Chapter Text
You were never meant to be a girl, but you didn't know that.
You were meant to be born earlier, almost a decade earlier. Your parents met in 1940. Your father had spent his teens doing odd jobs for unsavory people as the mob switched over from hootch to drugs and contraband. He met your mother in a dance hall. She wore the shortest twirliest skirt at the joint and was like a jumping bean on the dance floor.
She swore in Russian when she was drunk. It was cute. They had a quick fling before the world was going to hell in a handbasket, and your father was going to be shipped off to war.
You were supposed to be born nine months later. You were supposed to be a boy. You were supposed to be the reason your parents stayed together, why they even got married in the first place, for better or worse.
Instead, your father returned home with a missing eye, a bum leg, and a few medals. He married your mother in 1949, and you were born an unremarkable little girl. He found the capital to open his pawn shop, and that's that.
One year later, your mother found out she was expecting twins. It was a high risk pregnancy, the doctor called it geriatric much to her annoyance. You didn't know it at the time, but she almost died. Your father never really forgave your brothers for that.
Your childhood wasn't bad. Overall, it was idyllic. You lived by the seaside, and you shared a room with your brothers, who seemed caught up in their own little world. They were always looking for something- an adventure, a mystery, something beyond their dull little lives.
Your mother was busy with work, and your father never noticed you even if you were under his feet sweeping the dirt from the street.
So, you made yourself small, then smaller. You were the good daughter, the perfect daughter. Quiet, capable, and kept the house running smoothly. Dinner would be on the table as soon as you came back from school, you cleaned the house, and made sure everything was set for the high holy days. You didn't have a life, not really. You were just…there.
School didn't matter to you, what was the point anyway? You were probably going to get married. But you were not sure to who, no one really noticed you with your scabbed over knees, braces, too large nose, sunken in face, thin arms and long scraggly hair.
By fourteen, you got a job as a delivery girl, and you'd bike throughout town, your knee socks getting caught in the bike chains.
Your brothers grew up too, one of them becoming a genius and winning all the awards in school, the other making a name for himself in boxing. The girls in your year seemed to notice them, asking if you could put in a good word. You don't.
You think about what you're going to do, where are you going to go. Ford probably has a bright future ahead of him, maybe he’ll go to college. Stan’s likely to run this town. He's already made a name as a bookie, and has a few craps games that have edged out the existing ones. He's even dabbling in crab fighting and trying to short the taffy trade.
But, you're nothing. Your mother reminds you that you aren't pretty enough to attract a man, sadly you have your father’s nose, so you'll need to be useful in other ways. So you find work where you can. Two, three jobs and save money. You still take care of the house and clean the shop, it's the least you can do.
Your brothers forget you exist mostly. They're never at home much, either getting caught up in a monster adventure or building their boat. You like it better that way. It allows you the free time to stay in bed and read romance novels, smoke cigarettes, get drunk, and masturbate. You finish after almost an hour or so and spray the room with perfume. You usually use the Jean Nate bottle you had bought with your own money. The room still sometimes smells like sex and booze though. They don't really bring it up, so you don't either. You don't complain at night when you hear them self abuse in the middle of the night, and they don't have the decency to wait until they're alone. How can anyone sleep through that?
You think it's weird, that you are almost a grown woman sharing a room with your little brothers. When you were thirteen, you asked your mother if you could move out.
“And I want a set of diamonds, honey, we can't get what we want.” She replied, before taking another call.
That used to mean they'd take shifts, you'd get dressed first, then they would. But after a while, you didn't have the time for that. Sometimes, you needed to get out of bed and go straight to work. So, that meant losing any pretext of shame. It's not like you were going to wait an additional three hours for your bra to pinch you when Ford wasn't planning on closing his desk light anytime soon. They've probably seen you naked at this point more times than any of the girls in Stan’s skin mags. Not like anyone's counting. Or that you know those things exist under his bed.
You turn eighteen, and you stay at home. You haven't found a man yet, and it's not proper to just up and leave the house on your own. You're a good girl.
You didn't know about what happened at the science fair. You knew about the buildup, of course. This project had meant the world to Ford. He had stayed up hours making the blueprints, welding the parts together in our tiny room, and testing it until the wee hours. You and Stan barely got any sleep, but you didn't mind. It meant so much to Ford.
