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tiredyaoi · 18 hours ago

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Back at it again with the next round of teen fem stan. This one got away from me yall so settle in bc we’re at over 6k. Slight warning for Caryn and Filbrick’s A+ parenting, but its all mostly just implied

“Sweet Moses, Sixer, was that your spine?” Stan’s attention has barely been clinging to her home ec project—because honestly, she has no intentions of being a pretty little housewife and it’s not like Ford is going to care about table settings when they’re finally off having their adventures on the high seas—but she thinks even if she had been engrossed, the sound of Ford’s spine cracking as he stretched would have jolted her with the same intensity as a gunshot next to her ear.

Ford huffs a bit of a laugh. “I suppose I’ve been working for a while now,” he says, returning to his slumped posture over his desk.

Stan frowns and scoots off her bunk. She stands over him with her hands on her hips. Sometimes this works, sometimes it doesn’t. It’s always worth a shot. “So, what, you just immediately slump back down,” she asks. “Get up and take a break. You’re gonna develop scoliosis.”

“Poor posture is not the cause of scoliosis,” Ford says. “And I’m busy.”

“You’d say that even if someone handed you a multiplication table,” Stan says. She still has to think about it, but Ford has been able to spout all those things off without a hitch since they were about five.

Ford rolls his eyes. “Those are for babies,” he says. “This is actual work.” Stan looks at the paper and can’t make a lick of sense about it, but she does recognize the notebook as one of his pet projects. Something about motion and the senior science fair next year.

“Actual work that’s gonna give you a crooked spine,” Stan says.

“Again, not how that works,” Ford says. He shifts his shoulders, and something cracks again. Stan is already making a face at him when he looks up at her with a frown. “That was simply ill timed.”

“Uh huh,” Stan says.

Their bedroom door, which has been slightly cracked, is suddenly thrown open, and Stan both whirls to face the threat and steps away from Ford. The immediate spike of danger warning danger drops at the sight of their mother standing in the door frame, her purse slung over her shoulder.

“Kids, we’re about to head out,” she says. Her sister is having one of her biannual crisis that requires Caryn to drive upstate to manage. Their father doesn’t trust her to go that far in the car alone, so he’s dragged along with her. Stan has been looking forward to this. Three days without their parents in the house. Three days where she can breathe freely.

As expected, the twins step forward for their mother to kiss on the cheeks. Ford also gets an affectionate pat, but when Caryn takes Stan’s face in her hands, there is a slight harshness. “Stanley, the fridge has plenty of food. Do not make junk for your brother. You cook him a good meal. He’s too skinny.”

“Ma,” Ford groans, but he’s ignored.

“You hear me,” Caryn says.

“Yes, Ma,” Stan intones.

Caryn’s eyes are sharp as they dart over to her things scattered on the bunk. “Stanford, bubbe, you make sure she actually does that homework. And do not let her skip school.”

“Ma, she wouldn’t,” Ford says, and everyone in the room knows that that is a lie. If it wouldn’t get her in trouble—trouble that Stan can in no way afford—she absolutely would bug it off.

“Caryn,” their father yells from the living room.

“Calm down,” she yells back. “Two minutes won’t change the traffic.” She levels them with one more look, one more silent warning about each of their expectations, and then she’s gone.

The door clicks shut behind their parents, and even with the very clear undertones of that encounter, Stan’s chest already feels lighter. It’s better when Ford reaches out and wraps his hand around hers. “You don’t have to cook for me,” he says.

Stan smiles up at him, very glad that he’s there. “What, you gonna try it,” she asks. “We’re dead if we burn the house down.”

Ford grimaces. “There was not a fire,” he says. “Not a real one.”

“Facts are facts, Stanford,” she teases. “Old lady Fitzgerald called the fire department.”

Ford blushes as he scoffs. It’s very cute. “That hardly counts. She’s always been an over-dramatic busybody.”

Stan laughs and squeezes his hand. “I don’t actually mind it,” she says. Stan’s hackles raise every time someone yaps at her about being a sweet little housewife, but this is the one part of it she doesn’t mind. Everyone’s got to eat, after all, and there’s a lot about cooking that she honestly finds soothing, especially when she’s just doing it for her and her brother.

