked for, or makes you feel any other way than good.
They’ll kill him.
~~
Couple nights later, Tate pulls up in front of the driveway, exhaust rumbling. He gets out and leans his back on the car next to the passenger door, waiting for you there. Tate sees Joel and Tommy in the garage once again, fiddling with the project car. You open the front door, stepping out of the house even more dolled up than normal. As you reach the car Tate gives you a grin. He grabs your face and pulls you in for a kiss. “Damn babycakes,” he says, pulling out of the kiss to look down at you. “Looking so fine and on time.”
Your brothers don’t even try to hide the way they watch. Stepping out, around the car, walking towards the opening of the garage. Both of them with a heavy wrench in their hands. Joel slaps one end of his against the palm of his opposite hand as they come to a stop. Tommy’s wrench loose in his hand at his side, mirrors Joel’s stance half a second later – the way he often mirrors Joel. Two boys who learned the same body language growing up in the same den.
Tate glances over at them, then back at you with a small, dismissive laugh. “Your guard dogs on duty tonight?”
Stealing a look over your shoulder at the pair of them, and yeah, they do look defensive standing there, squared up, shoulder to shoulder, every line of their bodies communicating something protective. But even with their rigid posture you swear you see a flash of dismay in their eyes. You’ve been so busy lately with school, friends and now Tate, that you haven’t had much time to hang out or talk with them. You push down the panicked feeling threatening to overwhelm you. The feeling of this new person in your life is going to really start to change things between you and them. That every step you take toward Tate is a step you take away from them. You give Joel and Tommy a worried smile, hoping it conveys, please don't let this change us and slide into the passenger seat.
It’s gotta be just classic territorial step-brother shit, right? Instinctive. Just brothers not wanting to see their sister get hurt. The kind of thing Ric would be proud of if he saw. That's all this is. You repeat this to yourself on the drive, while Tate’s hand finds your thigh.
~~
Joel crosses the basement to your room. Finding the door open and bed empty, he heads towards Tommy's room. Some part of him hoping to find you already curled up in his brother's sheets, back from wherever Tate took you, safe and done with the night. But when he knocks and opens the door, the only person in Tommy's bed is Tommy, sitting up against the headboard with a magazine.
He looks up when Joel comes in, the question already answered by the lack of your presents, but he asks anyway. "She's not back?"
"No." Tommy tosses the magazine aside.
Joel stays standing, one hand braced on the doorframe. The clock on Tommy's nightstand reads 11:47. You left at 7:00.
"Where the hell did he take her?" Tommy asks.
"I don't know."
"It's almost midnight, Joel."
"I'm aware." Joel pushes off the frame, shuts the door and starts pacing – 2 steps toward the desk, 2 steps back, the room too small for the restlessness running through him.
Tommy swings his legs off the bed, plants both feet on the floor, his leg bouncing with nervous energy. "That guy's phoney as fuck,” he says looking towards his big brother. “I really don't fuckin' like him.”
“I don’t either, Tommy.”
"And the way he talked about us tonight. Guard dogs… fuckin’ guard dogs, Joel. Can you believe that shit?!”
“I heard him.” Joel stops pacing. “He's tryin' to make her think we're the problem. So when we do say somethin', she's already been primed to brush it off."
Tommy's quiet for a second, processing. “So manipulative."
Joel doesn't argue. Tommy's right, and the fact that Tommy can see it so clearly when Tommy usually charges through life headfirst without pausing to read the room tells Joel everything he needs to know about how wrong this feels.
Joel drops into the desk chair, elbows coming to rest on his knees, hands holding the side of his face. "Somethin's really off about him. I feel it in my gut. Somethin' ain't right – aside from the things he says about her."
Tommy leans forward, picking at the fraying knee of his jeans. "I feel it too. Thought maybe I was just bein'—" He waves a hand. "I dunno. Jealous or whatever."
"Are you?" Joel’s head quickly lifts to see his brother.
Tommy looks at him, and in his face Joel can see the honesty Tommy has never been good at hiding. "Yeah. I am. But that's not what this is. This is somethin' else."
Joel nods. Because he's jealous too – in a way that has nothing to do with Tate's Mustang or his looks and everything to do with the fact that you chose someone else's passenger seat and Joel had to stand in a garage and watch you go. But Tommy's right. The jealousy is just an overtone. What's underneath the jealousy is a gut feeling.
"We need to talk to her," Joel says. “We sit her down and we tell her what we see."
"You think she’s gonna get upset with us?”
"Maybe."
"What if she pulls away from us even more than she already has..." Tommy shakes his head and falls back on the bed. "What if she stops comin' to our rooms? We just lose her to this sweater vest wearing twat?"
"No." Joel says it hard enough that Tommy lifts his head from the bed. "Listen to me. We’re gonna be nice, just tell her what we see. We say our piece and regardless of how that goes – whether she listens or tells us to go to hell – we treat her the exact same as we have been. No pulling back. We don't get cold with her. If she still wants to come into one of our rooms at night, we let her. We don't shut her out."
Tommy stares at his brother with uncertainty. He was already halfway to considering exactly what Joel just forbade. Because pulling back is what he does when something scares him.
"I'm serious. Her fuckin’ dad walked away from her, Tommy. You think I'm gonna be the next guy who makes her feel like she's not wanted? You think I'm gonna let you be that? We're not gonna be the guys who disappear because she's doing somethin' we don't like or who make her feel like she’s only worth keepin' around when she does what we want."
The frustration drains out of Tommy’s face, understanding taking its place as Joel continues.
“She needs to know she can always come to us. No matter what. Like we told her. Because she's gonna need us. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. But something is up with that guy, we both know it, and sooner or later, she’s gonna know it too and we gotta be there for her when she does. Got it?"
"Yeah." Tommy sits back up, nodding. "Yeah, I got it."
"Good."
At 12:14, headlights sweep across the basement window and they hear the all too familiar sound dipshit’s exhaust. Then a car door, followed by the basement side door opening and closing, carefully and quietly. Tommy lets out a long breath, Joel stands up from the chair.
“We talk to her soon.” Joel says in a hushed voice.
Tommy nods in agreement as they listen to you move through the basement, getting ready for bed – shoes off, bathroom, water running. Your footsteps come towards their bedrooms. You pause outside of the younger brother's door. Then they hear a soft knock on Joel's.
Joel looks at Tommy. Tommy lifts his chin. Go.
Joel opens Tommy’s door, closing it behind him, to see you standing there in front of his door waiting. Your makeup washed off, your eyes tired, and one of his t-shirts gracing your frame.
"Oh hey," you say, looking at him surprised and nervous. "Can I—"
"Get in there," Joel says, with a small smile and the tilt of his head towards his room.
You smile back, big and grateful. You climb into his bed, tucking your face into his neck, right where it belongs. He pulls you close and whispers c’mere estrellita, there you go – he feels your whole body relax and part of him lets go too. But the worry and vigilance. Those stay. Those stay as long as Tate is in your life.
No.
Those stay as long as you are alive and breathing.
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If you're tagged it's cause you showed interest in at least one of the posts for this story or cause I thought you might be interested, if you don't want to be tagged just let me know. If your not tagged and you would like to be just ask and I'll add you to the list. <3
coupling: joel miller x female reader x tommy miller
wc: 7.6k
summary: you find a safe place to put your physical want. lets see what your step-brothers think about that.
warnings: no explicit content in this chapter but full story is 18+ MDNI ~ coming of age, characters are minors ~ step-sibling attraction ~ possessive/protective step-brothers ~ jealousy ~ emotional manipulation ~ coercive control/controlling behavior ~ subtle gaslighting ~ implied domestic abuse ~ class differences/wealth disparity ~ threats of violence ~ NEW WARNINGS WILL BE ADDED TO EACH CHAPTER.
authors notes: BABES! I know this be slow burning like a mofo right now, but stick with me, I promise I will make it up to you later! Also! Thank you all for the continued love and support you have shown this fic! It literally makes my day when one of you likes, comments and/or reblogs it. Enjoy!<3
spotify playlist for this fic -Chapter title from guns 'n roses song, welcome to the jungle-
previous chapter ~ AO3 ~ series masterlist ~ main masterlist
~ if you got a hunger for what you see, you’ll take it eventually… you can have anything you want, but you better not take it from me ~
Anna has dragged you to a party in her town –Palomino Hills– about 20 minutes from yours. It’s some senior’s house, parents gone and a keg on the back lawn. It's not a rager by any means, 30… 40 people at most. Drinking. Dancing. Talking. You know, the same old shit people have been doing at parties since the dawn of time. Except the house is the size of your old apartment building, and the driveway's got cars in it that cost more than your mom makes in a year – little foreign things, shiny and low to the ground, parked at angles that make them look more relaxed here than you. Inside, the girls have the kind of hair that is on a strict, 4 to 6 week schedule for touch ups, and the boys love wearing their daddies wealth on their wrists. Seriously, you haven’t seen a dude up in here that isn’t wearing a big shiny watch. Some of the scrawnier boys can barely fill them out, and you can’t help but chuckle to yourself, watching one slide up a kid's forearm every time he lifts his cup. But you have no room to laugh, no doubt sticking out like a sore thumb here.
You're standing in the kitchen holding a Solo cup, mostly using as a prop when a voice beside you says, "You look like you're plotting your escape."
You turn and look up. Finding a tall fella with slicked back, shoulder length sandy blonde hair and blue-gray eyes. Very much resembling Brad Pitt in Legends of the Fall.
Ay Caramba.
His style suggests a mix of preppy and effortlessly cool. That doesn’t surprise you, knowing Palomino Hills contains a heft of wealthier families. He looks nothing like the boys at your school and nothing like the boys in your basement.
"That obvious?" you say.
"Little bit." He smiles, purely whites on full display. “I’m Tate.”
He's a senior at the high school here which gives him a sheen of mystery. He asks you questions and then actually listens to the answers. Doesn't look over your shoulder for someone better the way boys have done with you at other parties. By the end of the night he's asked for your number, and Anna is mouthing OH MY GOD at you from across the crowded living room.
2 days later you stand in the kitchen swinging the long coiled phone cord around and around, then wrap it around your finger as you talk with Tate. He called you when he told you he would. That becomes one of the things you really like about him. He does what he says he's going to do and shows up when he says he'll show up. The complete opposite of your dad. So he gets an A+ for that. When you tell him early on that you want to take things slow physically –you brace for the face boys have made at you in the past, the one that clues you in they aren’t too pleased with your request– he just nods and says, "Whatever you need, I want you to feel comfortable, I'm not like other guys."
It’s not that you want to take all physical things slow, just the full monty, if you catch my drift. So far he seems to be quite alright with all the other things you’re doing together. Plus you feel like you can finally breathe, having a safe place for all your physical wants that you can’t aim at either of your step-brothers without ruining it all.