Sometimes, you'd just go into the kitchen and eat ice cream while the both of you waited for Ford to exhaust himself.
“What do you think those eggheads are gonna say when they see that thing tomorrow?” You joke, licking the spoon. “I bet they'll just stand there slack jawed and be like…wha???” You giggle.
“Yeah, I guess.” Stan said despondently, mashing his chocolate ice cream to the back of his spoon. The sprinkles you added have now congealed into a multicolor mush.
“You ok? You’d have finished yours by now.” You notice.
“Do you think…do you think I could hack it on my own?” Stan asked. “You know, get out of this town and be something? Or do you think I'll be scraping barnacles off the pier?”
“Where'd you get an idea like that, dummy?” You ask. “I know you, you're gonna be bigger than…I dunno, hula hoops?”
“Hula hoops? No one uses those!” Stan protested. He groaned. “ I am a loser, aren't I?”
“What's the big deal if you are?” You ask. “I'm a loser too, and so are mom and dad. There's nothing wrong with that. Losers are America’s backbone. Quit yapping, you shouldn't worry about things out of your control.” You declare.
You let Stan sit in the kitchen alone after you clean up the bowls. In hindsight, you wish you hadn't.
Your Pop kicks out Stan after Ford reveals the truth. You don't know what to do. It isn't right to let him go, he's just a kid. You run out to find him, only to see Stan drive off. You run back in the house to grab your purse, then head out in your bike.
It's pitch black, and you can't see anything in front of you. You follow Stan’s car, and you're grateful it's such an eyesore, until you reach the beach. You watch him get out, slamming the door, as he walks down to the shore, and sinks into the sand. He wraps his arms around his knees and leans over, sobbing.
“Stan.” You say softly.
He turns his head. “Oh. It's you.” He grumbles.
You join him, sitting down on the sand as it gets all over your dress. You lean your head on his shoulder.
“What happened?” You ask.
“You've gotta believe me, it was an accident.” Stan mutters. “I didn't mean to, you've gotta tell Sixer I didn't mean to…”
“I don't really have any say in that.” You interrupt. “He's not going to listen to me.”
He sighs. “Maybe you're right.” He leans closer to you. “I'm glad you're here.”
“Really?” You ask, surprised.
“Yeah. I…it's nice to know I'm not alone.” He says.
“Where are you staying?” You ask.
He shrugs. “Here?”
“Oh, Stan.” You say, shaking your head. “This won't do.”
You take out your purse and hand him your savings. It's almost two hundred dollars.
Stan gives a low whistle. “Sweet Moses, who'd you rob to get this?”
“It's not much, but it's what I've got.” You murmur. You lean over, and kiss him on the cheek, patting his head. He wraps his arms around your waist and holds you tightly. You know that's a lot, coming from him.
“I'm going to make it big in a few months. And when I do, I'll pay you back, then some.” Stan insists, still clinging to you. You both lie down in the sand, as he rests his head on your chest, unaware he’s basically using you as a pillow.
“Think of it as a gift.” You say as he wraps his right arm around your waist.
“I'll get some metal detectors.” Stan said. “I bet this beach is lousy with treasure.”
You cringe. Oh, that poor sap.
“Should I come with you?” You ask, “I've got no plans. It might be fun.”
Stan lifts his head up, looking at you. “Nah. I need to make it on my own. It's the principle of it.”
“I get it, no having your sister cramp your style.” You say.
“And Pop will kill me if I take you away g-d knows where. His little princess, having to talk to strange men?” He said mockingly.
“Oh can it, you know he doesn't care.” You reply, giving him a playful shove.
“Imagine if I took you to Atlantic City, he’d have a fit.” Stan laughed.
“I’d have some fun at least,” You joke, leaning back. “Maybe I’d get some action.”
“Girls don't like sex.” Stan explained. “Not the girls like you anyway.”
“What's that supppsed to mean!” You ask in outrage.
“It's not a big deal,” He continued. “You just gotta find someone to settle down with, pop out a few kids. You'll be happier with that.”
You roll your eyes. “I hear you loud and clear.”
