#falls excerpts
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mroddmod · 4 months ago
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what cipher has done to my hands
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the-goldenratio · 4 months ago
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"Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower."
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xoxo-rielle · 5 months ago
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October was a beautiful month at Green Gables, when the birches in the hollow turned as golden as sunshine and the maples behind the orchard were royal crimson and the wild cherry trees along the lane put on the loveliest shades of dark red and bronzy green, while the fields sunned themselves in aftermaths.
— L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables
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sakshinarula · 9 months ago
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I feel like a galaxy when you look at me. No one has ever looked at my darkness with so much love.
-The Art Of Staying Lost, Sakshi Narula
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inkyrainstorms · 5 days ago
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The Martian Stan AU - The Apology - Excerpt
Ford was working as he always was nowadays, half listening to the radio behind him and trying to stop his heart from jumping in his throat every time that Stan stopped speaking for more than 10 minutes and nothing but static filled the room again. Ford wasn’t sure what exactly his brother was talking about anymore, as he welded a set of support bolts into place, but he nearly dropped the welding gun on his foot when Stan suddenly spoke after a long stretch of silence.
“Ford?”
Ford fumbled for a moment before shoving a stack of loose paper aside and  setting the welding gun down on the table beside him. He put his hands on either side of the radio on the same cluttered table and took a deep breath to calm his pounding heart.
“Yes, Stanley?” He asked softly.
Stan, of course, didn’t hear him, but had paused as if waiting for a response before continuing anyway.
“I know, I know damn well you’re probably never gonna hear this, but I need to say it anyway before… Well. I don’t need to eat as often and shit and I know you’d love to figure out why but… I’m not sure how long I’m gonna last out here either way.”
Ford didn’t say anything, staring down at the wooden grain of the table like he could burn a hole clean through it with his thoughts alone. His palms ached from where he’d dug in his fingernails, and his shoulders mangled to hunch even further.
Stan laughed. It was a bitter, ugly sound.
“Ah, damnit. This isn’t about me. Can’t even do this right, you idiot” His brother took a deep breath. “ But Ford… I think I need to apologize.”
Some old, fossilized hurt in Ford’s heart snarked ‘you think?’, but Ford nearly gagged as he suffocated the thought before it could take root anew. He felt sick.
Oblivious to Ford’s turmoil —and of course he was, because he didn’t know Ford was right here, that Ford wasn’t going to let one of the last things he ever said to Stan be that he thought Stan was worthless— Stan continued.
“I don’t think I ever got to, back when… you know. What I said that night is a bit of a blur to me to be honest, but I know I was spouting nonsense and saying all the wrong shit and… Moses, Ford. I know it’s too late now but I’m sorry. I really am.”
Something in Ford simultaneously healed and broke in his chest at Stan’s words, but he didn’t get the chance to process it because Stan wasn’t quite done yet.
“And I need you to know it wasn’t on purpose. I’d never do that to you. Never. Why would I ever want to hurt you like that, poindexter? I just… I was scared and I didn’t want to be alone in Glass Shard Beach scraping barnacles off the Taffy shop for the rest of my miserable life and I wasn’t. Thinking.” Stanley’s voice had been rising in a steady crescendo, but suddenly got so quiet that Ford had to strain to catch the words in the buzzing static. “I’d… I shouldn’t have gone into the gym. I shouldn’t have even gone near your friggin project. I didn’t go there to break it, I would never—“ his voice broke. “I thought you knew that. I’m your brother, you dingbat, why would I ever want to hurt you?When did I ever not support you, man?”
“Then why did you do it?” Ford whispered back, just as quiet. That old anger he’d tried to push down rose up again, simmering. Stan knew he’d poured months of his life into the perpetual motion machine, that he’s shed more than a few tears and more than a little blood and sweat over it. And then he’d thrown it all away?
“I’d only hit the table, ya know. Didn’t think the grate’d pop off or anything like that. I tried to fix it. I know I should’ve told you, I know and I’m sorry, just…” I was scared, goes unspoken. Ford’s legs were shaking, and he tried to steadily himself by leaning further on the table. “I know I should’ve told you. I know. I messed up fuckin’ good, Sixer.” Ford flinched.
“I’m. I know you’re never gonna get the apology you deserve cause I was too much of a coward to actually call you and say something.” Stan’s voice was shaking. And I’m sorry for that too. And I’m sorry for not listening to you about your stupid book, and I’m sorry— ugh. We’ll be here all day trying to name my fuckups. That’s the last sorry you’ll ever hear from me you nerdy, uh, nerd.”