You keep Tate to yourself for close to a month. Just wanting to see how things play out between you. But you notice how the secret starts to make you feel. You come in from a date still tasting Tate’s chapstick on your lips and slide into Tommy's or Joel’s bed 20 minutes later, and you lie there feeling like you’re doing something wrong. It's not cheating. Tommy's your friend. Joel's your friend. And you and Tate aren’t even official, so there is no line anywhere for you to be on the wrong side of.
So why does it feel like there is?
~~
You know it's kinda soon. You haven't been seeing Tate that long — you're not even his girlfriend. But when he invited you to dinner with his parents, there was something in the way he looked at you that made saying no feel impossible. So you’ve spent the last 3 days losing your mind on what the hell you’re gonna wear. Since the dinner is at their country club.
Well la-tee-fuckin-da.
You don't have country club clothes. Closest thing is a church dress from two Easters ago, and that just won’t do. But you have Anna, thank God. You go to her place where she has a shit-ton of options waiting for you. You settle on a simple dress and her lowest pair of wedges – so you have a fighting chance of not falling or rolling an ankle.
Standing in front of the mirror and tugging at the hem, you try to see what a rich woman would see.
Horse shit.
That's what you keep thinking. That his mother is going to take one look at you and see the horse shit under her overpriced equestrian riding boots. People like that can smell an apartment kid from a mile away. Can smell the sad existence of hamburger helper and secondhand everything from across a dining room, you're sure of it.
You're still tugging at the dress when Anna appears behind you in the mirror, arms crossed, head tilted.
"Okay, staaaahp." She smacks your hand away from the hem. “You look perfect!”
"I look like I'm playing dress-up." Even though you’ve gained copious amounts of confidence in your body since coming back from camp, you’ve never felt comfortable in a dress. They've just never been your thing. The tom-boy inside you is kicking and screaming.
"Don’t be such a turd in the punch bowl! You look like a total knockout!” She spins you by the shoulders to face her, hands staying there, giving you the serious Anna eyes. “Walk in there like you own the place. Fake it till you make it – that's what most rich people do anyhow.” She reaches up, fixing a piece of your hair. "You survived moving into a basement with two feral teenage boys. A country club is nothing."
You chuckle with a wary smile.
The rumble of Tate's car comes up the street right on time. Anna's eyebrows shoot up. "That's your ride, Cinderella!"
You mumble something about turning back into a pumpkin at midnight, she just scoffs at you and walks you to the door. Tate steps out of the car, making his way up her driveway. When he looks up and sees you, he stops dead in his tracks. Continuing to make your way towards him.
"Wow… look at you, babycakes."
"Don't be weird about it,” you tell him, feeling more self-conscious now that you’re out in the light of the late afternoon.
"I'm being nice about it. You look really pretty." He takes your hand in his and leads you to his car, opening the door for you. "Relax. They're gonna love you."
"Have her home by a reasonable hour!" Anna calls from the doorway, with a big smile on her face.
"No promises," Tate shouts back, grinning.
You slide into the seat, smooth the dress over your knees one more time, and off you go.
~~
The car pulls around the circle drive up to the clubhouse. Coming to a stop under an awning held up by giant white columns. A man other than Tate opens your door for you. “Miss,” he offers you his hand, and you oblige. Tate makes his way around the car, just in time to take you off the man's hand. “Thank you, Reginald.”
Reginald… Jesus. You really aren’t in Kansas anymore.
Inside the place smells like lemon furniture polish and whatevers on the menu they’re whippin’ up for dinner. Dark green carpet, gold brass fixtures, oil paintings of men who look like they've never once laughed. Ah the lap of luxury. Not a lap you’d ever want to sit in – too uptight, too cold, too stiff. And not in the good way. You keep your elbows close to your body, afraid you might knock over something worth more than your mom's car.
You make your way through the dining room, weaving through the tables of other snooty patrons. His parents are already at the table. His mother rises first – slim, ash blonde with a touch of silver that blends in well, dainty gold jewelry, the exact woman you feared – you brace for the up-and-down look, the polite frost. Instead she reaches out, taking both your hands. "Oh, there she is! Tate, you didn't tell me she was this lovely – sit by me, honey, come sit by me!"
Well fuck.
Now you're more nervous, for a completely different reason. You actually want her to like you now. You didn’t care so much before when you thought she’d be a cold-hearted bitch.
His father stands next, and the first word that comes to mind is gigantor. This dudes frickin’ huge! Muscular and broad. He reaches out to shake your hand, squeezing your delicate phalanges a little too hard – gigantor doesn’t know his own strength it seems. He orders you a Shirley Temple without making it feel like a kid's drink. Then tells you to get what you want, but gives you his opinion that the filet mignon is the only thing worth eating here, ever since they hired a new head chef and changed the menu.
Orders are placed and the conversation starts ramping up. You're waiting for the, what do your parents do? So they can discuss and laugh about it together later tonight when they're alone, but it never comes. His mother asks about you, about school and she listens, hand on your arm, smiling kindly at you. When you mention the animal shelter you volunteer at sometimes, she gets all the more excited. Telling you about all the charity work she does, one even being with a different animal shelter. Isn't that something, the two of you have to compare notes.
Somewhere between the main course and dessert, you realize you've stopped faking it, till you make it, and you're just… talking freely. Tate's got his arm across the back of your chair and his father is telling stories about his Polo playing days. Not the most riveting, but it doesn’t bore you to tears.
You excuse yourself to the bathroom at one point just to take a breath and stand at the marble sink to look at yourself. These people, who have every reason to look down their noses at you, don't. And you've spent so long feeling like the odd one out. The girl who doesn't quite fit even at her own dinner table, that you figured tonight was going to be a carbon copy of that – except 100 times worse. But tonight, here, surrounded by old money and the upper crust of society, you just slid into place. How fucking bizarre… It shouldn’t mean so much to you but it does.
Goodbyes happen out front under the awning, valet pulling the cars around. His mother hugs you. It’s warm and comforting, and she smells like gardenias. When she pulls back, her hands slide down your arms and her sleeve rides up. There's a bruise on her forearm. A big one.
You almost ask, Are you okay? But you swallow it down. Because it's none of your business, and this night has gone too perfectly to go making it weird at the finish line. She's a thin woman – thin women bruise easily, right? Probably caught her arm on a car door. A cabinet corner. Something of that nature. Her sleeve slips back down, and from the bright smile on her face you don’t think she noticed that you saw it. She says she hopes to see more of you soon. You return the smile and pleasantries, saying you hope the same.
Tate’s parents are the first to drive off. But before leaving the manicured grounds of the country club, he pulls his car to a side parking lot and kills the engine. Then turns to look at you.
Shifting to meet his gaze you ask, “What’s going on?”
“You know what my mom said to me when you went to the bathroom?” He’s smiling, clearly delighted at whatever he’s about to tell you, as you answer by shaking your head at him. “She said, don’t you mess this up Tate.”
Unable to speak, all you feel is shock. His mom likes you… and you weren’t anyone but yourself.
"So I'm not gonna," Tate puts his hands out for you to take. When you do, his face turns serious. "I want you to be my girlfriend. No more keeping it quiet.” His thumbs brush over your hands. "And I wanna meet your family. Since you met mine.”
"Yeah," you say, smiling before you can stop it. "Okay."
It's only later, lying in bed that night in Anna’s guest room, staring at a bare ceiling with no glowing stars on it, that the nerves show up. All your mind can think about are the 2 boys back in the basement, and what happens when they find out.
~~
Your mom, upon hearing the word boyfriend, reacts like you've cured cancer. There is squealing and a hand pressed to her chest. And okay, it's not like he's your first boyfriend. It's that you've never brought one home – never handed one over to her to be fed and fussed at. Dinner is proposed, planned, and by Saturday she's got Ric's favorite going on the stove, carne guisada that's been simmering half the day, homemade flour tortillas, rice, the whole spread. She's trying so hard, and you feel grateful for it. The house smells incredible.
Tate shows up at six on the dot. You hear the loud exhaust announcing his arrival. When you open the door he's standing there in a Ralph Lauren button-down with flowers for you and your mom.
Your mom melts. "Come in, come in! Oh, aren't you just so sweet,” She says, taking both bouquets of flowers from him. His hands now empty, she gets a good look at him. “Myyyyy goodness, look at you!" Might you say it seems like your mom is surprised that you lassoed this strapping young man.
Ric rolls his eyes at your mother with a smile on his face. He moves to greet Tate, one hand settling on your mom's shoulder as he leans past her, the other extended. "Tate. Heard a lot about you." Which is a generous framing of the 48 hours he's known you had a boyfriend.
"All good things, I hope, sir."
Sir. Well, well he seems to be pulling out all the stops. You watch Ric's face but you can’t tell if he’s impressed or suspish.
You all shuffle your way to the dining room and you hear the boys coming up from the basement. “What’s all the commotion?” Tommy asks, rounding the corner, Joel behind him.
Sooooo, here’s the thing. As far as you know, nobody’s told them you had a guest coming over. Let alone that the guest just so happens to be your new boyfriend. You had your chance to tell them both last night when you were all chillin’, and you chickened out. Could have told Tommy when you fell asleep next to him. But guess what… bockkkkk bock bock bock. Told yourself you’d do it in the morning. Then morning came and went. So here you are now staring down the barrel of the gun, wishing you’d done it sooner.
"Boys, this is Tate," your mom chirps. "Your sister’s new boyfriend."
You squeeze your eyes closed for a moment. Please don't be mad, you think at both of them, uselessly. Please. To your astonishment, their faces don’t give much away. They seem fine with it. Odd. They both introduce themselves to Tate. Tommy giving a grin you know all too well, the performance one.
"Great to meet you guys," Tate says warmly. "She talks about you all the time."
She does? You don't remember doing that.
Everyone moves towards the table to sit and that's when you catch Tommy’s eyes. His face, now giving everything away. He’s no longer grinning. He’s just looking at you – hurt, plain as day, and betrayed. You were in my bed last night… and I'm finding out like this?
You hold his gaze hoping the look your face says, I’m so sorry.
Then you look at Joel. He won’t meet your eyes at all. His are fixed on the middle of the table, and he looks upset. Not mad, upset. Sad, upset. And you just want to hug him, tell him you’re sorry too. It's like you can see the gears turning behind all his stillness. How long? Why didn’t she tell me?
You take your seat next to Tate with your stomach in a knot. Counting down the minutes till you get to speak with them alone later tonight.
~~
Dinner, honestly, goes well.
Tate is good at this. He compliments your moms cooking and asks for the story behind the recipe. She tells him it’s Ric’s mom’s recipe, so she can’t take all the credit and Ric reaches over squeezing her hand at some point as she babbles on. Tate watches them with an expression of such warmth that you feel proud of him. Another A+ on the books.
Tate asks Ric about himself, while he keeps a light hand on the back of your chair, not on you – respectful, claiming adjacent.