He’s still resting on top of you, his weight pressing on your body. He’s fat, but he's got muscle that's defined all around his arms and torso, his baby fat face and zits balancing out the curves of the arms and the defined biceps. You lean over, giving him a chaste kiss on the lips. “Why don't we cuddle more?” You ask.
“Because that's for babies.” Stan said, rolling his eyes. He saw searchlights at the beach, cops are bound to patrol soon. “We better get back in my car.”
They stood up, wiping the sand off their clothes and heading into the car.
“There’s enough in there for a motel.” You remark.
“I'll drive you home. Pick up your bike in the morning.” Stan declares.
He keeps to his word and drops you in front of the house, not using his headlights in case your father thinks he's come crawling back. You lean over, and give him a kiss on the forehead for good luck. “I'll miss you.” You say.
He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I'll keep in touch.”
“You better.” You laugh.
You don't see him again for another decade or so.
Ford is a mess after Stan leaves. He won't get out of bed, and even though he tries not to cry, you can hear muffled sobs. You bring him soup the first week, and feed him, insisting he sleeps on the bottom bunk. He weakly, complies, though after a few days he says he doesn't want to.
“Well, I can't climb up there.” You complain.
Ford opts to climb into your bed. He is still in his pyjamas. You cuddle him, and you can feel his chest rising up and down as you rest your head on his lithe body. His six fingers on his right hand play with your hair. You can smell the soap from the shower you insisted he take instead of wallowing another day. His hand reaches around to hold you, accidentally brushing across your breast as he recoils, noticing you aren't wearing a bra under your nightgown. You turn over, and move away, your face flushed.
Your parents don't know about this new development. They seem to have reverted back to indifference now that Ford’s future millionaire status has disappeared in smoke..
Ford received a letter about a full ride to a college out in the midwest. He says he’ll take it. It's June, and it was touch and go as to whether he'd get any financial aid at all.
“Where are you going to stay?” You ask, knowing that by now he won't be able to get into the dorms.
“I guess I'll rent a place for now.” Ford says dismissively, haphazardly packing his shirts and pants in a suitcase.
“Let me help you,” You say, reorganizing what's already there. He must be worried, normally, he puts everything in order and makes a list.
“I…I'll miss you.” Ford admits. You know he's probably thinking about Stan. You doubt Ford ever really noticed you before this point.
“I'll miss you too.” You relent, patting the clothes in place.
“You should come with me.” He offers, folding his arms as he stands behind her appraisingly. “I…maybe it would be good for you, to get out of here.”
You stand up and look at him skeptically. “Would I really be better off in Ohio?”
“I'd be better off with you.” He admits begrudgingly.
You ask your mother what she thinks. Ever the worrier, she thinks it might be a good idea for someone to go out there and make sure her baby is eating and his socks are ironed.
“He has a point,” Caryn concedes as she takes a drag of her cigarette, she taps it on the ashtray, shaped like a crescent moon, and takes another drag. “There isn't anything for you here. Do you still have your savings?”
You still have fifty dollars to your name. “Yeah.”
Caryn walks over to her bedroom, and returns with a small velvet purse. “I've got about two hundred here. Not much, but I saved it for your trousseau. Don't spend it all at once.”
You hug your mother, and thank her. Later that day, you make some calls to find the cheapest place to rent, this should cover the deposit.
When you two move in, it's nicer than expected. It's the basement of an old woman’s house. She normally only rents to women, but she tells you as you move in that she’ll make an exception for you and your husband, since you both seem like a nice couple. You don't have the heart to correct her in case she kicks you out. There's another student who lives on the upper floor.
Ford is persona non grata as the term begins. He wakes up at five in the morning, then is in the lab or the lecture hall all day. He eats on campus, and returns home around nine in the evening. He changes out his books, and goes back on campus to the library, to return home at midnight, or later.
You take two jobs, they don't make much, but it's enough to pay your rent, with some stashed away for food. You write to your mother to give her updates. Sometimes, your father writes back. You didn't know he cared.He tells you to find a nice college boy to marry.
Ford ends up on the Dean’s list. You're very proud of him. He says he's obtained a position as a researcher over the summer, and he plans on staying back. You stay with him.
