#gushing in dubious english but I hope the messages come across

[cartoonsinthemorning]

Oh my God... This was such a great but devastating read. I'll also hide the rest I have to say below a cut, for sensitive reader's sake.

my brain is all scrambled up because of the real emotions this read gave me, but I'll try to make sense of my impressions. I love that you presented this as an escalation. How you built up tension by telling us, the readers, that it was many "offences" that built up Ford's repressed anger, while Stan was completely unaware. That's so fucking scary. Until the authentic boiling point, for Ford, manifesting in his assault to his sister. But, again, YOU GENIUS- kept the narrative parallelism between twins going, by revealing that the culmination of Ford's boiling point, his climax and therefore dissipation (he falls asleep after, the motherfucker)- becomes HER final drop as well- the final instigation to leave- a beginning to his end- basically, even if extremely painful, rather than freeing. That's such a BRILLIANT cohesive idea. I love it, even if it hurts like a bitch. I swear my jaw dropped when you wrote she was getting dressed and going for the keys, and I connected the dots. Smh. Another thing, it always strikes me how fucking cruel you can make Ford, it gives me chills. Asshole Ford is a staple in the fandom, but the coldness your emanates is so scary. And I think it's because you make his cruelty plausible? What I mean is, it's easy to make him say something mean, but you make him say stuff that feels personal, stuff that he knows would cut deep. Like, in the few, precise spoken lines of this piece. This whole story read as an horror, rather than erotic, and it's fucking GREAT- not because because I have issues with the yassification of noncon. That's my jam, actually. But because your brutal interpretation of a noncon scene with these two came out as fucking peak: in-character, emotionally devastating, and plausible. You never miss, what a bliss 🙏

Okay noncon thoughts about ford forcing himself onto fem!stan after the science fair incident, it isn't more so intentional but in an act of rage, it's rough and merciless, with hard thrusts. Fem! Stan initially attempts to fights it off at first but later just gives in it as it would be useless and she technically "deserves this" or whatever lie she makes up to comfort herself in the moment

Cue the post nut clarity hits and stanford is either a) deeply disgusted/horrified at himself and regrets it immensely, after all, no matter what- that's still his little sister or b) literally does not regret it at all and is finally glad he could be open about his desire for fem!stan

(Please ignore or delete this ask, if you aren't comfortable with noncon aaaa, I'm so sorry if this was unwanted)

hello anon! not uncomfortable with noncon, so no worries there, but i appreciate you checking! but! lol i will say that i do tend to be picky about the noncon stuff i consume and enjoy, and it's usually one of those things that has to be "right situation at the right time." and in typical me fashion, i uh. managed to talk my way into it! putting the rest of this rambling below a cut for anyone who is sensitive to this topic! <3

all of THAT being said, if we're looking at a scenario where we do get ford who kinda loses it, seeing red and wanting to put stan in her place, i think it's a lot more interesting if it's NOT the first time these feelings are out in the open. let's say, instead, that they've already crossed that line with each other. so at first, it isn't anything usual even. getting ford annoyed and riled up enough to want to be rougher than normal, pull out a little more of that possessive streak of his -- that's something stan's gotten good at. so that's what this must be, right? they're gonna fight about it and then they're gonna fuck about it, and then they're gonna get over it.

except ford is a lot angrier than usual. angrier than when she sneaks back in after curfew with with a new hickey and won't tell him who gave it to her, angrier than when she disappears halfway through a saturday shift in the shop and makes ford finish restocking by himself, angrier than the time ford had to come and pick her up from a bar she'd snuck into but got too drunk to make it home by herself -- angrier than she's ever actually seen him, maybe.

that's probably fine tho, right? she likes it when ford wants to manhandle her a bit, and when he gets worked up enough to growl the kinda lewd shit against her neck that's just a sexy cover for the fact that he gets jealous or worried. but he isn't saying anything now, actually, and it's kinda weird, the silence. they've stopped arguing and his hands are in all the places she usually likes, but the anxious anger from the fight isn't dissipating into lust and want like it usually does. ford isn't grinding his knuckles against her clit through her clothes and chewing on her ear in the way that that usually redirects all that energy into something to better spend it on. he's gripping too hard, being too pushy, and none of it actually feels good like it should. when she actually loses buttons off her goddamn shirt for how hard he tries to yank it open, she snaps at him, "jesus christ, stanford, at least try to be careful, will ya?"

and she's not at all prepared for how actually fucking angry and, worse, how cold he sounds when he responds. "like how you were careful with my project? shut the fuck up."