Stan sighed loud enough for the radio to crackle and screech. “Good going, Stan,” he muttered, his voice getting quieter as he evidently walked away, done.
And all that was left was static.
Ford pushed himself away from the table and sank into the rolling chair nearby, putting his face in his hands and trying to breathe as the chair was pushed back several feet from his momentum.
“He’s lying,” Ford tried to say, but it tasted like ash in his mouth. “He’s trying to make it so… so.” He faltered. “He’s obviously trying to deceive me.”
Trust no one.
But he had trusted Stan. And Stan got hurled into a Dimension of Nightmares for it.
Stan has no reason to lie, Fords mind whispered, because it was always against him no matter what stance he took. He doesn’t think you’re coming to save him. Why wouldn’t he try to explain the worst mistake of his life in a fit of guilt and complete loss of hope?
“Shut up,” Ford said intelligently, and he didn’t dare pry his face away from his hands, heels of his palms digging into his eye sockets and pushing up his glasses to his hairline
Stan had no reason to lie.
Stan came to help him at the drop of a hat after ten years of being too afraid to even call him. 
Stan… Stan didn’t mean to break his project. It was a stupid accident, done by a stupid teenager too afraid to admit his own failings. Stan didn’t betray Ford. Not like he thought his twin had, for all these years.
Ford was wrong. About everything. He was wrong about Stan and Bill and Fiddleford and, Moses, had he ever done anything right in his entire, miserable life? Ford didn’t know. 
The empty bunk bed beneath his own  for those last few fateful months before Backupsmore, the tears and screaming at a boat that never even left the shore, the years of resentment and refusing to believe he missed his own twin, what was it all for? Because Ford suddenly felt the sharp sting of grief all over again, throbbing with a ferocity he’d refused to acknowledge for the past few weeks. Years. 
It was like he was 17 years old again, mourning for all the wrong reasons and all the right ones too. For his brother. For his chance to become someone worthy of recognition, of love. For pushing away the ones who’d already loved him.
For the first time since the day Stan fell into the portal all those weeks ago, Ford pulled his knees up to his chest on the seat and, in the safety of his own arms, he wept.
The static crackled on, steady and unchanging. Unforgiving.
———————
@aroace-get-out-of-my-face @littlelilliana15 (if anyone else wants to be tagged pls let me know! I’m going to probably be posting more for this au sometime this week)
I have ideas for a mini comic and a whole animatic using Space Oddity so I’ll just have to see how far I get, really
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wordedarchive · 4 months ago
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In October, any wonderful unexpected thing might be possible.
Elizabeth G. Speare via wordedarchive
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funeral · 26 days ago
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Some sense of what the new concern with narcissism is about can be gained by going back to the ancient myth upon which it is based. Narcissus kneels over a pool of water, enraptured by his own beauty reflected on the surface. People call to him to be careful, but he pays no heed to anything or anyone else. One day he bends over to caress this image, falls, and drowns. The sense of the myth is something other than the evils of self-love. It is the danger of projection, of a reaction to the world as though reality could be comprehended through images of self. The myth of Narcissus has a double meaning: his self-absorption prevents knowledge about what he is and what he is not; this absorption also destroys the person who is so engaged. Narcissus, in seeing himself mirrored on the water’s surface, forgets that the water is other and outside himself and thus becomes blind to its dangers.
Richard Sennett, The Fall of Public Man
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skywalkr-nberrie · 5 months ago
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Anakin’s love and marriage to Padmé wasn’t the issue of why he fell to the dark side. He was already being groomed by Palpatine in becoming his apprentice, and Padmé not being there wouldn’t have changed that. She just made it easier. Anakin was born a slave, which doesn’t leave him in the right headspace, and ever since Shmi died, Anakin became more unstable. Inevitably, he became more obsessed with control and wanting the power to stop the ones he loves from dying. Had Padmé not been in his life, Anakin still would have fallen due to Palpatine’s manipulations and topped with the Jedi’s mistreatment of Anakin. The Jedi and even OW failed Anakin in a way where Anakin came to a point where he doubts their faith in him, and he in return loses his trust him them. He says so himself in the ROTS novel. None of that had anything to do with Padmé.