He spends some time with you. You go to the movies from time to time, he holds your hand in the dark. You wonder aloud whether you should buy a television, an idea Ford shuts down disdainfully when you return home.
“You hardly need one when there are so many good novels out there.” Ford says disparagingly.
“True, but I can't read novel while ironing.” You say, folding your arm in his as you walk back.
Ford ends up graduating early. In what should have been his sophomore year, he's finished undergrad and gone into a Masters program. It's multi discipline and very complicated, you can't understand what it's about, but it has something to do with anomalies. It's comforting, in a way, that it's so constant to see him light up talking about them. It's like he's a little kid again.
Around the second semester that year, Ford brings over a friend for dinner. He's a mechanical engineering student who is apparently working on those big machines that sent the astronauts to the moon, among other things.
He's tall, friendly, and he can even make Ford laugh. You serve them dinner, then let them have their privacy while you darn Ford’s clothes.
They spend more and more time together. Ford brings his friend, Fiddleford, over daily and they start studying at home, carrying boxes of metal parts and jarred specimens into their main living room.
You try not to say anything, it's nice to see Ford happy again.
Around the summertime, the other student has graduated, and your landlady is looking for a new tenant. You suggest Fiddleford. She seems reluctant taking in a single man, but you bring him over for tea and she finds herself enamored with his charm as they discuss the Bible, of all things. She's willing to let him live in the attic for half the normal rate, and you feel a little bit envious as he keeps flirting with her.
Fiddleford is basically part of the family now. Even though he has his own room, he hardly ever leaves the basement. He joins you and Ford for dinner, and stops by even when Ford isn't around. You assure him Ford will be back soon, but he says it's alright. You fold laundry, while Fiddleford strums his banjo. It's nice, and you ask him more about the music, which he is happy to explain.
When Ford returns, they are in their own world. It's nice, you think, as you pick up a new project to crochet, that Ford is making friends.
Every now and then, Ford lets you know that he's going up to Fiddleford’s room, they have a project they need to work on and they must not be disturbed. He doesn't return until the next morning.
You don't really think much of it, though you suspect something might be going on. You notice they have started to hold hands under the table. You catch them looking at each other a bit too long. And the most damning evidence is from the stains on your brother's underwear, and his sheets instead of his socks. You try to ignore those.
Fiddleford shows up one afternoon with a cardboard box.
“How were you able to get your hands on one of these?” Ford asks excitedly.
“I have a friend, who might have a friend who works at the publishing company.” Fiddleford said with a mischievous grin.
“What is that?” You ask.
“DDMD!” Ford practically squealed. They ran over to the coffee table, clearing it off the books and knick knacks.
“What?” You ask again.
“It's a board game.” Fiddleford explained, “You pick a character, and you play out a story. You know, action, adventure…”
“Math!” Ford added excitedly. “So much math.”
“Ugh.” You say, wrinkling your nose. “You have fun then.”
“Oh, don't be like that!” Ford complains. “We need another player. Please, can you stay?” He begs.
You look at him and his friend while they start opening bags of dice and taking out little cardboard dolls.
You sit down next to Fiddleford. “Oh, alright.”
“Excellent!” Ford beams.
You aren't sure what type of character to create, so you ask Ford to help you. He helps you create a rogue that's also a multiclass as a bard since you like music, while Fiddleford takes on the role of a sorcerer with some sort of speciality in black smithing and necromancy. Ford chooses a paladin, and he rounds out the rest of the details that you're only half listening to.
You don't really understand the game, as you keep failing your skill checks, leading to you ending up in various dungeons and having to be saved by your party. You're not a fan of the fact you have to solve a quadratic equation to determine your chance of success per theft, and then roll a successful throw.
But, in pseudo medieval England, this was not enough. It seemed to be worse there then in real life Ohio, where it seemed that her character encountered not only extreme sexism as the non playing characters doubted her skill, but outright hostility.
“You have been captured by the Warlock king’s guards. As you are associated with the sorcerer, they have deigned not to kill you, but imprison you for trying to steal the Scroll of Forbidden knowledge.” Ford narrates. “As the guards pin you to the ground, you find there is no escape. The head guard, enamored by your beauty, offers to let you go, in exchange for other services.”