Stan goes out into the kitchen and takes stock of what they have. There’s a slab of chuck that isn’t too big, so she pulls that out along with potatoes and carrots. She’s done this plenty of times, so it’s hardly fifteen minutes later that everything is in the oven. Stan heads back into their room. “If you’re good with a later dinner, I’ve got a roast going.”

Ford is back at the desk. “That’s perfect,” he says. “Yours always turns out very well.” If that little compliment maybe puts an extra spring in her step as she walks back to her bunk, well, so be it. Stan has always soaked up compliments from her brother.

They continue to each work in a comfortable silence. Stan is quick to abandon her homework, shifting her attention between other things. Comics, doodling on an art pad that Ford lets her borrow sometimes, filing her nails down, flipping through magazines. Every once in a while she hops up to check in on the roast. She takes stock of the other groceries and plans out the rest of their dinners.

She’ll need to do a bit of rearranging some things, maybe even make one quick trip to the store. Her mother prefers to cook large meals, things that they can’t possibly all eat in one sitting or even two. Caryn’s busiest call hours are in the evenings and nights, times when she should be wrapping up cooking, serving her family, and seeing that things get cleaned up. It’s not really feasible to do that every night, so she’s a leftovers type of person.

Stan doesn’t like that. She’d rather have to prep and cook and clean every time because that means something fresh. And yeah, so what, Ford always smiles up at her and thanks her for whatever she’s made, no matter how complicated or simple.

When she finally pulls the roast out of the oven, Stan congratulates herself. It looks perfect, and there should be just enough for their two portions tonight and a quick lunch tomorrow. She spoons everything up into bowls and puts the pot in the sink to soak and deal with later.

“Room service,” Stan calls as she breezes into their room with the bowls balanced on her palms. She has napkins between them and her hands, but the heat is already seeping through quickly, so she deposits Ford’s down on the desk with maybe a bit too loud of thump.

Ford blinks owlishly at the bowl and then her as she settles onto the stool by the desk. “Already,” he asks, pulling back his sleeve to take a look at his watch.

“It’s been three hours, Poindexter,” Stan says, jabbing her fork in his direction. “Three hours closer to your scoliosis onset.”

Ford rolls his eyes but doesn’t bother correcting her this time. He hooks a finger onto the rim of the bowl and pulls it closer. He looks in and takes a deep breath. “This smells amazing, Stanley, thank you.”

Yeah, she preens. So what. “Oh, wait, I forgot about drinks,” Stan says, leaping back up.

Ford starts to turn. “I can go get—“

“No, I’ve got it,” Stan hollers back, already to the door. She knows that their old man has beers in the fridge, and for just a second she toys with grabbing a few just to mess with Ford, but she decides against it quickly. It feels like something Filbrick would just sense that she touched, and she in no way wants to deal with the fallout from that. Besides, nothing wrong with a nice, cold glass of milk.

“Your cow juice, sir,” Stan says as she presents the glass to Ford with a mockery of a fancy waiter’s bow.

Ford snorts in that way he does when he’s laughing but doesn’t want to. “You say the weirdest things,” he says, taking the glass. He inclines his head towards her bowl. “Did you actually get enough for yourself? Mine has a lot more.”

“Yeah, there’s a point to that,” Stan says. “Protein—“ She points at the bowl. “—meet bones.” She points at his scrawny arm. Ford levels her with a look, but Stan just grins at him. “Come on, Sixer. Can’t hurt you. Pa’s still making you take the boxing lessons, so you might as well do a little extra to reap the benefits.”

“That aside,” Ford says stuffily. “Do you have enough?”

“More than Ma would let me eat,” Stan says. “But, hey, I’m already reaping the benefits.” She lifts her arms up and flexes, knowing exactly the reaction she’s going to get.