But to insinuate that Anakin only cared for gaining “power” and essentially his “greed” is to blame for his actions, is super reductive understanding of his character. Yes, Anakin was greedy for control, and power. But not because he’s power hungry and wants to rule the galaxy. He only ever wanted more power to keep his loved ones safe, to assume control over what happens to him. (and this would’ve happened even if he and Padmé weren’t together.) saying that if Anakin “truly cared about saving his wife”, he would have told OW or any of the masters about his situation but didn’t because he was “greedy” is again, incorrect. Because Anakin DID go to the Jedi for advice. He talked to Yoda. Anakin put his faith into the Jedi but they didn’t exactly lead him down the path he needed.
Doubled with the fact that he knows the Council doesn’t trust him, and him not being sure he can trust them, (yes, including OW.) this led him to seeking answers in other and more dangerous places. Which was Palpatine. Whom Anakin is already vulnerable to and was being groomed by. Anakin’s fall to the darkside was due to his desperation and desire to save his wife, the love of his life. Not because he was greedy for more power and that he didn’t truly care about saving Padmé. That’s just a bad analysis of his character, intentions, and motivations. Anakin only became obsessed with the idea of “gaining power to rule and obtain authority” happened AFTER he fell. And that’s because the darkside plays with your sanity like that, makes you want and do things you normally wouldn’t do or want.
The main point is: Anakin’s fall doesn’t stem from his greed for wanting power because he seeks heroism, status, and authority. It was out of genuine love and desperation for his wife. Then again, his marriage to Padmé also isn’t to blame for his fall, because that was due to Anakin’s own fear of loss and abandonment. He would’ve fallen under any circumstance, with how unstable, vulnerable, and manipulated he was. That was the tragedy. He was always doomed to fall.
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aaabatteryy · 5 months ago
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my friend let me borrow her copy of Journal 3, so I've been working on decoding it and just generally reading through it all day
but one thing I'd like to note is the page about the Gideon-Bot (or the Chubtron Loser-Droid One Thousand) and there's a small segment at the bottom of the page I'm near tears over.
"McGucket built it. I guess he'll invent stuff for anyone who will hang out with him. Still can't tell if he's a good guy or a bad guy."
HE'LL INVENT STUFF FOR ANYONE WHO HANGS OUT WITH HIM??
really brings to light about what exactly Fidds and Ford had, especially knowing what we do from the missing pages in The Book of Bill and the website (more specifically that one picture of them in college after proving Fidds' theory about the universe being a hologram). not only was Fidds sticking with Ford because he'd hang out with him and work along side him, but that they were friends. no wonder Fidds was willing to leave his wife and son (not looking at it from the pov of a fiddauthor shipper)
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russalki · 9 months ago
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— Anne Carson, “The Fall of Rome: A Traveller’s Guide”, from Glass, Irony and God
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lucidloving · 1 year ago
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Kirsten Robinson // Christine Riccio, Again, But Better // Lori Deschene // Maddison Vernon // Julissa Loaliza // @flowerais-archive
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fairydrowning · 2 years ago
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I love the concept of growing into love more than falling in love at first sight. Like, love grows into your heart just as how a seed grows and bloom into a beautiful flower.
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nostalgella · 3 months ago
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“Dear old world, you are very lovely, and I am glad to be alive in you.”
— L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables
A moodboard inspired by Anne of Green Gables—for kindred spirits, nature lovers, and daydreamers.
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19silvermirrors · 6 months ago
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Softly 😘
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howifeltabouthim · 6 days ago
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' . . . being in love creates all sorts of needs that weren't there before.'
L. P. Hartley, from My Fellow Devils
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inkyrainstorms · 3 days ago
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The Martian Stan AU - The Beginning
“Is that it?” Stan asked, his voice burning and rising like the coming tide, vicious and overwhelming and inevitable. Ford’s shoulders tightened involuntarily, and he threw his brother as scathing of a glare as he could manage. Couldn’t Stan see that this, Ford’s problems, were important? “You call me all the way here after ten years, just to tell me to get as far away from you as possible?!”
If Ford was any less exhausted, if the hole in his left hand and the hole in his heart  were any less gaping, and the fresh scrapes and cracked fingernails ached any less, he might’ve taken a step back to apologize. To explain that it wasn’t about what Ford wanted, or what Stan wanted. It was about stopping Bill, and saving the world.
