Ford's hand is cramping. He pauses mid-word to stretch his fingers, grimacing slightly as his middlemost fingers crack asynchronously. Funny, Ford muses to himself with a tinge of bitterness, reminds me of Stanley and I. He casts the thought from his mind and returns his mind to his work, wanting to finish this train of thought before Stanley came from... wherever he is. He hasn't been forthcoming on his activities outside of the household as of late. He's been avoidant. No, perhaps 'evasive' is a better word for it.

Ford casts his head down, pushing his glasses to the crown of his head, and cradles his face in his palms. No, he'd promised himself he wouldn't think of him when he was writing his stories. Stanley has been acting coldd to him for weeks and the only thing Ford can think is that either he has a new girl or Ford's... desires have been radiating off of his person. Like a miasma, perhaps. Ma talked about auras a lot, how karma is effect by the energy you put into the world and, well, Ford isn't one to prescribe to superstition sans credible evidence but... isn't this evidence enough? Ford had been too decadent, too brazen and now his thoughts must be leaking out of him. That's ridiculous, he chides himself but the feelings weigh heavily in his chest with no regard for what his brain is saying.

No, it's not supernatural, it's psychology. Body language perhaps. Something Ford is doing subconsciously must be communicating something to Stanley. Perhaps indulging his fantasies by writing them at length has led to him exhibiting subtle signs of aggression. It's hard to believe that Stanley, as strong as he is, would back down to subtly displays of aggression but then they are both nearing maturity. They may inhabit the same territory as it stands but in the future they will necessarily grow apart and... well, it only makes sense to concede to a battle you have no desire to be fought. Stanley is avoiding him and it's likely because he has no quarrel with him.

A low noise rises from Ford's throat. He doesn't want to hurt him. He knows he doesn't. It's not in the way that his gut is telling him it's supernatural phenomenon and his head is telling him it's animalistic either. He knows he doesn't want to hurt Stanley. The very thought of actually hurting him causes Ford's stomach to twist. Whatever aggression Ford is subconsciously displaying isn't a sign of violent desire, it's a warning. Ford feels like a praying matis, a black widow. Of course Stanley can't differentiate between whatever signals Ford is giving him and violence. Ugh, black widow is a bit too apt of a description...

No matter. Ford's going to fix this by redirecting his energy. Ford has decided to refocus his creative outlet onto another... Ford is never sure how to refer to the persons he becomes preoccupied with. Whatever word may exist, it's something diametrically opposed to most phrases adjacent to his feelings. Stanley is "sweet on" Carla McCorkle. They're "charmed" by one another, "gaga" perhaps. "Infatuated", "enamored", "lovestruck", none of these come close to it. Phrases like "nuts about" gets closer. These stories aren't about would-be "beaus", nor are they about "suitors". The verbiage makes Ford uncomfortable but he's unfortunately come to the conclusion that the best way to refer to his objects of interests is thus: obsessions. Perhaps with Stanley his feelings are softer but lately he's had two obsessions and his feelings for the other, well. Ford wouldn't describe any of his feelings for that person as "soft". For Stanley, his feelings are complicated. Murky, sticky, something like a mire he's sinking down into and fears he can't crawl out of. Perhaps the more he struggles the worse it becomes...

...his feelings for Brad Chadington are sharp. His feelings are like splinters of glass, if there's any softness to them it's merely deception. His feelings for Brad are like chewing on fiberglass. He doesn't want to hurt him. Not really... the idea of it doesn't fill him with much guilt, if he's being honest. Of course, Ford would never hurt him unless it came to self-defense. This isn't due to any feelings of particular fondness for the man but rather because it's incongruous to Ford's image of himself. It would be a betrayal to himself, as a human being, to harm another for self-gratification. That would just bring Ford down to Brad's level. It violates Ford's principles on a base level. If Ford in the future finds himself in the opportunity to be intimate with another person whom he's attracted to, it must be wanted by both parties. The union of lovers is a joyous one. That's not to say it's necessarily divorced from a sort of violence, sexuality seems to often have an underpinning of violence in the animal kingdom. Though quixotic, it's possible that there's someone out there who's similarly minded. If Ford's path in life leads to him finding someone who has the same esoteric fascinations as himself, he'd be very lucky. Suffice to say, that would be a joyous union in and of itself.

The stories he writes about Brad lack an element of joy. Perhaps that's minimizing the subject matter. There's no point beating around the bush: Ford wants to do horrible things to him. Things he's read about in 'zines he meekly pilfered from a curious book shop in the big city. This, of course, is supplemented by some books on anatomy he'd found squirreled away in a dusty corner of his local library—incidentally, next to a fascinating tome on local fungi. He's not proud of himself for stealing, nor for copying down various diagrams by hand and then stuffing them away below the false bottom of a drawer of his desk. The very journal he's writing in would've found it's home in the same spot if it had the deceny to fit but it's just a tad too thick to look natural.