"So how'd you two meet, exactly?" Tommy asks, tearing a piece of tortilla. His tone is friendly. His eyes… not so much.
"A little get-together at my buddy's place. She was standing in the kitchen looking like she wanted to leave." Tate smiles at you. "Figured I'd give her a reason to stay."
"Hm, how thoughtful of you." Tommy says, unimpressed, words laced with sarcasm.
You try to give Tommy the stink eye, but he won’t look at you, so you let it go.
A little later, Tate's telling a story about his car – the Cobra, how his dad helped him get into cars – and you happen to look at Joel then. He isn't eating. The fork in his hand rests against his plate while Tate talks. He's watching him, studying him.
"You should hear this thing run," Tate says, pulling your eyes away from Joel. "’93 SVT Cobra. Nothing like it."
"Boys are building a Mustang too out in the garage actually," Ric offers, with a note of pride in it. "'67 Fastback. Been at it a few years now."
"No kidding." Tate turns to the brothers, showing interest. "That's awesome. Old ones are cool!”
By dessert, your mom's telling the story about you falling in the toilet at 2 am your first month here. “She never checked the seat, these 2 heathens never put it down." Tate is laughing, and Tommy pipes in, “In our defense, we never had to worry about putting the lid down.” And for a moment the whole table is laughing together. You look around at all of them mid-laugh and think, maybe this will all be just fine.
~~
You walk him out after dinner. The Mustang sittin’ pretty at the curb under the streetlight. Tate takes your hand on the way down the driveway, swinging it a little.
"Well," you say. "I think that went really good! My mom likes you. Like, really likes you. Ric'll come around more, think he just doesn’t really know how to handle all this." You laugh, bumping his shoulder. "But I'm really glad you met them. All of them."
"Me too." He stops at the car, turns, takes both your hands. "Your mom's great! Ric seems solid, but I get what you're saying, him never having a daughter before you." Tate pauses for a moment, then continues. "Your step-brothers, though...."
"What about them?" You quickly respond, a little defensive.
"Nothing, nothing. They just seemed kind of… cold, I guess? To me." He shrugs. "The younger one with the little comments, and the older one barely said two words the whole night. I don't know." He looks at you, blue eyes a little wounded. "Do they always act like that with you? Or is it just me?"
"They're—" You laugh a little, wanting to set the record straight. "That's just them. Tommy's got a smart mouth and Joel's quiet with everybody. That's not – they weren't being cold."
"Okay." He says it fast, hands up, retreating smoothly from the conversation. "Forget I said anything. You know them better than I do." He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and smiles. For a second the act of Joel doing the same that first night in his room flashes in your mind, before Tate speaks again. "I just care about you. I notice stuff, that's all."
He kisses you goodnight, soft and unhurried. The Cobra roars away down the street. You stand in the driveway a minute after he's gone.
Do they always act like that with you?
Not any more they don’t. Sure, when you first moved in. But they weren't cold to him. Were they? Tommy asked questions. Joel's always quiet. That's just them, you know them, you live with them.
When you come in, you have a feeling the boys are gonna be waiting on you. And you should be walking down there annoyed. You didn't do anything wrong. You didn't lie. You just… didn't tell them. Therein lies the problem, because they know you pretty much tell them everything, and you chose to omit this and say nada. Then drop the bomb on them in front of everyone, where they couldn’t do or say anything about it, aside from smile and take it. You did do something wrong, and you can’t feel annoyed. All you feel is upset with yourself, for treating them this way.
You stand at the bottom of the stairs and take a deep breath, not knowing how this will go. You haven't given yourself a moment to play it out, aware your brain will only concoct up the worst outcomes. Rounding the corner, there they sit on the couch, waiting up for you as you anticipated – Tommy at one end, Joel at the other, the middle cushion empty. Your cushion. You don't sit. You stand in front of the couch with the coffee table behind you, hands clasped, eyes on the floor. Ready for your scolding like a kid in the principal's office.
Tommy finally breaks the silence. “So,” he says, stretching the word out. “Tate.” He says the name like someone just handed him a baby he didn't ask to hold – arms straight out, wanting no part of it, waiting for somebody to come take it back. "Real nice car."
"Tommy—" you start, looking over at him.
He cuts you off, putting his hand up. "No, no. Cobra. ‘93. Nothing like it, I hear.”
Your eyes start to burn, feeling the pain you caused them. “I’m sorry,” you drop to your knees in front of them, head hanging with shame while the tears build.
They could let you sit in it. They could make you feel it, could return an ounce of what got dealt to them at the table, and it'd be fair. But as they look down at you like this – small and wrecked, kneeling at their feet – neither one of them has it in them. Because there is nothing you could do that would make them want to watch you hurt. Not one thing. They'd take the ambush a 100 times over before they'd take this.
"Hey. Hey, c'mon, don’t do that.” Tommy's voice has lost all its bite from before. "Come up here with us.” You don't get up. You just shake your head, the first tear falling, hitting the carpet, and you watch as it darkens the fibers. You're about to say sorry again, but there is a hand on your jaw. Joel’s. Two fingers under your chin, gently tipping your face up until you have no choice but to meet his eyes. He's leaned all the way forward off the couch to reach you, forearm on his knee, and his face isn't cold or closed off. It's just Joel, but he’s looking at you the way he looked at you the night he said you’ve got a place here with us.
"Stop," he says, quietly. His thumb catches the tear on your cheek before it can get far. "None of this."
"I should've told you," you get out, wobbly. "I should've told both of you and I didn't and then you had to find out like that…”
“Yeah, you should’ve.” Joel says, not letting you off the hook.
“But hey—” Tommy says, and you turn to look at him, Joel’s hand dropping from your face. "You didn't do it to hurt us. You did it 'cause you were scared of how we'd take it. Right?” He shrugs, mouth tugging sideways.
You nod.
Joel extends his arm out to you, hand open, palm up. “C’mere. Get up here with us.” You take his hand and he pulls you up off your knees, and Tommy pats the middle cushion. You fold down into the space between them. They both scooch in close to you, not giving you the difficult choice of who to lean towards. All 3 of your heads leaning back against the couch.
There is a little bit of comfortable silence before Joel says, "You know we don’t want you to be afraid of us… you can always come to us, tell us anything. No matter what it is.” Tommy finishes his brother's thought. “And will always be here for you.”
Oh great, here comes the water works again.
What have you done to deserve these sweet boys? You shut your eyes tight, a tear or two escaping down your cheek. You clear your throat before speaking, “I know, and I will from now on. I promise.”
On either side of you, the brothers are thinking the same thing. That you're not the problem. The problem drives a cherry red Mustang. And the problem, they both suspect, is just getting started.
For the next couple weeks you can tell their disdain for Tate is growing by the day, though you're unsure as to why, all their short interactions that you’ve seen between them have been friendly. You still end up in one of their rooms most nights. Even on the nights you've been out with Tate, even when his cologne is still on your neck and in your hair. You come home and slip out of the new version of yourself you wore for him, and let yourself be held by boys who still know you better than your boyfriend does, and they continue to hold you like nothing has changed, thankfully. Because you don't know what you'd do if they stopped.
You keep this from Tate, having a feeling he wouldn't be too keen on the whole set up – his girlfriend sleeping in another guy's bed, two other guys' beds actually, step-brothers or not. ‘Cause you don't know the right words to say to explain it in a way that sounds innocent. Because it is innocent.
Isn’t it?
~~
You're not ready. You're supposed to be ready. Tate said seven and it's seven when you hear the Cobra rumble up the street. You’ve been running behind more and more recently. Always trying to make sure you’re at your most presentable for Tate.
You hustle through the kitchen and pop your head out the door to the garage. The big door's rolled up, both brothers puttsing around – Tommy bending over the engine bay of the Fastback, Joel sitting at the workbench with a part in his hand – and beyond them, Tate coming up the driveway, looking like a guy straight outta the Polo Ralph Lauren catalogue.
"Hey! I'm almost ready, just a few more minutes, I swear." You shout, waving him toward the garage. "Just hang out here, talk cars with the guys." You know he hates when you're late, hates waiting on you. So when you see his smile fall, you know you have to get your ass in gear.
“Sure thing, babycakes.” Tate says with a flat tone.
You glance at your step-brothers. Who are still focused on their tasks. “Be nice,” you whisper to them with Tate still out of ear shot. Then duck back inside.
Joel hears the door shut, sets the carburetor down, and takes a deep breath before he swivels around on the stool. He really doesn’t wanna interact with this jackwagon, but knows it’ll make you happy.
Tate stands at the edge of the garage. Joel figures it ‘cause he doesn’t wanna get his ritzy outfit dirty.
Privileged little cocksucker.
Be nice. That’s what you asked of him. So fine. Joel can do a few minutes of nice.
"So this is the project, huh?" Tate asks, finally taking a few steps into the garage. Both boys know he’s looking at the car like it's a hunk-of-junk, their poverty hobby.
"Yep." Tommy straightens up out of the engine bay, and pats the fender. “Pulled the motor over the winter, rebuilding her top to bottom."
"Cool, cool." Tate nods along. "What's it got in it?"
"Right now? A 289. Might stroke it though, we haven't decided." Tommy tosses out. "You know, might just keep it period-correct. How ‘bout ‘ur?"
"Nice. Yeah, mine's got the – it's the Cobra motor." Tate hooks a thumb back toward the street where the red car sits. "Two-forty horse. You should hear it open up."
Joel leans back against the bench, arms crossing. He’s got a suspicion that his car has never seen a wrench that wasn’t wearing a dealership shirt. "Pushrod or dual overhead cam?"
Tate’s eyes widen. "It's the… I mean, it's the SVT setup. They only make so many of 'em a year."
"Huh," Joel says. Tommy's got a rag going through his hands, and Joel can feel his brother arriving at the same place he just arrived at without either of them looking at each other.
Bought. Not built.
This trust fund Ken doll doesn’t know a thing about that car aside from what he read off the brochure. He knows the badge, the number the salesman told his daddy, but he’s never had that hood up a day in his life. He’s the kind of guy who’ll rev that Cobra at every stoplight in town and never know all the small details that go into making that noise.
Just then your laugh comes though the other side of the door. Loud and spilling out from somewhere in the house. All 3 of the boys look at the door. A smile finding both Joel and Tommy’s face – a reflex your laugh now pulls out of them.
"She laughs really loud sometimes." Tate says. "You guys ever noticed that? Can hear it clear across a restaurant." He shakes his head, a little indulgent. "Told her we gotta work on her inside-voice. Now I just give her a little look and she stops."
And just like that the smile dies on Joel's face.
A little look.
Joel thinks about the thrift store. How loud your laugh was when you doubled over in that aisle when he stepped out from the dressing room, asking him to give you a little twirl in those ridiculous JNCOs. Never once has Joel heard that sound and wanted to silence it or wished it quieter. Your laugh has always made him want to laugh right along with you. And the idea that Tate has trained a look that shuts it off –that there's a signal you’re already obeying– makes him feel ill.