If Ford were a different man, he’d reconsider his approach and find a way to fix the chasm that seemed to yawn wider with every word that came out of each of their mouths. But as it was, Ford was not a different man. He couldn’t even fix himself.
So Ford instead felt indignation sting like hot coals in his gut and urge him to step forward, closer to Stanley. His brother took an involuntary half-step back. “Stanley, you don’t understand what I’ve been through!”
“What you’ve been through!” Stan kept talking even as Ford pushed past him, fury etched onto every word like a brand. “No, no, you don’t understand what I’ve been through! I’ve been to prison in three countries, and I once had to chew my way out of the trunk of a car!”
He got up in Fords face when Ford turned back, his brows drawn low and finger jabbing into Ford’s abdomen. He didn’t realize it, because of course he didn’t, but he’d pressed right into one of the bruises on Fords ribcage from his trip down the stairs earlier that day. Ford grit his teeth and glared back.
“You think you’ve got problems? I’ve got a mullet Stanford!”
Why couldn’t Stan take Fords problems seriously? Was he really cracking jokes at a time like this? 
Ford couldn’t take it anymore. 
Oblivious to the dangerous precipice Fords stability had drawn close to,  Stan got bitterly sarcastic. “Meanwhile where have you been? Holed up in your fancy house in the woods and living it up, selfishly hoarding all—“
Ford went still. If he’d been a slightly different man, a slightly more composed man, perhaps, he’d have fired back another jab at his twin, because how could the man that ruined Fords life and betrayed his complete and total trust call him selfish?
There was a different voice, at a different time altogether too recent and a lifetime ago. His monstrous Muse, his most trusted friend, taking his body on a fucking joyride and then having the gall to look him in the eyes and say “YOU’RE PRETTY SELFISH IQ”. 
Ford had just kept on weeping blood. 
As it was, Stan didn’t get a chance to finish his rant. He was much too busy receiving a solid punch to the face and staggering back against the force of it. For a moment, all was quiet. Ford was shaking, he realized distantly, staring blankly at his brother. His knuckles stung from the impact.
Stan took more time to recover than Ford would’ve thought, but when he finally did, it was with a new layer of dark fury that Ford hadn’t ever seen from him before. Stan lowered the book from where he’d clenched it to his chest, and pulled out a lighter. “Fine.” He whispered roughly, though it echoed in the cavernous room anyway. Louder, then, “Fine! You want me to get rid of it so bad? I’ll get rid of it right now!”
A challenging fire burned in Stan’s eyes, and with a flick, it burned in his right hand too. Ford’s journal dangled above the hungry, all consuming light. 
Ford couldn’t breathe. Every piece of himself he’d had to let go of, that he’d lost to Bill and all that he was giving up to rectify his own mistakes, all to see Stan get rid of part of his life’s work right before his eyes. 
How dare he.
Ford let out a guttural shout and lunged for the book. Stanley, evidently not expecting this, stumbled back and tried to move the lighter before Ford and him could get burned from it in the tussle.
He only partly succeeded. Ford hissed at the momentary new pain shooting up the underside of his hand as he tried to grab for the book and Stan flat out dropped the lighter in response. His brother faltered for a split second, his brow creasing. 
“Sixer, I—“
Ford didn’t let him finish. The second he heard the nickname, some part of him blanked out entirely, and the buzzing in his ears sounded like an angry hornet in his skull. “Don’t,” he grit out, and he’s sure his voice was much too thick and angry and he wasn’t being rational but he couldn’t bring himself to care. “Call me that!” 
When Ford lunged for the journal anew, he tackled Stan to the ground as his brother instinctively tightened his own grip on the book. Ford’s book.
“Why not?!” Stan cried out, trying to pry Ford off of him and only succeeding in rolling the two on the ground away from the portal. Ford couldn’t figure out if he sounded more hurt or concerned. The hurricane in his chest kept him from thinking on it too much.
Ford let out a wordless grunt in response, as the two of them, having grappled up to stand, slammed straight through the door and Stan tried to pin him down onto one of the control panels, before Ford managed to gain enough momentum to roll Stan off of him. They were throwing punches and shouting insults they probably didn’t mean, and after a minute long struggle where they surely broke every damn thing in that control room —and good riddance, Ford tried to think but he was too tired to think much at all— Stan had shouted with all the ferocious desperation of a drowning man, “why can’t you listen to me, damnit! You ruined my life!”