and suddenly this isn't about fucking it out, and it's not about letting off a little steam. and when when she goes to shove him, ford is. a lot heavier than she'd realized, actually. he doesn't rock easily back like she ususally does when she pushes him, and his grip is hard enough to bruise when he shoves her down. and it hadn't ever really occurred to stan before then that ford just...let her push him around when they were scuffling. that his time being forced into boxing lessons by their pa actually meant something on her scrawny nerd brother.

suddenly ford is threatening.

and suddenly she's afraid of him.

and stan is used to that feeling of fight or flight surging through her. usually through a her fist into some loser's face. but she's not at all used to feeling that way with ford. especially not like this, underneath him. and he's suddenly heavy and huge in ways that had always been nice and good. but they're not anymore, and it's the first time stan has ever felt the rush of fight or flight and just....frozen instead.

he doesn't even take her panties off, just yanks them to the side. and she knows she's liked that before, found it really hot even, but now all she can feel is how hard the material is cutting into her hips and thighs and how wet she isn't. and some of the fight does kick in, finally, when he pulls his dick out and she realizes, holy shit, she doesn't want this to happen. but he's already got her at a fucked up angle, crushed down against the mattress, out of reach of anything on the nightstand, the width of him pressing her thighs too far apart to get enough leverage to knee him as hard as she tries to.

that just makes him angrier, anyway, and she yelps when he grabs her by the thigh so hard she knows she's going to have six finger shaped bruises for days afterwards.

"shut up!" he hisses again, squeezing the already sore spots on her leg hard enough that she flinches and tries to jerk away, but the mattress doesn't give her any leeway -- it just dips and reshapes to support her exactly where she's at. "if anyone comes up here, i'll tell them you came on to me to try and make up for what you did. it is the least you could fucking do, after all."

and he's....right? she thinks? ford's the golden child, the eldest son, and she's always been too loud, too stupid, too shamelss, too fat, too her. they'd believe him. and maybe....maybe she does, too? this is how they've been handling all their fights, lately. most of them fights that she starts on purpose to get goad ford into fucking her. so....so maybe that is on her? for setting the precedent?

it all hurts, but maybe she deserves that, too.

there's a shitty little sketch of a sailboat on one of the wood slats holding ford's bed up above hers. it almost looks like it's the one moving.

after, ford climbs off of her, and the sailboat stops moving. she hears him cleaning himself up and getting changed, and she flinches when he climbs the ladder to his bed. but she doesn't peel herself off the sheets until she recognizes the slow, even cadence of his breaths from overhead that suggest he's fallen asleep.

it's probably the quietest she's ever moved around their room. usually, she doesn't care if ford hears her shuffling around. usually, she's hoping he'll notice.

now, she's careful not to make any noise at all. it's dark, which she appreciates when she's stripping out of her ruined shirt and stretched panties, but it means she doesn't know what she's grabbing to throw on instead. she doesn't really care as long as she's dressed again as quickly as possible, but she is grateful to find a sweater and jeans to pull on. nothing else she grabs out of the dresser gets a second glance, though. clothes just get pushed as quickly and as quietly as she can manage into the bottom of her bookbag, and she doesn't risk making additional noise by closing the drawers back up.

ford's bed squeaks, just once, when he shifts in his sleep, and stan nearly throws up on the carpet, gripping her bag so tightly it makes her hands hurt. the door is only a few steps away, but it feels like it takes forever to get there. the soft clicking of the handle have her heart in her throat, but ford doesn't move again, and the hall is silent when she slips out of his room. her shoes and her keys are downstairs, which is good, they'll be easy to grab. she wants desperately to shower. she wants to use all the hot water their ancient water heater can provide and then some. but she thinks that even if she could get it to spit out boiling water, it wouldn't be enough. she also thinks that if she goes into the hall bathroom now and closes the door, that she's going to fall apart, and she can't do that. not yet. instead, she sneaks downstairs the way she always has, skipping the creaky fourth step, dodging the table of tibetan singing bowls Ma uses for "ambiance." she doesn't even lace her shoes, just shoves her feet into the sneakers and grips her keys in a clenched fist to keep them from jangling. she feels the metal teeth digging into her palm and clenches harder. she doesn't breathe until she's behind the locked door of the El Diablo and three, going on four, five, six blocks up the street. she'll find a parking lot to pull into later, when she's out of town and can't keep the wheel straight anymore. she'll lose it there. she'll cry until she has to stumble out of the car and throw up, and she'll bloody her knuckles punching asphalt.

but for now she keeps a white knuckle grip on the steering wheel and drives and refuses to look when she passes the beach.