Ford also isn't proud of his prurient interests more broadly but he's found there's something comforting in the knowledge there's others like him. Other who write stories like he does, those who illustrate things that are questionably obscene. Those with thoughts as sharp as they are sexual, those like Ford. Not just men drawn to other men, there's men drawn to what Ford thinks of as the female equivalent to himself. There's much more material accessible in that vein and while they aren't as appealing to Ford they give him a strange sense of community. Ford's read accounts on paraphilias in books in the library, never daring to check them out. He's read of men who believe the natural state of the man is subservience to women—an interesting and novel assertion but one that alienates Ford much in the same way those men must have felt alienated from the society they lived in.

The world isn't kind to those who stray from the apparent principles guiding romance and sexuality. They're less kind to those with homophiliac tendencies like Ford but that doesn't negate the unkindness to others with strange fascinations. There exists men like him, both those with an interest in women and in men. There's even those who profess an interest in both sexes, and those in-between. Ford isn't writing off the possibility of one day feeling stronger emotions for a woman, but at this moment in time he's concluded he's likely homosexual.

He's discomforted by this but not due to some interest in upholding cultural values, but because it promises that he will always be an other. He'll always stick out. Even if there's space in this world for those with polydactyly, is there a space for the homosexual polydactyl? Is there any place in the world for a deviant homosexual polydactyl? Perhaps he's doomed to be alone, scribbling away stories and chewing on his feelings like fiberglass and with any luck he'll choke on them and he won't have to worry about such things any longer.

No, this isn't what he wanted either. He's had this same spiral of thought countless times and it's unproductive. He needs to take his neurosis and force it outside of himself, he needs to become a better person. If he's smart enough, unthreatening enough, enough of a model person perhaps he can make a place in the world for him. He's had a misstep by ruminating on Stanley for so long, that's all. In the future, he'll avoid writing stories about obsessions he lives with in such tight quarters. Unfortunately, he's not quite ready to return to writing just yet. It's too early to get off of this ride, he's neglected the final stop of this familiar, inexorable train of thought he always has about his desires... that being his feelings about Stanley.

Logically speaking, incestuous pairings aren't that uncommon in human history. The issue is primarily when it comes to offspring and that isn't of concern. That part doesn't get to him. No, it's the feeling of... almost betrayal, he supposes. Ford has this feeling he's done something terrible. Ford can't control his obsessions but that doesn't mean they don't effect others. He's pushing his brother away and it's not just betraying Stanley, it's betraying himself. His obsession, whatever this is, it's due to some sort of anxiety. Some sort of terror of inevitability. They will one day grow apart, and then... what?

The only place Stanford feels like he truly belongs is with Stanley. They don't match perfectly but Stanley's always made space for Ford's eccentricities. If there isn't a space in the world for Ford, Stanley will make one as long as they're together. It's not they they don't have their differences, certainly not. They drive each other crazy. Just the other morning, Stanley had spilt orange juice all over Ford's essay on local flora he'd been gathering research on for weeks, forcing him to retype it only hours before it was due. Stanley had the gall to be unconcerned about it, as if it wasn't a risk to Ford's academic career. In that moment, Ford thought if he never saw him again that'd be just fine by him. That was, of course, an overreaction. Stanley isn't as academically driven but he's not malicious. These are just more signs that they'll grow apart one day, they're incompatible when it comes to their goals. That doesn't mean he wanted them to drift apart any sooner than necessary. No, he never intended for their separation to be premature, which is why Ford has to fix this. This is why Ford has to write about Brad.

Ford's fingers of his left hand ache as he rubs his eyes with the base of his palms. He'd lost his muse when it came to stories about Brad. This is, perhaps, why he's putting off finishing his work. The libidinous parts of himself stir in interest but intellectually, emotionally, he feels vacant. Brad's not unattractive. The problem with him is he's not Stanley. Ford raises his head, slipping his glasses back into place, and grabs the pen. He hesitates, struggling to think of where to go next, and then places pen to paper with as much enthusiasm as he can muster.

...his genitalia twitches in interest despite the wishes of its owner.

Ford sighs. How do I end up gagging him? Perhaps I threaten him into opening his mouth? Maybe if I'm fast enough I can shove the fabric into his mouth while he's yelling? Or... damn it all. Who cares? He's getting gagged and that's that, who cares if it makes sense. What's the point? No one's reading this. Ford continues writing, biting his lip. He's not sure if it's out of frustration at his writing ability or his growing need to find a more physical outlet for his lascivious thoughts or a heady mix of both.

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ive got fuckin uuu balad of sara berry stuck in my head so bad eating my hands u taste the silver sara u taste the crown you taste the blood on the roses in hand WHOOA OH OH

put some more stuff here preferably horny stuff