Ford had retorted, because of course he did, with “You ruined your own life!” as he finally got a good grip on the book and kicked Stan away with enough force to shove him against the side of one of the control panels. 
Stan’s scream was abrupt and guttural and horrifying. It cut through the haze in Fords mind with all the precision of a scalpel, dropping a rock of dread into his gut. Ford backed away as quickly as he could, and didn’t even register his journal slipping through his slack fingers to land facedown on the ground. He felt sick.
“Stanley! Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” 
For a few, horrible, horrible seconds, Stan laid there, slumped and unmoving from where he’d hunched onto the floor. The burn— the brand on his shoulder looked angry and hot against his skin. It had burned clean through his coat and shirt.
Ford took a few hurried steps closer, shaking so hard he could barely walk, when Stan groaned. “Stanley…” he started, but trailed off as Stan pulled himself to his feet. His eyes were darker than Ford had ever seen them before. Stan was shaking too.
“You really want your dumb mysteries that bad?”
And Ford wanted to say, no, no he didn’t, because Stan still held his shoulder stiff as he could and his grip was knuckle-white where he’d used it to brace his arm against his side, because Ford had branded his own twin.
But the words stuck in his throat, because he realized with a start that Stan and him weren’t the ones shaking. The room was. His eyes shot to the portal.
His magnum opus and his curse, his Dadaleus’s Labyrinth, was activating. 
A sudden movement from Stan snapped Fords attention back to his injured, angry brother. Ford took a few cautious steps out of the control room and held up his hands placatingly as Stan advanced. His brother was blocking the doorway, but Ford needed to get in there, he needed to activate the shutdown procedure. “Stan, please,” he said weakly, not sure what exactly he meant. Let me through? Wait? Let me help you?
He didn’t get the chance to find out, though, because Stan continued talking, hefting up the journal he’d evidently picked up from the floor while Ford was distracted. “Well you can have ‘em” Stan said viciously, and Ford could hear the pain in it clear as day as he moved to shove the book into Ford’s hands.
Ford dodged Stan attempt, careful to not touch Stan’s injured shoulder, and weaved around him. “Stan, please, wait.”
Stan laughed, turning around. His grin looked painful. “I’m tired of waiting, Si— Stanford. I really am.”
Ford didn’t have time for this. His heart ached in ways Ford didn’t have the time to decipher as the humming in the room got louder, and he turned to move back to the control room. “Just a moment, Stanley, I just need—“
When Stan latched onto his arm and tried to whirl Ford back around, Ford reacted on pure instinct and deep seated paranoia, that kind that can only be born from aftermath of pure devastation. He followed the momentum and shoved Stan back as hard as he could, turning and sprinting to the control room before Stan could recover and try to stop him again.
“Stanford?”
He never got there. Stan’s voice, suddenly small and scared, ground Ford’s pace to a halt. The humming was louder now, reverberating through his chest. 
“Ford, what’s happening?”
For a terrible moment, Ford didn’t turn around. He just stared at the door of the control room as if he could stop time if he tried hard enough. He didn’t want to see. Seeing made it real. It meant his worst fears had become true, it justified the cold sinking in his chest. 
“Ford!”
Ford whirled around and let out a hoarse cry. There Stanley was, greasy hair floating in a halo around his face, one hand outstretched and the other holding Ford’s journal tight to his chest. Ford had pushed him over the danger line.
The look on his twins face was worse than Ford could’ve ever imagined. 
The anger had drained out of him, the closer he floated to the all consuming blue light of the portal. The was naked terror in his eyes, and he cried out for Ford again.
“Stanley! Hold on, please!” Ford said, before making another break for the control room.
He needed to shut it off right this instant.
“Hold onto what, brainiac!?”
“I don’t know, Stanley! Anything within reach, just don’t let yourself go through the portal.”
Ford input the shut down code. He input it again. He then realized that they’d knocked the cords out of alignment and frantically began adjusting them from where they were wired into the top of the control panel. Shit, they really broke everything in this room, didn’t they?
The third time he input the code, the light flashed green, and the keys made themselves known on a panel adjacent to Ford’s position by the window.
Three keys. Of course. Why did he have to make it three keys, all turned simultaneously?
Metal screeched in the portal room, and when Ford dared to glance up between trying to maneuver himself to turn all three keys, a jolt of horror swept through him and nearly knocked him off his feet. 