Tate stands there and checks his watch. "She always run late like this? Seems like I'm always waiting on her."
Agitated as hell now with this entire conversation, Tommy chucks the rag onto the fender. "You know what, maybe she's just tryin' to look nice for you."
Tate huffs a laugh. “Yeah, I guess. I do have her wearing her hair down more – she looks way better like that."
Joel can feel his few minutes of nice coming to a close. At first he was just annoyed by this silver-spoon-sucking little shit. Spent this whole conversation deciding Tate’s just a harmless idiot. But after both remarks about you, Joel’s starting to see red. Tommy pipes up, trying to keep his cool, searching through the tools next to his brother. "Funny. I’ve always thought she looked nice, however she wants to wear it.”
“We all have our preferences. I just voiced mine to her.” Tate says, before plastering a devious grin on his face. “She’s so eager to please.”
In that moment, Joel thinks back to you kneeling before him and his brother. And the restraint Joel typically holds is nowhere to be found, when the stool screeches back across the concrete as he flies off of it. Two steps of bad intentions already in motion. He’s gonna strangle this polo wearing prick. But Tommy's hand clamps around his brother's upper arm. Hard. He doesn't yank, doesn't make a scene of it – just locks on and holds, planting himself half a step in front of his big brother. Not here. Not now. Joel feels from his brother's action, as the door to the house flies open.
"Okay, okay, I'm ready!" You come out in a rush of vanilla and flowing hair, grabbing Tate's hand and hauling him down the driveway before anybody can say another word. “Bye guys!” You toss over your shoulder, bright and happy and completely clueless as to what all was just said and what was about to happen.
Tommy lets go of Joel's arm. The Cobra fires up at the curb, Tate revs the engine like a deliberate middle finger he couldn’t resist throwing, and pulls away with the sound of his car echoing off every house on the street. The taillights swing around the corner, and everything goes quiet except the radio on the workbench, where Axl's opening scream is just starting in Welcome to the Jungle.
Neither of them says anything. Joel stands there staring out at the road, hands flex at his sides. This country club cum stain has no idea who territory he’s stumbled into. If he keeps fuckin’ around, he’s gonna find out real fast what kind of animals he’s messed with. They both know the version of you Tate gets, a polished up princess, who has an apology on her lips because she’s already been trained to think making him wait is some kinda unforgivable sin. But they know the real you.
They know this preppy parasite has spent his whole life taking, taking, taking. He probably sees you as nothing more than another object to add to his collection of pretty things. A girl he’ll try to shape and mold into what he wants, a girl he’ll teach to obey him. Tate can have the Cobra. The trust fund. The country-club future where he can continue to take everything that’s handed to him – where his mommy still, pretty much, wipes his ass and coddles him. He can have the whole fucking world if he wants it.
But he can’t have you. Not your laugh. Not your messy hair when you can’t be bothered. Not your soft skin. Not your happiness or your sadness. Those things don’t belong to Tate, he doesn’t appreciate them like your step brothers do.
Joel & Tommy know the world is full of men who’d love to hurt you –not just Tate– and having you in their lives has given them a reason to stand guard again. Has given something back to both of them that they lost the morning their mother was wheeled out of the house – someone to look after, someone to keep safe. They couldn't save their mom. They were kids, they were too small, they didn't have the power or the knowledge. But they aren't kids anymore.
Guys like Tate always trip over their own act eventually. The mask will slip where you can see it. And until then if he frightens you, hurts you, puts his hands on you in a way you haven't asked for, or makes you feel any other way than good.
They’ll kill him.
~~
Couple nights later, Tate pulls up in front of the driveway, exhaust rumbling. He gets out and leans his back on the car next to the passenger door, waiting for you there. Tate sees Joel and Tommy in the garage once again, fiddling with the project car. You open the front door, stepping out of the house even more dolled up than normal. As you reach the car Tate gives you a grin. He grabs your face and pulls you in for a kiss. “Damn babycakes,” he says, pulling out of the kiss to look down at you. “Looking so fine and on time.”
Your brothers don’t even try to hide the way they watch. Stepping out, around the car, walking towards the opening of the garage. Both of them with a heavy wrench in their hands. Joel slaps one end of his against the palm of his opposite hand as they come to a stop. Tommy’s wrench loose in his hand at his side, mirrors Joel’s stance half a second later – the way he often mirrors Joel. Two boys who learned the same body language growing up in the same den.
Tate glances over at them, then back at you with a small, dismissive laugh. “Your guard dogs on duty tonight?”
Stealing a look over your shoulder at the pair of them, and yeah, they do look defensive standing there, squared up, shoulder to shoulder, every line of their bodies communicating something protective. But even with their rigid posture you swear you see a flash of dismay in their eyes. You’ve been so busy lately with school, friends and now Tate, that you haven’t had much time to hang out or talk with them. You push down the panicked feeling threatening to overwhelm you. The feeling of this new person in your life is going to really start to change things between you and them. That every step you take toward Tate is a step you take away from them. You give Joel and Tommy a worried smile, hoping it conveys, please don't let this change us and slide into the passenger seat.
It’s gotta be just classic territorial step-brother shit, right? Instinctive. Just brothers not wanting to see their sister get hurt. The kind of thing Ric would be proud of if he saw. That's all this is. You repeat this to yourself on the drive, while Tate’s hand finds your thigh.
~~
Joel crosses the basement to your room. Finding the door open and bed empty, he heads towards Tommy's room. Some part of him hoping to find you already curled up in his brother's sheets, back from wherever Tate took you, safe and done with the night. But when he knocks and opens the door, the only person in Tommy's bed is Tommy, sitting up against the headboard with a magazine.
He looks up when Joel comes in, the question already answered by the lack of your presents, but he asks anyway. "She's not back?"
"No." Tommy tosses the magazine aside.
Joel stays standing, one hand braced on the doorframe. The clock on Tommy's nightstand reads 11:47. You left at 7:00.
"Where the hell did he take her?" Tommy asks.
"I don't know."
"It's almost midnight, Joel."
"I'm aware." Joel pushes off the frame, shuts the door and starts pacing – 2 steps toward the desk, 2 steps back, the room too small for the restlessness running through him.
Tommy swings his legs off the bed, plants both feet on the floor, his leg bouncing with nervous energy. "That guy's phoney as fuck,” he says looking towards his big brother. “I really don't fuckin' like him.”
“I don’t either, Tommy.”
"And the way he talked about us tonight. Guard dogs… fuckin’ guard dogs, Joel. Can you believe that shit?!”
“I heard him.” Joel stops pacing. “He's tryin' to make her think we're the problem. So when we do say somethin', she's already been primed to brush it off."
Tommy's quiet for a second, processing. “So manipulative."
Joel doesn't argue. Tommy's right, and the fact that Tommy can see it so clearly when Tommy usually charges through life headfirst without pausing to read the room tells Joel everything he needs to know about how wrong this feels.
Joel drops into the desk chair, elbows coming to rest on his knees, hands holding the side of his face. "Somethin's really off about him. I feel it in my gut. Somethin' ain't right – aside from the things he says about her."
Tommy leans forward, picking at the fraying knee of his jeans. "I feel it too. Thought maybe I was just bein'—" He waves a hand. "I dunno. Jealous or whatever."
"Are you?" Joel’s head quickly lifts to see his brother.
Tommy looks at him, and in his face Joel can see the honesty Tommy has never been good at hiding. "Yeah. I am. But that's not what this is. This is somethin' else."
Joel nods. Because he's jealous too – in a way that has nothing to do with Tate's Mustang or his looks and everything to do with the fact that you chose someone else's passenger seat and Joel had to stand in a garage and watch you go. But Tommy's right. The jealousy is just an overtone. What's underneath the jealousy is a gut feeling.
"We need to talk to her," Joel says. “We sit her down and we tell her what we see."
"You think she’s gonna get upset with us?”
"Maybe."
"What if she pulls away from us even more than she already has..." Tommy shakes his head and falls back on the bed. "What if she stops comin' to our rooms? We just lose her to this sweater vest wearing twat?"
"No." Joel says it hard enough that Tommy lifts his head from the bed. "Listen to me. We’re gonna be nice, just tell her what we see. We say our piece and regardless of how that goes – whether she listens or tells us to go to hell – we treat her the exact same as we have been. No pulling back. We don't get cold with her. If she still wants to come into one of our rooms at night, we let her. We don't shut her out."
Tommy stares at his brother with uncertainty. He was already halfway to considering exactly what Joel just forbade. Because pulling back is what he does when something scares him.
"I'm serious. Her fuckin’ dad walked away from her, Tommy. You think I'm gonna be the next guy who makes her feel like she's not wanted? You think I'm gonna let you be that? We're not gonna be the guys who disappear because she's doing somethin' we don't like or who make her feel like she’s only worth keepin' around when she does what we want."
The frustration drains out of Tommy’s face, understanding taking its place as Joel continues.
“She needs to know she can always come to us. No matter what. Like we told her. Because she's gonna need us. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. But something is up with that guy, we both know it, and sooner or later, she’s gonna know it too and we gotta be there for her when she does. Got it?"
"Yeah." Tommy sits back up, nodding. "Yeah, I got it."
"Good."
At 12:14, headlights sweep across the basement window and they hear the all too familiar sound dipshit’s exhaust. Then a car door, followed by the basement side door opening and closing, carefully and quietly. Tommy lets out a long breath, Joel stands up from the chair.
“We talk to her soon.” Joel says in a hushed voice.
Tommy nods in agreement as they listen to you move through the basement, getting ready for bed – shoes off, bathroom, water running. Your footsteps come towards their bedrooms. You pause outside of the younger brother's door. Then they hear a soft knock on Joel's.
Joel looks at Tommy. Tommy lifts his chin. Go.
Joel opens Tommy’s door, closing it behind him, to see you standing there in front of his door waiting. Your makeup washed off, your eyes tired, and one of his t-shirts gracing your frame.
"Oh hey," you say, looking at him surprised and nervous. "Can I—"
"Get in there," Joel says, with a small smile and the tilt of his head towards his room.
You smile back, big and grateful. You climb into his bed, tucking your face into his neck, right where it belongs. He pulls you close and whispers c’mere estrellita, there you go – he feels your whole body relax and part of him lets go too. But the worry and vigilance. Those stay. Those stay as long as Tate is in your life.
No.
Those stay as long as you are alive and breathing.
I'd love to hear your thoughts! They truly help keep us writers motivated and writing for you babes! Also consider re-blogging so others can find and enjoy the fic as well! <3
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My birthday is in 20 days, so I wanted to celebrate with something fun with you all!
I thought I'd do this:
• send me an ask and give me a PPCU boy of your choice (my fave is Joel always but feel free to ask me for any other character you like!) and some input, a scenario you'd like me to write, and I'll write you a drabble!