Ford’s eyes lock onto her biceps sharply. They both take the boxing lessons, but Stan is so much more serious about it. There are multiple reasons, but really, she does love it. She loves the anticipation, sizing up her opponents. She loves the sweating and buzz of adrenaline, the feeling of her fists landing a solid punch, even a solid punch landing on her. She loves that it’s a place she can actually focus, that she’s good at it, that all of her other inadequacies can melt away when she steps into the ring, that at least in there it doesn’t matter that she’s too loud, too brash, too unladylike.

She really likes that it makes her body look a certain way and that Ford likes it. He’s never said anything, but Stan catches him staring at her arms and shoulders a lot with a hungry look in his eyes. Everyone else makes snide comments, but Ford likes how she looks. And if Ford likes it, well, that’s all that Stan needs.

Stan flexes once more and wags her eyebrows. Ford’s cheeks go pink and he clears his throat, sliding his hands around his bowl tightly. Stan laughs and lowers her arms to take her bowl too. “Ok,” she says, done teasing. “Bone appetite.”

“Sweet Moses,” Ford mutters, clearly done with her. Stan laughs and stabs a good chunk of meat with her fork.

Eating dinner just the two of them is nice. The house being empty besides them is nice. They can just sit there and talk and goof around and not have to worry about either of their parents walking into the room and bringing with them waves of tension. They can move through the house when they’re done, Stan going to the kitchen to clean and Ford making the rounds downstairs to ensure everything is locked up, without tiptoeing and keeping their eyes down.

One day it’s going to always be like this. Just the two of them. Free and happy. The smell of salty sea air all around them and the floor rocking under them with the the pull of the waves.

When Stan walks back into their room, Ford is standing before his desk, looking ready to get right back into his work. But he’s stretching first, using one hand to lock onto the opposite wrist behind his back and arching. There’s a notable wince as something cracks.

“OK, that’s enough,” Stan says.

Ford drops his hands. “Stanley—“

She throws up a finger, jabbing it in the direction of his chest. “Don’t you Stanley me,” she says. “You’ve been hunched over all that nerd junk for hours. Call it quits for the night.”

“I really only have just a bit more,” Ford tries, inching his way back to his seat. Stan tries to intercept him, but he drops down into it too quickly and then grins up at her. He knows as well as she does that yes, she can definitely take him in a wrestling match, but if he decides to go boneless—which based on that grin, Stan knows is his play—she isn’t going to have much luck moving him. He’s a scrawny nerd, but he’s still decently heavy and is still growing. She teases him about being skin and bones, but Stan can tell. Ford is going to be broad like their dad and Shermie when he’s done growing.

“You’re ridiculous,” she chides over him, and Ford just laughs.

“You can’t have the monopoly,” he says. He picks up his pencil and starts back at his notebook. Then he startles a bit when Stan drops her hands over his shoulders. They really are bigger than she gives him credit for. He has a shirt on, but she knows there’s some muscle definition there too. She moves one hand, just enough that she can drag her thumb over the skin right above his collar. “Stanley.”

“How about a deal,” she asks. “You can keep being a nerd, but I’m gonna give you a back rub. Really, it’s best of both worlds for you.”

“It’s distracting,” Ford says. “If you’d just let me finish working—“

Stan digs her fingers into Ford’s neck to cut him off. It works. He lets out this sound, something close to a moan, and it makes Stan’s stomach swoop. But she also winces at the tightness of the muscles. “Cripes, Poindexter,” she says, kneading lightly over a knot in his neck, her other hand squeezing his traps. “I don’t care what you say about scoliosis. This shit can’t be good for you.”

Ford hangs his head, breathing a little bit harder through his nose as she continues to move her hands. “Possibly,” he says. “But you don’t have to do this.”

Stan scratches lightly at the hair on the back of his neck. “Does it feel nice,” she asks.

“Yes,” he says, almost like he doesn’t want to admit it.

Stan leans down, dropping a kiss to the top of his head. “You always help me when I’m aching,” she says. “Let me help you for once.”

Ford reaches back and grabs one of her hands. He turns his head and kisses her palm. “You say that like you’ve never helped me before.”

“You just fight me more on it now,” Stan says, careful to keep any hurt from her voice. That’s not the point of this, even if it does eat at her every time that Ford insists he can take care of himself, that he doesn’t need his little sister to swoop in and shield him from anything.