Stan has nearly entirely consumed by the light now, clawing at the edge of the portal he’d managed to reach. Ford cursed himself when he realized that the metal plate Stan was holding, as well as  over a dozen others, were loosening to the point of nearly falling off entirely from the main frame. The other objects he’d scattered across the floor of his lab, everything from basic tools like screwdrivers to bigger machine parts floated through the portal at increasingly high speeds.
Ford wouldn’t need to do anything, he realized, and it wasn’t the comfort he wished it was. The portal was destabilizing. Judging by the erratic pulsing the portal light was doing, it’d be closing soon.
Ford ran out of the control room and stopped short just as Stan locked eyes with him again. 
“Stanley!” he called, another desperate idea beginning to form in his panic addled mind as he scanned the room for spare rope and found none. The spare rope from the first portal test must’ve gotten caught in the portals expanding gravitational pull. His brother was barely a shadow in the light now, but Ford knew Stanley had heard him. “If you toss me the journal, I can—“
“The journal?” Stan gasped out, frenzied. “Is that still all you care about!?”
“No, no, if I just had the instructions, I could fix—“ this, fix everything. 
The screeching of metal and thundering of the portal reached a deafening crescendo, and Ford could see Stan open his mouth to interrupt, to say something, assent or argument or—
But Ford didn’t get to find out what Stan would’ve said. A particularly violent jolt shook the metal frame of the portal, and Stan, with a wide-eyed final look that Ford didn’t know how to decipher, slipped.
His brother disappeared into the light just as the portal collapsed in on itself with enough concussive force to send Ford crashing to the ground. He slammed onto his back hard enough to knock the air from his lungs.
Silence fell over the room. It was dark.
Ford stared at the ceiling above him, then dragged his eyes, slowly, painfully, to the portal. 
The deactivated, half missing and half obliterated portal.
For a long, long time, Ford sat in the dark under the full weight of every bruise and scratch and burn he’d sustained, and it was like he was underwater, head swimming with nausea and pain and bewilderment. He was numb. 
A faint plip-plop sound echoed suddenly through the deathly silent basement, and Ford squinted at the sound through his crooked glasses, trying to identify the source. 
A dark substance stained the edge of the portal, right where Stan had been holding on. Ford watched blankly as the liquid slowly rolled along the curve of the portal entrance, before reached a jagged gap in the perfect circle and slipping through. It slid down the jagged and crumpled panels, weaving until it gathered at the tip of a particularly jutting sheet of metal. 
Another drip.
Another.
Ford shifted closer, simply trying to breathe. He pointedly didn’t think about how the other side of the portal had driven Fiddleford to seemingly the brink of madness in moments, he didn’t think about the glimpse into the Nightmare Realm Bill had given him when he first revealed his true hand, and he certainly didn’t think about the final look Stanley had given him, grief and rage and betrayal all rolled into one.
He finally got close enough to see the liquid for what it was. It wasn’t oil, like he’d figured, like he’d hoped and prayed with every inhale and exhale to the gods he didn’t believe in. It was too thick, congealing with familiar splatters on the floor. It was a deep crimson.
Stan must have cut his hand on the metal with how hard he’d been holding it, Ford realized, and the thoughts were the first crack in the dam Ford had buried himself beneath. This was Stan’s blood.
Stan was in the Nightmare Realm, bleeding from one hand and burned on the other shoulder and begging for Ford to do something, asking Ford what was happening because he didn’t know, because Ford didn’t tell him, and—  
It was all Fords fault.
All of it.
Oh Moses.
The dam creaked with warning, a death rattle and a laugh rolled into one, before Ford was swept into the undertow.
Ford had killed his own brother.
All alone in the dark basement with the machine he’d turned into his brother’s grave, Ford buried his burnt, bloody hands in his hair and bowed his head until it hit his knees. All alone, Stanford Pines cried for the first time in years.
Alternate Titles: The Worst Conversation Ever
Or: Ford started disassembling the portal early and everything went to shit accordingly.
Tags! @aroace-get-out-of-my-face @pleasantartisanhottea @empressofsamoyeds @littlelilliana15 @pinefamilycatsau @thejaxindianrizzler (I saw your comment in the og post and it made me laugh cause I was in the middle of working on this when I noticed it) (I hope you don’t mind the tag :))
if I missed anyone I’m sorry about that! The tag is always a fair option to follow too (#martian Stan au)
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