Of course, bear with me if I don't publish right away; it might take a little while, but I'll do my best to please everyone, hoping someone will want to play. 😁
Please keep this post in mind so you know what I'm willing to write. I don't have many categorical noes, but I ask you to respect those that are there. Thank you so much, hope you’ll have fun with this little game! ♥️
⟢ Summary: You share your thoughts on a painting to a stranger at an art gallery in Paris, unaware it was his.
Tags/warnings: none. meet-cute. fluff. maybe second-hand embarrassment. I don't know painting terms. no y/n. not beta-ed.
a/n: I'm done with assignments, but I'm still high from caffeine and I can't sleep so here goes nothing. Sorry if this is bad hehe, it's unplanned, and I wrote this within three hours. might delete once I wake up sober tomorrow. meanwhile, enjoy!!♡
You didn't even see him approaching at first, but his voice was the first part of him your senses registered. That gentle, and soothing voice.
"You've been staring at this one for quite a while."
Your head slowly turned to find a man in full white. The sleeves of a cashmere sweater with black stripes hung intentionally over his broad shoulders. It took you a second to realise he was talking to you.
Your eyes did a quick once over from his head to toe. Each part of him—his curls, mustache, plain white t-shirt that exposes his toned arms, white trousers, and black oxford—screamed perfection. A thought flashed through your mind,
He could replace the painting you were staring at, and you wouldn't complain.
"Mademoiselle?" His little head tilt and soft voice pulled you from your thoughts. He is not French. You knew that much, now.
"Sorry. You were saying?"
A tiny smile tugged at his lips and you were forced to witness those perfectly sculpted dips of his dimples and the creases around his eyes appear on his angelic face—all the while acting like he's not the most beautiful piece of art you had seen all day.
"This particular painting seems to have caught your eye. May I know what's in that beautiful mind of yours?" He raised his eyebrows hopefully.
"Well," You turned to look back at the painting. You had no idea who this stranger was, but he seemed just as passionate as you about art, so you decided to let him into your thoughts.
You talked, and talked, and you noticed the way he looked intently at you the whole time. It felt unnerving at first; until you understood that he was genuinely interested in what you were saying. That's when all hell broke loose, and you let your mouth run free.
"—though, I do think that it's a strange choice of colour."
You catch the raise of his eyebrows at your last statement, and for a second, you thought you had personally offended him.
"You think so?" He queried.
You stilled, mentally kicking yourself for talking too much. The expression on your face, however, wrote out your thoughts; and it brought a small chuckle out of the stranger.
"Don't worry. You can say it." He leaned closer, breath faintly brushing over your ear. "It'll be our little secret."
Heat crept up your cheeks and you timidly nodded. At the same time, a whiff of his cologne painted your sense of smell.
Gosh, he smells so good.
"I just think that.. a contrasting colour would do even better. Makes the little details pop." You said. "But I'm not a professional painter, so what do I know—"
"You're not wrong." He quickly said. You looked at him in surprise; but from the look of his face, you could tell that he was being genuine.
He smiled at you before looking at the painting again. "It would look nice with a contrasting colour." You took in the way his eyes roam over the delicate art. "but if I were to make a guess, I think the artist might have wanted to highlight the subject alone—hence the blend of complimenting colours and abstract details."
"Don't you think so?" He turned to you again, eyes twinkling with excitement. You had never seen someone get so excited over a painting in an art gallery. It usually ranges between taking mandatory pictures to show off that one had seen a piece of classics, and sketching a painting they admire.
"Sure." You nodded. For some strange reason, you didn't want your conversation with this stranger to end.
He straightened up and reached down the pocket of his pristine white trousers. It still amazed you that he hadn't gotten a fleck of stain on it.
"Hey. If you're free tomorrow, maybe you can come to his reception." He handed you a piece of rectangular card with an identical painting adorning the background.
"I got an extra. You'll get to meet him in person. Maybe then you can talk to him about your suggestion." He winked.
You hesitantly accepted the ticket, thanking him.
"Unfortunately, I have to go now. Lovely meeting you." He extended his hand and you took it with a smile.
"Likewise." You said as you shook his hand. "What's your name?"
"Reed Richards; but call me Reed." He said with a little polite bow. "Hope to see you again, mademoiselle."
You watched him leave, unaware of the huge smile carved on your face and the intense pounding of your heart. But as you looked down at the ticket in your hand, your smile gradually faded.
Meet the Artist
REED RICHARDS
Oh.
So his voice wasn't the first part of him that you knew. You glanced at the painting hung against the plain white wall.
It was his mind.
Thank you for reading!! Hope this made your day/night :) reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated. I would love to know your thoughts <3
taglist: @shadowqueen2024 @harriedandharassed (let me know if you'd like to be added or removed)
coupling: joel miller x female reader x tommy miller
wc: 8.1k
summary: your mom falls in love, elopes and suddenly you're uprooted from your shitty apartment and moved into a house with her new husband and his two sons, joel & tommy. your mom thinks you're the brady bunch, but you wholeheartedly disagree. eventually you get the hell out of dodge for a summer camp gig where you find a version of yourself you didn't know existed. and the step-brothers who never looked twice are about to notice.
warnings: 18+ MDNI: coming of age story involving minors, emotional bullying, toxic step-sibling dynamics, neglectful parenting, crying, emotional hurt, self-esteem & body image issues NEW WARNINGS WILL BE ADDED TO EACH CHAPTER. YOU CAN SEE A SPOILER LIST OF WARNINGS BY CLICKING ON THE SERIES MASTERLIST BELOW THE AUTHORS NOTES.
authors note: hey party people! i hope you enjoy! this first chapter is a very difficult time for the reader, joel and tommy aren't very nice to her -especially tommy- but stick with me it gets much better between the 3 of them in the chapters to come *wink*
series masterlist / ao3 / my masterlist
“I’m serious about him,” your mom says, standing at the stove in her wrinkled office blouse, the smell of cheap spaghetti sauce bubbling behind her. “We’re moving to his house at the end of the month.”
“Moving in?!” you repeat, realizing it’s not a joke.
“Mmhm, it just makes sense.”
Like hell it does.
Come to find out during the rest of this conversation with her they eloped at the courthouse last Saturday while you were left alone to fend for yourself. Eating an expired box of lasagna hamburger helper and watching re-runs of Home Improvement. And she tells you this like you’re supposed to be grateful because you'll finally be escaping this shitty apartment and you’ll have a yard, a garage, and won’t have to listen to the neighbor above you practice their Irish step dancing at all hours any more.
Your mothers always been one to make hasty decisions but never ones this quick or this life altering. Eloping after only 3 months together, 3 months isn’t enough time to know somebody, no matter how many times she repeats, when you know, you know.
Though at least it’s with Ricardo Miller –or Ric as he insists– and not one of the other deadbeat exes she’s dragged through the apartment – i.e. the one dude who talked like he was selling extended warranties and lived off her paycheck after your dad bailed. But Ric comes as a package deal. Not just the house with the yard and the garage, but with 2 sons. Joel, 15, same as you, and Tommy a year younger. Who are now effectively as of last Saturday at around 2:30pm, your new step-brothers.
Oddly enough the men your mom dated in the past either had no kids or they had sons, not once did they ever have a daughter. So you were always stuck with the prospect of possible step-brothers. Which, when you were younger was fine, always leaning more rough-n-tumble tomboy-ish anyway. Playing sports, never afraid to get dirty, part of you genuinely liked doing the things that were more boyish, but looking back now, you know a piece of you just wanted to be apart, and not be the odd one out.
The secondhand smoke from the Marlboro Ultra Light your mom just lit up assaults your nose before she cracks the drivers side window, reminding you what day it is. Move-in day. Your mother had squealed with excitement at you this morning after you emerged from your room. In response you had given her a tight smile and jazz hands. Now heading towards your new house, you really start to ponder what your relationship with your new step-brothers will look like now that you're older and quite different from the person you used to be. More reserved and quiet now. You really hope you’ll get along with these 2 boys and can end up being friends, you don’t see why not, you’ve always been able to make friends with anyone. But seeing as your mom decided to jump into a whole new life so quickly, you’ve heard little about them, only seen a photo or two, and have yet to actually meet.
You arrive at the house, and you’ll give your mom credit where credit is due. This house is definitely a couple steps up from the apartment. It’s a 2 story house, white exterior and navy blue door with a clunky brass knocker on it, windows adorned with shutters you’re sure don’t work as intended – these purely for aesthetics only. Straight away you can tell Ric is probably like one of those old farts who tells people to get off my lawn, because here in Texas where the summers are brutally hot and the grass should be a dry and crunchy light beige color, his is a lush green.
The ’92 Toyota Camry, your mother’s beloved champagne-colored chariot, pulls into the driveway, Ric’s truck is already backed in with the tailgate down and your whole life stacked in uneven cardboard boxes that he, you and your mom loaded up this morning. The last bits of your life, all here to be placed under his roof.
Your mom kills the engine and just sits there, both hands on the wheel, smiling at the house like it’s the answer to her white picket prayers. Through the windshield, you watch Ric directing his sons on what to do, he points somewhere and one of his sons follows through. Even though you can tell the teenage boys aren’t super happy about having to do manual labor on a Saturday.
You notice Joel first, on the ground beside the truck, taking whatever gets handed to him. He’s in faded jeans and a loose old T-shirt you can tell used to belong to somebody else before it belonged to him. Then there’s Tommy. He is taller than he looked in the picture your mom showed you, wearing a Nirvana shirt with the sleeves cut off and a rip across one knee of his jeans. You can very much tell the brothers have a similar style and probably share most of their clothes, since they’re only a year apart in age.
“You okay?” she asks, glancing over.
You wanna laugh in her face. That question has become one of her favorites these past couple of months, mostly because it can be answered with two words to let her off the hook.
“I’m fine,” you say.
She nods, choosing to believe you.
Outside, Tommy jumps down from the truck bed, his Converse landing with a smack. Joel says something to him and gives a playful wack upside the head. Tommy answers with a face and his tongue poking out from between his lips.
Oh, Lord. Brothers.
Your mom checks herself in the rearview mirror. “Ready?” she asks, floofing her bangs.
Not even close.
But she’s already opening her door. You get out after her, feeling the Texas heat radiate up off the driveway. Ric looks over first and lifts a hand in greeting, smiling wide and welcoming. The boys turn with him and you know how sometimes people look at you and you can feel them deciding what kind of person you are before you’ve even said a word? Yeah… Tommy does that, his eyes move shamelessly up and down you. He grins a little, like he’s been handed something new and entertaining. Joel’s look is shorter. He doesn’t rake over you the same way, he just looks at you with a blank expression.
“Well helloooo there pretty lady, fancy runnin’ into you here.” Ric says with a chuckle, coming forward to kiss your mom on the cheek.
Hardy har har. Looks like he got dad jokes.
Ric turns to you then. “And there’s our girl.”
Our girl.