Ford doesn’t say anything to that, but he also doesn’t stop her when she brings her hand back to his shoulders and kneads her thumbs into the tension knotting just under the skin. Stan moves her hands slowly over him, working carefully with the knots. She’s had a few nasty ones in her day. She knows how they can hurt when they’re getting worked out. Ford hisses at the pressure, and she whispers, “Sorry. I know.”

“It’s ok,” Ford says.

“Do you want me to leave it,” she asks. He shakes his head. Stan kisses the back of his head again and applies more pressure. Ford tenses, grunting a little until suddenly he relaxes. “Better,” Stan asks, and he nods. “Good.”

Stan moves her hands up and down Ford’s back, dipping under the collar of his shirt when she’s up near his neck. His skin is warm, and when she’s touching him like that, his breath picks up more. Stan’s does too. Her chest feels tight, in a very good and specific way. It feels like a risk, like something very, very huge that could go very, very bad, but Stan tries. “It—“ She clears her throat. Her voice is usually a little too deep and raspy, but that was something else. “It might be better without this.”

She tugs just a bit at the sleeve of Ford’s shirt, and for a moment, they both are very still. Then, Ford nods, and Stan slides her hands down his sides, down to where his shirt is tucked into his pants. She digs her fingers into the material and pulls it out, pulls it up. Ford lifts his arms. As it goes over his head, it knocks his glasses aside and ruffles his hair. Stan takes a moment to right them first before she returns her hands to his body.

It’s immediately different. If this was innocent at first—and Stan doesn’t really know that it was—it doesn’t feel that way now. Ford’s skin isn’t just warm, it’s hot and softer than it should be even with the hair that is definitely growing in thicker and thicker. Stan drags her hands over his back, along the sides of his spine, tracing the muscles under his skin. She watches—feels—as his back expands with every deep breath.

Stan definitely can’t call it innocent anymore when she curls her hands over his shoulders, over towards his chest. Ford sits back, leaning against her as she trails her fingers over his pecs, stopping just short of his stomach. She moves her hands back up, scratching her nails lightly over his skin, through his chest hair. Stan’s hands go back up his neck, into his hair, then back down again.

Ford is breathing hard, and so is she because from her vantage point she can see very clearly that the crotch of his pants is much, much tighter than it should be. Ford is hard. All from just her hands. Just on his torso.

“I could help with that too,” Stan whispers, and Ford is very nearly trembling under her. Of course, she’s no better staring down at the way his pants are straining against his erection.

“You don’t have to,” Ford says, his head pillowed against her chest.

“What if I want to,” she asks.

Ford growls. He actually growls, and it sends a jolt down Stan’s spine. His hands go for his belt, and Stan hurries around the chair, crouching down in front of him, between his splayed legs. She reaches up to help him tug everything out of the way. When his hard dick springs free, for a moment, they both just stare at it.

Stan has never seen an erect cock before. Sure, she’s seen some things. She’s shared a room with her brother for their entire lives, and yeah, lately, they’ve been getting into things with each other, but not like this. All of their humping has been with clothes on. Yeah, Ford has touched her, slipped his hands into her panties, but they’ve always stayed on. And before today, she hasn’t been brave enough to return the favor.

Looking at him now, hard and pink and leaking at the top, what in the hell has she been waiting for?

“Stan,” Ford starts to say and then hisses when Stan reaches out and wraps her fingers around him. It’s softer than Stan expected, heavier. And hot. Ford runs hot in general, but his cock is on fire. Stan strokes lightly, watching as the bead of pre-cum grows until it’s heavy enough for gravity to pull it down, trailing along the underside of Ford’s cock head.

Stan keeps her grip loose. Guys are sensitive down there, right? She doesn’t want to squeeze him too tight and hurt him. Unless, maybe it’s too loose? “Is this ok,” she asks, surprised by her own breathlessness.

“Yeah,” Ford pants, his fists clenched hard enough that his knuckles are a stark white.

“Should I—“ Stan doesn’t really know what to do here, and she feels a bit ridiculous. Ford always seems to know when he touches her. He just does it, and it lights up every single nerve in her body in the best of ways.