“Oh, do they want me to steal something?” You ask.
“No, they want your body.” Ford replied, seeming a bit too invested in this storyline.
You frown. “Could I not accept their generous offer?”
He hands you an exceedingly complicated problem. “This is a timed challenge. If you fail to solve this in thirty seconds, they will have their way with you anyway.”
You look at the piece of paper. “I don't even know what this symbol is.”
“I could help you.” Fiddleford offered.
“That's cheating.” Ford replied, as Fiddleford talked you through the problem. You hand back the solved problem.
“Congratulations, they accept your deal. You receive the scroll and as thanks, you eagerly cavort with all of the guards.” Ford declared, crumpling the sheet of paper. He describes the event in graphic detail, you didn't even know he knew most of those things. You regret making your character look like yourself as you blush, mortified.
“Is that in line with my character?” You ask. You wouldn't even do some of those things if you had a beau. You can do that with that many people, at once?
“Of course, as a bard you are inclined to more…lascivious tendencies.” He answered, chuckling as if it was a funny joke.
“What kind of game is this?” You mutter. “This isn't funny.” You complain,
“It's a little funny.” Ford argues.
It seems that your odds don't improve, as the scroll now imparts a curse, called The Fervor. It imparts its holder with an overwhelming lust, that must be satiated. As the game continues, you find that your character propositions every non playable character, some enemies, and even some monsters. Each encounter adds new details, from descriptions of her vocal moans and sensations that sounded like they were ripped from a trashy romance novel, to lovingly detailed descriptions of fantasy beast genitalia. You gain XP from your encounters. Bastard.
“Could I get rid of the scroll?” You ask, as you lose another roll of the dice that would allow you to resist the Fervor. The other two have a compelling storyline. The sorcerer is trying to stop a rebellion of the undead and the paladin is trying to redeem himself after breaking his vows to save the sorcerer. Your last combat scenes involved fucking a dragon. An actual talking dragon with a prehensile dick. He went into detail describing its ejaculate in a way that seemed less like a joke, and more like an actual interest.
“All in due time.” Ford replies.
“The next session better be worth it.” You say.
“You know, I’m planning on DM’ing next week.” Fiddleford interjected.
“Oh, thank goodness! Maybe this game will be fun!” You complain, glaring at Ford, who seems oblivious.
You try not to look at Ford the next few days. How could he even think of you in that way, let alone say that stuff in front of someone else?
He seems to notice you avoiding him, and asks what's wrong.
“Read the fucking room.” You say bitterly. “How…how could you think that was even remotely acceptable?”
He is somewhat embarrassed, and apologizes to you. He complains bitterly to you, about how isolating it is, and how he would never want to do anything to hurt you, or lose you. You bite your tongue before you can tell that maybe he'd have a girlfriend if he wasn't a misogynist prick, but then he hugs you, and tells you how you are the only woman who would ever love him, and it would eat him up inside if you hated him too.
“What was your goal with this?” You ask.
“I…I thought you'd get the hint.” He states. “I um, oh screw it.” He leans over and kisses you. You stiffen in surprise, but somehow it's not unwelcome.
You kiss him back, as he started groping your chest and unbuttoning your blouse. He pulled it off, revealing your white bra you bought from Sears. You push him.
“What are you doing?” You asked.
“Aren't we going to make love?” He asked, as if it was obvious.
“Absolutely not! You're my brother!” You say, more outraged than you feel.
“Does it matter?” He asks. “I know you feel this too.”
You feel a pressure building inside of you. “It's not right.” You insist, shaking your head.
“How can it be wrong to love you?” He asks rhetorically, “You love me, don't you?”
“Of course.” You reply.
“And I love you, ardently. More than anyone or anything.” Ford declared, as if he was a character out of those bodice rippers your mother enjoyed.
“What about Fiddleford?” You ask, remembering him as if that could change your brother’s mind.
Ford chuckled. “Fiddleford? He’s not opposed to sharing.”
“Sharing you?” You ask, a little surprised at how modern this sounded. You know it's the 1970s, taboos are meant to be broken, but all taboos?