You fight a look of disgust that wants to take shape on your face. You do not care for that wording one bit, though maybe that’s unfair. You know he means well, he’s a nice guy, you’ve met him a handful of times, never getting a weird pedo vibe from him, unlike that one dude your mom dated, the one who asked you if you wanted to play Twister with him when you were 12. So you let his wording slide. Small mercies.
“Hey Ric,” you say, fitting a small pleasant smile on your face.
“These here are my boys.” He gestures back toward them. “Tommy and Joel.”
You say hi. Joel says hi back and gives you a little salute with two fingers.
Tommy says, “Hey,” with a face that suggests the word has several hidden meanings, none of which are nice.
Your mom is beaming, seemingly already convinced y’all are the Brady Bunch.
“Why don’t you boys show her where her room is?” Ric suggests, looking at his boys. Tommy glances toward the house, then at Joel, like maybe one of them can dodge it but Ric points at the stack still in the truck. “Take one of these boxes with you, they go to her room.”
Joel grabs a box, then Tommy and he jerks his head toward the house. “C’mon.”
You follow Tommy as he cuts through the living room –not giving you any time to take in the space around you that you’ll be calling home– and heads for the steps that lead to the basement –okay… 3 story house, you stand corrected– and you follow him down with Joel on your heels. The staircase is narrow, boxed in by solid walls on both sides, so you're single file the whole way down. At the bottom, Tommy turns right and the space opens up to the living room. He informs you that he and Joel occupy the main living area of the basement and their rooms are on the other side of it at the far end. It's a cozy cave of guitars and game controllers, with dark wood paneling, a big stereo, and a worn-in plaid couch, along with a TV on a stand against one wall.
You’re led back to the bottom of the stairs, there going the other way is a small hallway with 2 doors. Tommy walks through one of those doors. “And here we are.” He drops the box at the foot of your bed –that Ric has so graciously already put together for you, huh, maybe this guy will be good for your mom afterall– as your eyes move around the space.
Your room is small, square, same plain wood paneling along the walls. There’s one little window high up near the ceiling where a strip of daylight comes in level with the lawn outside. If you stood on the mattress, you figure you could hoist yourself up and shimmy out of it, if you ever needed a possible escape route.
“Cute,” your mother says from behind you, arriving breathless with two smaller boxes in her arms. “Isn’t it cute?”
She’s clearly trying to get you to love it.
“Yeah, it’s nice,” you lie, enthusiastically.
Joel sets his box down by the dresser, his eyes moving once around the room, then to the hallway, then back to you. That’s when you realize that the other door you passed was a bathroom and you’ll be sharing it with them. You look up to the ceiling and let out a breath through your nose, hoping this won’t be a point of contention between you and the brothers.
Tommy notices and says, “Just don’t take forever in there and we’ll get along fine.”
Your head turns to look at him. “I don’t take forever,” you say nicely with a smile.
Tommy widens his eyes trying to act innocent. “Didn’t say you did.”
Then under his breath he mutters –but yeah, it doesn’t look like it– quiet enough that your mom and her old ass ears miss his insult. But you hear it, and Joel’s close enough to hear it too. The words hurt and make you feel like shit. You don't glob makeup on or anything, but you brush your hair, put in little efforts here and there. You're far from a bridge troll and at least always thought of yourself as pleasant looking, but you guess you are pretty plain.
Joel finally speaks for the first time. “Tommy,” he says with a slight reprimand to his voice.
Tommy lifts both hands. “What? I’m just saying.”
You look down at the floor, now feeling ugly –u-g-l-y, you ain't got no alibi ugly– and smaller than ever. Your mother, oblivious to the interaction that just happened and to your current feelings, claps once and says, “This is going to be SO good, I can feel it.”
~~
After that day, one of the first things you learn about Joel and Tommy is that they take long showers. What in the hell are they doing in there?? This noticeably starts affecting your new life, 2 weeks into living here. Standing in the hallway at 7:15 am with your towel and shampoo tucked under your arm – you already know better than to leave your shampoo in the bathroom, found that out week 1 when you suspect over half of it was squirted down the drain – waiting and waiting. Meanwhile, the water has already been running for 20 minutes. You let out a frustrated sigh and politely knock again.
"Occupied." Tommy says cheerfully and unbothered, while the water keeps flowing.
"I have school," you say through the door.
"So do I."
"Then why are you still—"
"Relax, Goody. I'll be out in a minute."
You continue to stand there in the hallway with your shampoo and your towel, doubting he’ll be out in the next minute. What’s hard is knowing somewhere upstairs your mom and Ric are having breakfast together, all happy, and you're down here losing a war of attrition against one of your new step brothers.
The door finally opens six minutes later. Tommy comes out in a cloud of steam with a towel around his waist and his hair dripping, looking pleased with himself. He glances at you, sees the worry and upset look on your face, and grins.
"See? A minute," he says, and disappears around the corner.
Now you stand in the steam he left behind, the mirror completely fogged, and you just know there's probably not a single drop of hot water left.
The brothers don’t really ever take you into consideration and Tommy most of all finds it amusing if he inconveniences you. They have their own world downstairs, their own hours, and are always with each other. Your bedroom, carved out of their territory, just a door they walk near on the way to the bathroom. You keep your room tidy. You do your dishes. You go to bed at a reasonable hour. You are, in every outward way, the model of a person who is not causing problems. Yet they don’t become your friends, like you’d hoped for, instead all there is is turbulence.
It's Tommy who coins it, during the first week of living here. You're at the kitchen table with your school books fanned out — even though classes only just started, you're trying to get ahead, knocking out a reading assignment before dinner — when Tommy spots the highlighters lined up by color and pulls a face. "Geesh," he says, nudging Joel as he trails in behind him from outside. "See? Told you she was a goody."
Goody. As in two-shoes. As in no fun.
Apparently they've already decided what kind of girl you are before they really know a single thing about you, and you can’t figure out how to prove them wrong without sounding pathetic. So you don't try. You don't let it show on your face how much the new nickname hurts you. But that night, back in your room, a few tears slip down your face, there is only so much you can take. And everyday you see just how happy your mom is with Ric and how well he treats her, and you don’t want to be the person who ruins it, but this house you live in now, definitely doesn’t feel like home to you.
~~
Weeks go by. Then a few months. The weather changes and you keep learning more about your new step-brothers. In the cooler months the boys wear old ratty flannels over their T-shirts and Tommy digs out a few colorful sweaters and cardigans, trying to look like his idol Kurt Cobain.
Ric and your mom stay in their own little world upstairs, They make dinner together. They fall asleep on the couch watching old movies. They go to estate sales on Saturdays and come back with things to make his house their house. Eye roll.
Which means you, Joel and Tommy are basically unsupervised, all the time. The boys take full advantage of this. Friends over on school nights, music until whenever, the basement running on its own hours entirely. You can hear it through the wall when you're trying to sleep — laughter, guitars strumming, noise of teenage boys who have never once been told to keep it the fuck down. Clearly, never having to fight for their right to party. You’ve gathered that Ric trusts his sons fully, because the brothers have a lot of people over, more than your mom seems to be aware of. All coming in through the basement door. You like to think if your mom knew her 15 year old daughter was down here constantly surrounded by 14 and 15 year old boys, she might say something to Ric. But she never seems none the wiser. And you never let on about it.
You discover more about the brothers listening though the walls at night, like how Tommy is always trying to be the center of attention. Surprise, surprise. He laughs first and loudest. Joel hangs back more, but not in a shy way. You’ve gathered he’s a pretty confident person around his friends. And the 2 of them together are impossible. They move around each other without thinking. One drops something, the other picks it up. It’s like they share the same instincts, forged from years of roughhousing, shared space, and a silent alliance against the rest of the world. One forgets his wallet on the counter; the other is already tossing it to him before he even pats his pockets. They finish each other’s sentences, usually with some smartass remark that only makes sense to them. And they share everything; clothes, inside jokes, friends, food. You find it obnoxious and also, against your better judgement, a little fascinating.
You slowly develop a new life of your own there, though. You aren't sitting downstairs pining for their approval like some loser. You have school. A few friends. You spend as much time out of the house and away from them as you can.
Most days you hang around with Jenna and Riley, 2 friends you made since moving here. You steal Tommy’s beat up bmx bike outta the garage, to go to the Sonic in town. You all pool your money together, split a large order of tots and share a Route 44 Cherry Coke. On cooler evenings you ride the back roads, kicking up gravel, racing each other to the old water tower on the edge of town just to sit and watch the world move below.
Some weekends you help out at the county animal shelter because the dogs don’t care that you’re the new kid or what’s going on at your house. You play with the big mutts in the dusty yard out back and sneak them extra treats when no one’s looking. You've always preferred the big ones — the ones other people pass right by because they look like their too much to handle. Those are the ones that make you feel the most safe cause they just wanna be close to you, wanna prove their loyalty to you. They just wanna love you and be loved back. You like that.
So no, you're not completely miserable. It more so feels like death by a thousand stings. Because your step-bothers can be so infuriating. They take your laundry out of the dryer before it’s done. They both talk over you at dinner. Always leaving the toilet seat up, you learned to check after falling in once in the middle of the night. They use the last of the toilet paper and don’t replace the roll.
But there is the one thing Tommy does that just chaps your ass like nothing else, and it happens at least once a month and you know he does this shit on purpose. You caught him doing it before and he just smirked like it was funny.
You wake up, get ready for school, and drag yourself into the kitchen hoping for something easy before the bus comes. Your eyes land on the Frosted Flakes box sitting there on the shelf. For a second your mood lifts.
Hell yeah.
You’re already tasting the sweet crunch, imagining pouring a big bowl and drowning it in milk. You reach up excited now and pull the box down with actual energy for the first time that morning, but the box feels way too light. That rush of excitement collapses instantly into pure annoyance, then disappointment. You stand there staring at the stupid colorful box in your hands, the bright tiger on the front still smiling like everything’s fine. They're Grrrreat!
You open the top anyway, hoping maybe there’s a handful left at the bottom. There never is. Just an empty bag shoved back in the box like trash. It makes you want to slam the empty box on the counter. Instead you just crush it hard between your hands. It’s such a small thing, but it fucks up your whole morning every single time. That brief spark of this is gonna be good followed by the letdown. It feels exactly like living here.
Yet you still don’t hate them, just wish they’d be nicer to you. What you do hate is how they can make you feel like a stupid little girl with one look and how they can be so inconsiderate of you, but so instinctively considerate with each other. Mostly, you hate that after a while, being called Goody starts to feel less like an insult and more like a role you’ve been shoved in. So you play it. You keep your grades up. Keep your room neat. Keep your mouth shut more than either of them deserves. You become very, very good at not being seen or heard.
Time still carries on, winter comes and goes, and to your dismay, the bathroom situation never improves. The noise doesn’t either. You finally invest in a cheap pair of ear plugs with your allowance but they only help so much.