“Here,” he offers, wrapping his hand around hers. He guides her, adjusting her grip a little tighter, moving just a little faster. “There—that’s—God, Stanley.”

Stan clings to the loose material of Ford’s pants bunched up over his thigh. She doesn’t know what to stare at. The way Ford’s eyes are locked onto her, his lids heavy but gaze still sharply focused. The pink flush spreading over his cheeks. His teeth digging into his bottom lip. The way his chest heaves with the force of his breathing, his stomach clenching. Or his cock. The color, the way the skin moves up over the head. The vein on the underside. The way her fingers can’t quite fully wrap around it. Stan has nothing to compare it to but does Ford have a big dick?

The tip of Ford’s cock leaks the longer she strokes him, and it’s hypnotic, fully entrancing. It makes Stan’s mouth water even as her throat feels dry. She doesn’t really think. She just leans forward, her tongue out to taste it.

“Fuck,” Ford shouts. His hands grab at her, one clinging to her arm, the other gripping her hair.

For a moment, they are both still. Ford stares down at her with wild eyes, his pupils blown so wide his eyes are almost entirely black. And Stan, well, she’s had her hair pulled before in a way that has been very, very bad, but this—Ford staring down at her like this, his hand in her hair like this—

Stan closes her lips over Ford’s cock, and the noise he makes—a groan from deep in his chest—shakes Stan down to her core. Her stomach twists, molten hot arousal pooling between her legs. She lowers her head, taking more of him into her mouth, and Ford gasps. “Stanley, oh fuck!”

Stan bobs her head, dragging her lips up and down the shaft of Ford’s cock, her tongue pressed flat to the underside. Ford’s hand slides through her hair, over her cheeks, brushing against where her lips stretch around him. “Stanley, God, this is—you feel so good.” She tries to take more of him, and Ford’s hips buck up. Stan chokes a bit, and quickly, Ford stills himself. “I’m sorry,” he gasps. “Sorry, I—“

But Stan does it again because even though he was nearly to her throat, that felt good. That felt really good. Ford’s hands are both in her hair now, clinging, not too tight, just the right amount. “Stan, Stanley, I’m—I’m gonna—“

Stan moans, her entire body on fire. Yes, she wants that desperately. She wants him to come in her mouth. She wants to make Ford feel good, wants to feel him come, wants to taste it.

Stan hollows her cheeks, actually sucking hard, and Ford comes with a shout. Stan watches his face, absolutely awed at how beautiful he looks, cheeks flushed a deep red, sweat beading on his brow, eyes finally slipping closed in pleasure. She keeps her lips closed around him, using her hand to gently stroke him through it as spurts of his semen coat the inside of her mouth. Stan wouldn’t exactly call it a good taste, but it’s Ford, and she made him feel like that.

Ford collapses back into the chair, his chest heaving as if he’s just sprinted a mile. Slowly, Stan pulls herself off him, swallowing as she goes. Ford stares down at her like she’s just done something amazing. Maybe she has.

She wonders if she should stand up, move away, but Stan just stays seated there between Ford’s legs. She drops her head down to rest on his thigh, and they just stare at each other, both trying to catch their breaths.

Stan just sucked Ford’s cock.

She should maybe be freaking out about that a little. A lot. Because he’s her twin brother. And this—this is well outside of the boundaries of what happens when she’s on her period. Hell, it’s well outside of the light groping and stolen kisses that have become increasingly frequent over the past few months. She should be freaking out a whole lot about this.

But.

One of Ford’s hands is slowly dragging through her hair, almost petting her. His other is at her cheek, thumb tracing light circles. And he’s looking down at her like she’s something precious. He’s looking at her like she’s something that could be adored.

It should be wrong. Anyone else would say that this is wrong, but Stan feels so perfectly right. This is where she’s meant to be. This is what she’s meant to be doing. The entire reason she exists is to love Ford. If Ford knows that she loves him, then she has done everything she needs to do in life. Nothing else matters.

Stan smiles at him, and Ford smiles back. Everything is all right. Everything is perfect. They are supposed to be like this. They were made to be like this.