“Well, I suppose realistically we would be sharing you.” Ford admitted. “He likes both, apparently. We have discussed it, and he seemed quite excited at the possibility. Two for the price of one,” He added, sardonically. “It's all very logical, you know.” He said, taking off his glasses and wiping them on his shirt. He sounded as if he'd rehearsed this.
“You've spoken about me?” You ask. You think you should be disgusted, but part of you finds yourself more than a little excited. They took time out of their lovemaking to talk about you?
“Of course. He had asked me once, whether I had ever been interested in girls.” Ford admitted.
“And you mentioned Cathy?” You ask.
“No. I mentioned you.” Ford replied, trying to ignore the mention of Cathy. “He's incredibly open minded, you know, in Europe…”
“Incest is pretty taboo everywhere.” You point out. “I think your research into the topic has mostly been pornography.”
“Perhaps. But why don't we try it out, see where it takes us?” Ford suggested. “If we don't care for it, no harm, no foul.”
“Ok.” You relent.
Ford seems happier after your talk. He whistles as he moves about the apartment. Later when you are doing little things, like chopping vegetables or folding clothes, he wraps his arms around your waist, and starts to kiss your neck. While washing the dishes, He fondles your breasts, his hand reaching under your skirt as you feel the palm of his large hand rub against the mound of your cotton panties.
You've never felt like this before. You've never had anyone touch you there.
“You're so beautiful.” He whispers in your ear as his hand reaches under the elastic waistband.
“Oh, stop it.” You say in disbelief. “You're just saying that.”
“It's true.” He says, as his fingers slide into your slit, running over your labia, then circling around your clit. You shudder as he applies pressure. His fingers are stronger than you expected. “Would you like me to empirically prove your beauty?” He asks lightly, nibbling as your ear as you feel your breath hitch. You bite your lip as he applies more pressure. You feel him reach up with his other hand and unhook your bra as his left hand pinches your nipple as if stiffens. You let out a smile then a moan. You feel him slide a finger inside you as he moves it in and out of you.
“I thought, I thought I'd save myself for my husband.” You murmur, half thinking as you feel the pleasure. You can feel his erection press against you.
“Take all my loves, my love, take them all:
What have I then more than I had before?
No love, my love, that I may true love call—
All mine was mine before I had this more.
.” He murmured, fingering her. She shuddered.
“Did you come up with that?” You ask, feeling lightheaded.
“Shakespeare. Sonnet 40.” Ford answered, kissing her neck. He removed his hand. “I can't be your husband, but at least while we are here we can enjoy our time together.”
You blink. “Isn't it a crime?” You ask.
“No, not here.” He admitted. “But that wouldn't stop me.”
He grabbed your wrist, leading you to their bedroom. He gently places you on the bed, and climbs on top of you. He unbuttoned your dress, and you shiver as you feel the air on your exposed body. As he unzips his khakis, you can see him take out his cock. It’s not like you had never seen him naked before, but not since you were both small children. He places his member in front of your mouth. Uncertain, you kiss it, then lick the lip, placing your lips around his member and sucking as you hear him groan. As you feel more confident, you feel him moving his hips as he thrusts into your mouth. He calls your name, brushing his fingers through your hair.
“I love you.” He whispers. “I love you.”
He thrusts a few more times until you feel his body shudder, and taste a bitter fluid in your mouth.
Ford removed his member, wiping the fluid from your lips. He bent over leaning down to kiss your mouth.
“I love you.” He declared. “You are mine, and I am yours. What more do we need?”
You nod, feeling delirious. He climbs next to you in bed, and you hold each other.
“Have you ever done this before?” You ask. “Was this your first time?”
Ford paused. “No.”
“Was Fiddleford your first?” You ask.
“No…I…” Ford faltered.
“Did you and Stan…” You ask.
Ford nodded. “I thought you knew.” He said quietly.
You did, you could hear them from your side of the room over the years. First their fumbling attempts at rubbing each other, then the time after prom, when they peeled off their sticky punch stained suits as they fucked on the bottom bunk. From their exchange, you think Ford was the receiver for that. You pretended to sleep but you heard everything. You're amazed your parents didn't, or they chose to ignore it too. Maybe that's why your father never really liked Stan.
“You won't fall out of love with me?” You ask nervously.
Ford hugged you, kissing your lips.