~~
By the time school is 3 weeks away from letting out for summer, your eyes feel like they're gonna bleed and you are starting to feel a deep-seated anger that you truly have never felt before. Every slammed door, every late-night jam sesh from the boys’ side of the basement is like a hand shaking your mattress, pushing you past the point of delirium.
It’s been 8 months of Tommy and Joel’s friends coming and going in packs, always loud, shouting over each other, playing music or video games. Now on the rare occasion Ric will holler down the stairs to keep the volume down before he goes to bed, but you know once he gets into the bedroom with your mom and their big box fan, they won’t hear a thing. It won’t be 10 minutes later somebody’s laughing again, the TV or music is up, the bathroom door is slamming, somebody’s banging something against the staircase wall, and there goes another decent night of sleep.
So when the flyer goes up on the school bulletin board for a 10 week counselor program at a lakeside camp a bones throw from Austin, you tear off one of the tabs before you even finish reading it.
It’s not for the fresh air. It is not about some grand destiny and finding yourself in nature or any of that hippie dippy bullshit they put on the flyer. It’s solely about leaving. You sign up because your brain feels like stew and the thought of being trapped downstairs all summer listening to the boys and their friends shred the same three Nirvana riffs just might cause you to be committed.
You're filling out the application at the kitchen table, your mom brings over dinner and the rest of the family arrives. "Camp counselor, huh?" she asks as she sets down the main course and peers over your shoulder. “Will they let 15 year olds do that?”
“Mmhm, plus I’ll turn 16 while I’m there,” you say, continuing to write.
Your mom sits down with a sad look on her face. “Oh, I didn’t even think about that. I suppose we can celebrate it when you get back. Where’s the camp?”
“Somewhere on Lake Travis,” you inform her.
Ric, to his credit, thinks it sounds practical. “Looks good on applications,” he says around a forkful of food “Responsibility. Leadership and all that.”
Tommy, lounging in his chair with one knee up and laughing says, “You all gonna gather ‘round the campfire and sing kumbaya?”
You roll your eyes to yourself and keep writing.
“And braid friendship bracelets?,” Joel adds smirking.
~~
You get an acceptance letter 2 weeks later that feels like a pardon from the president and the whole house knows by dinner that night – thanks to your mom of course.
She’s thrilled, probably more so because she will have something new to talk about with her friends. “10 whole weeks!” she says. “We’re all sure gonna miss you!”
Sureeeeeee you will.
Then Tommy buts in. “Yeah,” he says, pressing a hand to his chest, “We’re gonna be inconsolable.”
Joel chuckles. Tommy lifts his brows, cutting a look to Joel. “Think they got a merit badge for bein’ a goody? Maybe they’ll teach her how to loosen the hell up out there.”
“Watch your mouth boy,” Ric says sharply, pointing his fork at him.
Tommy’s shit-eating grin immediately slips from his face.
“Both of y’all knock it off,” Ric adds, looking from Tommy to Joel. “Ain’t a damn thing wrong with her wanting to do something worthwhile with her summer, and you two knuckleheads ain’t gonna sit here and make a joke out of it.”
Joel drops his eyes to his plate as Tommy mutters, “Was just kiddin’ around.”
“Well, I’m not,” Ric says. “She’s a sweetheart and good girl. Better sense than most kids her age, definitely more than the pair of you put together. I’d be real pleased if more young people acted the way she does.”
While Ric’s words are nice and all, you have never wished more than right now that teleportation was a real thing and something you had the ability to do. Your mom just smiles, pleased, at the lovely things her beau just said about you. And here you are the good girl at the dinner table, held up like an example. Such a little sweetheart.
~~
Later that night, Tommy comes up to you, stands with his shoulder leaning against the bathroom door frame, while you're brushing your teeth.
“Better be a good girl and run along to bed now, wouldn’t want you up past your bedtime,” he says.
You look up at him in the mirror, spit into the sink and reach for the towel, not answering him. You can feel your eyes start to build tears, and it only gets worse the harder you try to hold them back. It's been months of this - of him treating you like shit. It's becoming too much.
“Aww,” Tommy smiles and leans in towards you. “You gonna cry?”
“No! Shut up,” you say, looking down at the hand towel you’re holding.
His grin widens as he pushes off the frame satisfied with himself and heads down the hallway, straight past Joel, whose back is resting against the wall, arms folded. He wandered over to use the bathroom, but ended up hearing the whole exchange between you and his brother.
You make eye contact with Joel and look down fast, but not fast enough, tears finally slipping loose. Humiliating in their timing, happening in front of Joel. But something in his face changes, his arms drop, he pushes off the wall and reaches toward you, the movement surprising him as much as it does you.
“Hey—”
You back up away from his reach and flee before he can say anything else, before your body can betray you any further. You make it to your room, slamming the door shut and twisting the lock with shaking fingers.
You back away from the door, wiping furiously at your face with the back of your hands, angry now on top of everything else. Angry at Tommy and angry at Joel for always just standing there, laughing along. But now he wants to act like he gives a shit about your feelings cause he witnessed the effects of Tommy’s berating.
The floor creaks outside your door. Then Joel’s voice comes through the wood. He says your name, you squeeze your eyes shut. “Go away!” you shout, a sob breaking out of you. “I can’t wait to get away from both of you!”
A moment passes and Joel speaks again. “I’m sorry, I’ll—”
You cut him off. “I said go away!”
The floor makes another little sound as Joel stands there, and then you hear the sound of his retreating footsteps make their way down the hall. You stand in the middle of your room listening until he’s gone. Only then do you crawl into bed, pull the blanket over your head. Now upset and angry with yourself too, because for the first time since moving into this house, one of them saw you break.
~~
You get the feeling that Joel must have said something to Tommy about what happened after he teased you the other night, because for the next week -the week before you leave for camp- Joel and Tommy steer clear of you. You’re grateful.
A few days before you leave, your mom takes you to K-Mart and lets you pick out two pairs of shorts and a new one-piece bathing suit that doesn’t feel matronly but is still modest, and lives up to your Goody name.
The morning you leave, the basement is quiet, assuming both the boys are still dead to the world this early, and part of you would love to be loud and interrupt their sleep, but you don't wanna have to interact with the pair and most importantly you don’t want to be like them.
Tip-toeing down the hall, you sit your duffel at the bottom of the staircase. Looking up, you see Joel, sitting on the couch, faintly lit by the bathroom night light coming from the hallway.
He looks over. “You need any help?” he whispers.
The offer catches you off guard, part of you wants to ask if he has a fever.
“I’ve got it,” you coldly reply.
Now you can’t be sure due to how dark it is but dare you say Joel looks a little hurt.
~~
The camp bus is set to leave from the H-E-B parking lot in town. Your mother hugs you twice. Ric says, “Have fun, kiddo,” and squeezes your shoulder. Tommy was still asleep when you left and Joel despite being awake doesn’t come, though you didn’t expect him to.
Boarding the bus, your nose notes the smell of sunscreen and someone's body spray fighting a losing battle. You carry your backpack down the aisle and take a window seat by yourself. After the bus pulls off and you wave goodbye, you spend the first 15 minutes doing a threat assessment. Which girls look friendly. Which ones came already locked in with their own people and have no interest in expansion. At the next stop sign, a brunette with a high ponytail drops into the seat beside you in cutoff shorts.
“Hi! You look normal enough. Mind if I risk it?”
“That’s a bold assumption,” you say chuckling.
“Anna,” she smiles, sticking out her hand.
You tell her your name, and that is that. By the time the bus gets to the lake, you've swapped stories. Anna has told you about the time she accidentally set her aunt’s patio umbrella on fire with a magnifying glass. You’ve told her about your step-family, presenting it like a joke you don’t care much about. She seems to read between the lines anyway and just nudges your shoulder with hers and says, “Well, their loss. You’re funny.”
It surprises you how much you need to hear something like that right now. And it gets you more excited for what else is to come at camp.
~~
Your cabin is a narrow row of bunks with screened windows and one small bathroom with a toilet and a sink. It should feel cramped. Somehow it doesn't. Here it just feels communal instead of invasive, the way things at home feel invasive. Nobody stays in there forever. Nobody leaves the floor wet on purpose.
That first night, you wake up on instinct around 1:30am, certain there must be shouting, or music, or the sound of roughhousing on the other side of the basement. There is only the fan. A throat being cleared in sleep. Somebody turning over in a bunk hard enough to make the frame creak. You lie there in the dark and feel your whole body slowly realize it can finally relax.
By the end of the first week, the dark circles under your eyes start fading. And by the second, you stop waking up at every small noise. The lake itself is prettier than it had looked in the brochure. There are dragonflies that skim low over the surface and disappear before you can track them. Then there are mornings when mist hangs over the water making everything feel calm and serene. You come to love the routine of camp. Waking up early. The way breakfast smells from across the field. The chaos of girls getting ready in the cabin. The scheduled activities.
At first, you wear the new one-piece your mother bought you and sit with your knees together and laugh with your mouth mostly closed and say sorry too often. Sorry for reaching across someone. Sorry for being in the way. Sorry for being sorry.
Anna notices. Saying things like you apologize too much, you know you don’t have to do that here with us. And other things such as why do you always do that, when you tug your shorts down after standing, you have good legs, stop hiding them.
By the third week, little things begin to shift.
Anna lends you a different swimsuit, then a different top, then a pair of shorts that show more thigh than you would’ve dared on your own. She doesn’t push you to wear them, though she does have the subtlety of a fire alarm, but it seems some of her confidence rubs off on you.
At first, wearing one of her bikinis makes you feel overly exposed. You keep tugging at the fabric that covers your tits, crossing your arms, glancing around to see if anyone is staring.
“Everybody has seen what you’ve got to offer before babe,” Anna says, sunning beside you on the dock. “But with jugs like those attached to the rest of that bangin’ body, be prepared for some stares.”
You sheepishly look down and try to hold back a smile. The confidence in her words embolden you, you stop folding in on yourself and just let yourself be.
After that, things change faster. You get a little color. Then a little more. Your shoulders deepen from pale to golden honey. The bridge of your nose freckles. Your hair goes lighter in places where you spray the lemon scented Sun-In spray on it. One day you catch your reflection in a small bathroom mirror, looking miles different from the girl who showed up in sensible shorts with her whole personality tucked in.
One of the senior counselors, a girl named Liza with bleached bangs, pierces your ears in the craft cabin after curfew with a needle sterilized over a lighter. And not just the lobes, but small silver hoops up along the cartilage, 3 on one side and 2 on the other. You adore how they look on you. Then Anna tries to talk you into a nipple piercing while you're at it.
"Absolutely not," you say.
"Oh come on, you'd love it."
"Anna."
"Fine. Eventually you'd love it."
By week four you're laughing louder. By week five you’re rolling the legs of your shorts up twice instead of once and not tugging them back down every time you stand. By week six you catch boys looking. You start to love the male attention you're getting. Becoming bolder, holding eye contact with them just long enough that the boys grin back at you.