“Are you ok,” Ford asks, and he sounds wrecked. The heat in Stan’s stomach flares again. She did that. She made him sound like that, and this was only the first time. God, what could she do with some practice? The thought makes her incredibly aware of how much slickness has pooled between her legs, and Ford hasn’t even touched her.

Stan nods. She is more than ok. She runs her tongue along her bottom lip, and she can still taste Ford there. His eyes zero in on it, his thumb trailing along after her tongue. Her hand, the one that had been locked in a death grip on his pants, slides up his leg. She wants to touch his skin again, feel that warmth against her.

“You’re hard again,” Stan says lowly, pointing out the very increasingly obvious.

“Well,” Ford says, his hand still stroking through her hair, “I’m sixteen, and a very pretty girl is lying with her face in very close proximity to my crotch.”

It’s dumb that that’s the thing that makes her blush, not when her brother came down her throat, but that’s just kind of how it works with her feelings about Ford.

Ford touches where the blush is staining her cheeks. “You don’t have to do anything else. Stanley, that was—that was amazing.”

She doesn’t have to. He always says that, always gives her the out. But she wants to.

Stan makes a decision. She pulls off her shirt and bra. Then, as she stands up, she pushes down her shorts and panties. Ford stares up at her with wide eyes, his pupils blown. “God,” he breathes, and he reaches for her. His hand slides between her legs, as he’s done before, but this time she’s naked, bare before him, and he can see it. “God, Stanley, you’re so wet. Just from blowing me?”

“Yeah,” she pants, grabbing onto his shoulders. “It was good, Sixer. It was so—I want more.”

Two fingers push inside her, and Stan’s legs are starting to shake. Ford’s thumb slowly circles over her clit. “You want to suck me off again?”

Stan shakes her head. “No—I mean, yes, yeah, I do want to, but—“ She moves, and Ford’s hand leaves her as she climbs onto his lap. He stares up at her with wide eyes as she positions herself over his cock. “This, Ford,” Stan says, wrapping her arms around his neck. “I want you inside me.”

Ford’s big hands splay wide over her hips, and he pushes just so slightly. Permission. Stan slowly sinks down. They both hiss when the tip of his cock presses against her pussy. By the time the head is inside, they’re both panting, eyes locked onto each other. She moves almost torturously slow, overwhelmed by the sensation of him filling her up. When she makes it that last little bit, when she is seated firmly in his lap, some kind of guttural noise claws its way out of her throat.

“Stanley,” Ford gasps, hands all over her, kissing her. “Stanley, are you—God—are you ok? Are you hurt?”

“No,” Stan says, although it’s difficult to talk when it feels like the air has been punched from her lungs. “No, I—Ford, it’s so deep.”

Ford cups her face. “You feel so good, Stanley, God. So tight. You’re ok?”

“I’m ok,” she answers. “I’m—oh my God, Sixer, please—“

He kisses her again, harder this time. Hungry. “Bounce,” he growls against her lips, one hand sliding down to squeeze at her breast, the other settling back on her hip. “Bounce for me.”

Stan holds onto Ford’s shoulders for leverage as she raises a bit up on her knees and then drops. She moans as it punches the air from her lungs all over again, and Ford curses. “Again. Do it again. Faster.”

Stan does as she’s told. She bounces herself on Ford’s dick, and it feels like it’s rearranging her guts in the best way. When her thighs start to burn, she stays seated, rocking instead, and that feels just as amazing. Ford’s mouth is on her jaw, her neck, closing over her nipples, and all she can do is cling to him, hands tight in his hair. They’re both making noises that sound crazy, but Stan couldn’t stop even if she wanted to.

She can feel her orgasm starting to crest, everything in her clenching up. “Ford, Ford, I’m close—I’m—“

Ford’s hands loop under her thighs, and he stands up so fast that it makes Stan dizzy. She clings to him, and suddenly in another swoop of motion, her back hits the hard surface of his desk. Ford kisses her, something that manages to be bruisingly passionate and intimately delicate. “Stanley,” he says against her lips.

“I love you.” It bursts out of her. She loves him. Of course she loves him. He’s her twin brother. He’s the center of her world and has been for their entire lives—her mother has complained to plenty of people that Stan was a loud and fussy baby, that no toy or food or rocking or anything but Stanford could ever settle her cries—but this kind of love. A different kind. They aren’t supposed to feel this, but she does, and it’s completely consuming.

Ford’s forehead drops over hers, and he intertwines their fingers—six surrounding five—and for a moment they just lie like that, staring at each other and connected in so many ways.

“I love you too, Stanley,” Ford says, and he starts to roll his hips. Stan groans, her legs circling his waist. “I love you so much, my sweet girl.” Every word is punctuated by a thrust that gets harder and sharper than the last, and Stan’s eyes roll back. “You’re mine. You’re mine. Stanley, tell me.”

“I am,” she moans, and it’s so true. “Yours. Only yours. I don’t—I never want anyone else. Just you.”

Ford takes his hands from hers, and Stan has no time to complain because he grabs her hips and starts to pound into her like their lives depend on it. In seconds, she’s screaming through an orgasm, and Ford just keeps going in a brutal pace, thrusting deep inside her, filling her up so much that Stan can feel it in her throat. She clings to the edge of the desk that’s shaking under their weight.

“I’m close, sweetheart,” Ford says, his fingers digging deep enough into her hips to bruise. God, she hopes she bruises. “God, I’m—“

Stan squeezes her legs tighter around Ford, pulling him closer, trying to pull him completely inside. “Stay,” Stan begs. “Stay, please.”

Whatever control Ford was clinging to before is lost. His hips sputter out of his set rhythm, thrusting himself as deep into Stan as he can with a wild abandon. “Stanley, Stanley,” he breathes hot across Stan’s neck as he spills inside her, hot and wet. His lips find Stan’s, and Stan tightens her insides, giving Ford everything she can. She swallows down the moans Ford lets out as he thrusts shallowly through the orgasm. Then he collapses on top of her.

It’s a very long moment that they just lie there, panting harshly, sweaty skin sticking together. Stan’s hands are trembling as she drags them through Ford’s hair.

“Stanley,” Ford finally breaks the silence, his voice raspy. “Are you ok?”

“I don’t think I have bones anymore,” she says. “I mean, except the one.”

Ford’s laugh is little more than a shaky huff. “Uncouth,” he says, pressing a kiss over the still rapidly beating pulse point in her neck. He pushes himself up onto his forearms, looking down at her. His glasses are a bit foggy, and his hair is curling more than usual across his forehead. “I’m serious. Are you ok? You aren’t—I didn’t hurt you?”

Stan wipes the sweat from his face. “You couldn’t,” she says. Not strictly true. Ford has the power to hurt her more than anyone else ever could, but he’s her brother and he loves her. He never would.

Ford nods. “Good. Good. Ok. I’m—I’m going to—get out of you now.” Stan snorts at the awkwardness, and Ford laughs too. “Don’t say it,” Ford warns, and Stan just grins.

Ford rubs his palms over her thighs, and she remembers that she’s still clinging to him. She unlocks her ankles and slides her legs back down. Ford pulls himself from her, and Stan groans. “Stanley,” Ford asks in alarm.

“It’s ok,” she says. “It’s ok. Just—you really went to town, Poindexter.”

His brows furrow. “You said I didn’t hurt you.”

“You didn’t,” Stan says, pushing herself up on still shaking arms to pull him to her. They wrap their arms around each other, Ford’s hands splayed wide over her back, and one of hers carding through his hair again. “I promise you didn’t. I thought it was supposed to. You know, people say that it does the first time. But it didn’t. I’m ok. Maybe gonna be a little sore, but I’m ok.”

“Promise,” he asks. “You’ll tell me if I ever—“

“Promise, Sixer,” she says.

Ford kisses her neck, then both her cheeks, then a sweet press of his lips to hers. He steps back from between her legs, hands finding hers and ready to help her down off the desk and then he freezes. Stan follows the line of his gaze, and she’s treated to the same sight. His cum dripping out of her into a puddle on the desk.