Then flirtation with Grant starts. He’s one of the senior counselors that oversees water sports, which means you see him every afternoon at the dock while helping the small kids. He’s really sweet and easygoing. The first time he really notices you, you’re dragging a canoe up onto shore, he steps in and lifts the other end like it’s nothing.
“Dang girl, let me help you,” he says. “You trying to impress somebody?”
“Is it working?” you say, eyeing him.
“…Maybe,” he says, with a grin and a look where you can tell he wasn’t expecting you to say that.
After that, he starts finding reasons to talk to you. What you like most is that he doesn’t call you a Goody.
~~
Before you know it, the middle of July is here, along with your 16th birthday. You told Anna not to make a big deal of it, and wouldn’t you know it, she doesn’t listen. Shocker.
So of course, on the night of your birthday, after lights out, Anna leads you down to the dock where a loose half-circle of junior and senior counselors have gathered. Somebody has smuggled in a bottle of rum. Somebody else has brought a cake in a smashed plastic container. The lake is like black glass and the near full moon lays a silver path across it, so bright, it looks like you could walk across it. They light the candles and sing to you, badly. You make a face, laugh and tell them to shut up, embarrassed by being the center of attention. A paper plate with cake gets pressed into your hand and the rum burns all the way down.
That’s when Anna starts a game of truth or dare. She doesn't start with you, which you are so thankful for. She works her way around the circle, you watch and laugh, thinking maybe you're going to get through this without becoming the subject.
Then it gets to Grant.
"Truth or dare," Anna says, and you can hear the smile in it without looking at her.
Grant doesn’t hesitate. “Dare.”
A few people oooh like idiots. Anna tips her head, pretending to think, though you bet she’s had this cocked and loaded since the game began.
“I dare you,” she says, drawing it out, “to kiss the birthday girl.”
The dock erupts. People clapping. Somebody pounds a heel against the wood. Anna looks at you so pleased with herself, part of you wants to throttle her.
Grant glances at you first. That is what you remember later. That he looks at you first. Not at Anna. Not at the crowd. At you. Suddenly the sweatshirt you wore to help keep the chill of the night off of you, is now holding in the flames that burst over your skin. You know everybody is watching. You know that 6 weeks ago this would have sent you straight into yourself, a turtle retreating under its shell.
Instead, you lift one shoulder, licking your lips and say, “C’mere handsome, make my birthday wish come true.”
The whole circle loses its mind.
Grant laughs a little under his breath, and moves closer. One hand comes up, holding your face then his soft lips press against yours, lips now moving together slowly in unison as all sound fades. When he draws back, the cheering rushes in all at once. You give a coy laugh. Grant is grinning at you now.
“Worth the wish?” he asks, a little flushed.
You can still feel the shape of the lips on your mouth. “Definitely.”
Anna is shrieking like she has personally orchestrated the moon landing, and you can’t find it in you to be too upset at her after that kiss.
Lying in your bunk after the night comes to a close, you press your fingers to your lips and stare up into the dark. It isn’t really about Grant, well not only about him. It’s about the fact that somewhere between the H-E-B parking lot and that kiss, between the one-piece swimsuit and Anna’s relentless campaign against your old self, you realize how much more at ease you are in your own skin.
~~
Your duffel is fuller leaving than it was arriving. A borrowed paperback one of the girls gave to you. A camp T-shirt you cut up because Liza told you to stop dressing like the assistant manager of a Christian bookstore. A Polaroid from the dock, all of you squinting sun-drunk into the camera, Anna half climbing onto your back. A bottle of vanilla body spray that Dee brought and didn’t like, so she gave it to you. Anna tosses you one of her tank tops, which you put on to head home in. White and tight, hugging your tits and accentuating your waist perfectly, paired with the same shorts you arrived in, only now you’ve taken shears to them, making them super short. Your legs are darker and your hair is lighter. The messy bun atop your head allows the silver on your ears to flash when you turn your head.
Grant meets you at your cabin door, the morning it’s time to leave and takes your duffel, carrying it for you. The bus lot is last-minute chaos. Girls calling to each other and crying. The adult counselors checking names off clipboards.
Grant bends to slide your duffel under the bus, then turns back to you.
"So," he says. "You were fun to have around, I’m gonna miss you." He opens his arms and you step in, he pulls you flush up against him, his chin brushing your temple.
When he leans back, one hand stays at your waist, the other reaches into the pocket of his shorts and pulls out a folded piece of paper. “Just in case.”
You take it, already smiling before even opening it. Inside is his number, and beneath it, in his handwriting, In case you need someone to talk to. Or advice about guys.
You glance up at him. “Advice about guys?”
“I know at least one.”
You laugh, folding the paper back up. “And he’s an expert?”
“Debatable,” he says. Then, a little softer, “The first part was the important one.”
There is that feeling again, that bright little lift low in your stomach – the same one you got when you kissed him. You know it's not because you think Grant is the love of your life. But because how he actually gives a fuck about you, and about all the things you told him about your home life between makeout sessions behind the mess hall.
Behind you, Anna shouts, “We’re boarding babe! C’mon!”
You turn halfway and yell, “Get on the bus, I’ll be there in a sec.”
Grant laughs, looking over your shoulder at her, then looks back at you. “I mean it,” he says. “I’m always here if you need someone in your corner”
“I know, thank you, really.”
His gaze dips to your mouth, then returns to your eyes. His lips meet yours in a simple goodbye kiss. His thumbs brush once at your sides through the cotton of the tank top, then he lets you go.
“Go on, pretty girl.” he says, nodding toward the bus.
Your hand closes around the folded paper, stepping back. You stand there for a moment looking at him and it occurs to you that you are going to miss him or maybe more the feeling he gives you and not so much him. You’re not naive, you figure the odds of ever seeing him again are slim, you’re okay with that, you can make peace with that. You know how to handle a person no longer being in your life.
“Bye, Grant.”
You turn and head toward the bus, your duffel already swallowed beneath it, your flip-flops slapping warm pavement. You climb onto the bus with his number tucked in your palm. You drop into the seat beside Anna and shove at her shoulder. “Move over.”
She eyes the paper in your hand. “Did he give you his number?”
Your hips raise up and you shove it into the pocket of your shorts. “Maybe.”
She clutches her chest. “My work here is done.”
As the bus pulls away, you glance out the window. Grant lifts a hand. You lift yours back. Then the camp begins to recede. The dock. The cabins. The trail to the lake. The place where you became more yourself.
But with every mile home, the old life starts coming back into view.
~~
The ride home feels shorter, you wish it was longer, not eager in the slightest to come back to what awaits you. Before you know it, the bus hisses to a stop in the same H-E-B lot you shoved off from. Your mother is already there, standing beside the champagne chariot in sunglasses, one hand lifted against the glare. You de-board, grab your duffle, say bye to Anna –excited to have learned at camp she lives one town over, so you’ll be able to hangout– and head toward your mom as she calls out, “There’s my girl! Lord, look at you!” Pulling you into a hug. She leans back to get a better look, both hands on your shoulders.
“You got tan,” she says, then squints at one ear then the other. “And pierced.”
“Mhm.” You say, hoping she doesn’t disapprove.
“You look beautiful! I’ve missed you so much, the house just isn’t the same without you, honey.”
The old duffel gets chucked in the back seat. Your mother talks all through the drive. She asks a little about the camp but says you can talk more about it at dinner.
“I’m sure Ric and the boys would love to hear all about it too!”
You’re kidding… right?
It’s nice to see your Mom’s still delusional.
Then she asks if you met any boys, which makes you turn and look at her because she hasn't asked you that sort of question in a while.
"What?" she says, smiling at the road ahead. “I’m your mother, not a nun.”
You let out a short laugh but don’t answer her question and she doesn’t ask again. You watch the road along with her. The familiar turnoff's coming back one by one. The gas station with the busted Coke sign. The feed store with the faded mural on the side.
Your mother keeps talking, filling the car with what she and Ric have been up to while you were gone, but you’re not really listening. The closer you get to your neighborhood, the more you start to feel the outline of the basement again. You look down at your hands instead, trying to distract yourself. Silver rings circle your fingers now, two on your left hand, one thin one on your right thumb. Nails painted a dark blue with that Wet ‘n Wild shimmer Dee let you borrow. You twist one of the rings absently, then lift one bare foot into the seat without thinking, your knee bent toward your chest. Your mother glances over and catches sight of it.
“Is that a toe ring?”
You wiggle your little piggies, a little grin tugging at your mouth. “Maybe.”
“Who are you?” She laughs. “And what have you done with my daughter?”
You rest your temple against the seat and look at her, returning the laugh. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Oh, listen to this girl,” she says, delighted, and reaches over to tap your knee. “Camp put some mouth on you.”
Maybe it did. Or maybe the mouth was always there, tucked away with a dozen other things you got used to hiding. The radio fills the rest of the drive. That Collective Soul song, December, the one that's been everywhere all summer.
When the Camry finally turns onto your street, you sit up a little straighter without thinking. Body bracing for impact, the old you bracing for impact. But you aren’t that person anymore, you left that little timid bitch at camp. You pop your gum once, cross your arms and settle back against the seat. If those two boys want to make your life difficult, they can fucking try. They haven't met the real you yet.
I'd love to hear what you think so far!
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If you're tagged it's cause you showed interest in the last couple posts I’ve made about this series or cause I thought you might be interested, if you don't want to be tagged just let me know. If your not tagged and you would like to be just ask and I'll add you to the list. <3
hi please don’t think of this as hate, but why did you picture Pedro as Joel if you love game Joel ?
Not at all babe, it’s a valid question! 🙂 I'm guessing the reason you are asking this question is due to my current fic guard dogs.
I, on purpose, decided to think of and use a young Pedro because it’s a coming of age tale, the characters are teens and I don’t have a reference of what game Joel looked like as a teen, same with Tommy.
And just as a reference for my past and future fics, when I write Joel, normally I do picture game Joel. I do sometimes mix the two in my mind tho -if that makes any sense- my Joel love is very fluid between the two.
Also just know if I use a photo of Pedro's Joel on a fic it doesn't mean I personally didn't think of game Joel while writing it. I might have just liked the way it looked aesthetically. I think normally if I have ever described Joel in my fics -aside from guard dogs- I have described him as having Hazel eyes and a full beard, which is def. game Joel.
I know people can get wrapped around the axels about game joel vs pedros joel in fic writing but I just don't. I go back and forth on who I picture in a fic while reading, and if a fic i'm reading describe joel's beard as patchy, I know they are talking about pedros joel but if i'm picturing game joel as I read it, I just keep picturing game joel. lol like I said it doesn’t really bother me.
Anyyyy wayyyyy, all that to be said, please picture whoever you love thinking about while reading my fics! And I hope you still enjoy them all the same! ☺️💕