“Holy shit,” she says, opening her legs just a little wider to get a better look.

Ford is back immediately, his fingers coming to her pussy and sliding through the mess. Stan clings to him, moaning again at the sensation. She’s just short of being too overstimulated for this, but Ford’s touches are gentle. “This is—Sweet Moses, Stanley,” he says lowly. Two fingers slide into her, curling, and the noises it makes. Stan whimpers.

“God, I want to do this to you again. Want to do this to you every day,” he says. She wants that too. She wants him to fuck her and never stop.

“But we can’t,” Ford says, and Stan nearly sobs. What? No. That’s not something she wants to hear, especially not when he’s actively finger fucking his cum back into her pussy, his thumb pressing hard onto her clit. “We just—we have to be careful, Stanley. You can’t get pregnant.” His other hand stretches wide across her stomach. “Not yet.”

And Stan comes harder than she ever has in her life, so hard that her vision blacks out, so hard that she’s crying, so hard that she slumps completely boneless and Ford has to catch her before she falls off the desk.

“Stan! Stanley,” he frets, and Stan fumbles, desperately trying to find his face because she needs to kiss him, needs to breathe in his air, or she’ll suffocate.

They kiss for a long time, desperation slowly giving way to tiny little pecks. Ford has fallen back into the chair, taking Stan with him and settling her in his lap. They’re both trembling just a bit. They stare at each other, foreheads pressed together. Ford’s fingers caress her cheek. “Stanley,” he asks, his breath whispering over her lips. “Are you ok?”

She has never been better in her life. She has been fucked so well, so perfectly, and now she’s curled up in Ford’s arms, and he loves her. Instead of saying that, she nods and yawns.

Ford laughs lowly, and Stan snuggles into where the sound vibrates from his chest. He checks his watch and makes an alarmed sound. “It’s late. We have school tomorrow,” he says.

“Poindexter, you’ve gotta be kidding me,” Stan whines.

“It’s Friday,” Ford says. “It’s not that bad.”

“Don’t pretend to be stupid,” Stan says. “There’s only room for one of us to be a dummy here.”

“Stop,” Ford says. “You are not dumb. You just need to—“ He stops short. For a brief moment, he just looks at her. Then he shakes his head and presses a kiss to her forehead. “You’re not dumb,” he says again, and leaves it at that. “But the fact that we have school tomorrow doesn’t change. I did say I would insure that you go.”

Stan pouts at him, but she knows it isn’t going to work. “There’s definitely better things we could be doing,” she tries.

“Oh, we will,” Ford says. “If you’re amenable to it, I plan to fuck you as often as possible while we have the house to ourselves.”

The matter-of-fact tone, the use of the word amenable, those two things should not be so hot, but it’s Ford, and it sends a jolt down Stan’s spine, and all she can do is nod and says, “Yeah, I’m down with that.”

Ford kisses her again, and they climb into the bottom bunk. They are both definitely disgusting—Stan in particular with the mess drying between her legs—but they can shower in the morning, and Stan honestly enjoys it, enjoys the evidence of what they mean to each other. Ford folds Stan up in his arms, curving their bodies to fit together under the mass of blankets. Their fingers slot together—six around five, as always—one set resting over Stan’s heart, the other her stomach.

Even as exhaustion washes over her, Stan replays Ford’s words in her mind. Not yet. It’s absolutely crazy. Crazy and possibly dangerous, but at the same time, it’s right. For them, there isn’t any other option. Ford isn’t just Stan’s past or present. He’s her future. He’s everything she’s ever known, everything she’s ever wanted, and she doesn’t need to see the rest of the world to know that that will never change. His heart is beating in her chest right alongside hers. He’s everything.

“Stanford,” Stan mumbles, so close to sleep.

“Hmm,” he hums back, nearly there himself, but she needs to let him know.

Stan presses their joined hands more firmly against her stomach. “One day,” she says.

Ford’s breath hitches, and then he pulls her impossibly closer. His lips press a tired but still searing kiss behind he ear. “One day,” he promises. Stan’s eyes close, and she falls into the best sleep of her life, one that someday soon will be the only sleep she knows.

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