Fic: Survivor's Bane
Jul. 11th, 2017 04:41 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
anysinFic: Survivor's Bane
Fandom: Gravity Falls
Characters/Pairings: Bill Cipher/Stanley Pines, Stanford Pines, Mabel Pines, DIpper Pines
Prompt/Challenge: "Dystopia" at hc_bingo
Word count: 1692
Ratings/Content Notes: Mature, contains character death, violence, torture and non-con.
Summary: Plan to deceive Bill fails miserably, leaving Stan to face the consequences. A Bill Wins AU.
Stan can still see Ford’s ashes on the floor.
He can see them as the glowing red hands yank him down to his knees, holding his hands behind his back as Bill floats over to him. He keeps looking at them as Bill’s own hand starts glowing red, until it’s on fire; he doesn’t stop looking even when Bill presses his burning hand to his forehead, and it’s only his eyes reacting in a reflex to his eyebrows and lashes getting singed when he finally breaks the contact.
"You got a lot of nerve, trying to kill me like that," Bill says.
Bill’s hand lifts away from Stan’s face. Stan can smell the scorched flesh, feel the splits on his forehead, but he pays no attention to any of that. He opens his eyes and searches for Ford’s ashes again, only to find them gone.
Gone.
"Trust me, if I didn’t know it hurts you more to live, you’d be smoldering on the ground too," Bill continues, ignoring his devastation. "But don’t think it will be easy for you. I will make every second of your life h-"
"And the kids?" They were dragged away earlier by Bill’s crew, given even less of a chance to say goodbye to Ford than Stan was. Stan doesn’t know whether to hope they’re still alive or wish that they aren’t. He hopes for the former nevertheless.
Bill frowns over being interrupted, but then gets thoughtful. "Haven’t decided yet, actually," he admits. Words are both a relief and they aren’t. "But for now, all of you hurt more when you are alive, so they’ll get to enjoy breathing for a little longer."
That doesn’t sound good at all, but Stan takes it. It has to be better that the kids are still around; things can still go up from here.
Can’t they?
He wishes he could ask Ford, but he has a feeling he knows what Ford’s opinion would be.
*
Stan doesn’t get to see Dipper and Mabel.
The moment he realizes that Bill has no plans to let them see each other, he throws his last claim to dignity away. He begs. He grovels. He kisses the bastard’s little black feet, acts as a stool for him. Bill could demand all of that from him anyway, but Stan knows it counts when he does all of it by his own free will.
Eventually, Bill relents. But not without a price.
"I want you to make a public confession to the world," Bill says, tipping Stan’s chin up with his cane. "I want you to tell them that you and your failed assassination are the reason they are suffering so much. I want you to tell them that your stupidity got your brother killed and your niece and nephew imprisoned and tortured."
"Tortured!" Stan can’t hold back a cry when Bill draws his cane back and strikes him in the face with it, hard. The idea of Dipper and Mabel being in pain still hurts more.
"Don’t you be fucking interrupting me." Bill presses the tip of the cane to the underside of Stan’s jaw, pushing hard until he’s choking. "Anyway, I want you to make sure that the whole world knows what a miserable failure you are by the time you’re done with your speech. Think you can handle that, Stanley?"
He doesn’t even need to think about it. "Yes."
*
The writing process turns out to be unpleasant.
"That’s no good," Bill says, underlining an entire paragraph with red. The color trickles on the paper out of nowhere, making Stan dread its origin. "You don’t sound self-hating enough, Stan! I thought that was supposed to be your sweet spot."
Stan doesn’t try to argue, moving on straight to the rewrite instead. Bill, who has been hovering behind him so far, rests his hands down on Stan’s shoulders, making him shiver.
"Yes, that’s better! ‘Miserable, worthless scum’, now THAT sounds more like you!" But the hands on Stan’s shoulders are gripping him hard, the fingertips hardening into claws. "But it’s still missing poetry, Stan! I know there is an artist inside you, just let him out!"
"I’m finding it a little hard to concentrate," Stan blurts out, and immediately regrets it. Bill laughs behind him, but his hands are still angry on Stan, his claws pressing down on Stan’s flesh.
"You better get it together," Bill warns him. He stabs down with one clawed finger, piercing Stan’s left shoulder; Stan screams. “Otherwise Pine Tree and Shooting Star may not be in one piece any more when you meet them.”
He wants to grab his shoulder, try to soothe the pain away. Instead he crosses out what he’s written again and starts over.
*
Just before the broadcast of Stan’s speech begins, Bill snaps his fingers. When Stan goes on air, he’s wearing his Mr. Mystery get-up again.
For several minutes, Stan can’t say anything. He has his papers in his hands, but he is barely aware of them; all he can see, all he can feel is the suit on him. All he can smell is Ford, his sweat and burnt flesh; all he can hear is Ford’s surprised shout when he caught fire. He thinks he’s going to throw up, or faint, or do both at the same time.
He snaps back to reality when Bill starts tapping his foot in the air, the movement catching his attention. His gaze drifts to Bill’s eye, eye that is curved in what he knows to be a smirk, eye that is full of pleasure. For a moment, all Stan feels is rage.
Dipper, a voice from the back of his mind says, joined soon by another one. Mabel.
He straightens his papers and starts talking.
*
"That was fantastic, Stan! You sure are a showman!"
"Yeah, yeah." Stan doesn’t want to hear one word out of this thing ever again, but he has to. “Can I see the kids now?”
"Oh no, not yet." Wrapping his fingers around Stan’s arm, Bill snaps his fingers; they are transported into some kind of a demented living room, complete with a grand piano and Bill’s portrait on the wall. Bill pushes him towards a couch, which Stan recoils from when he sees that it has eyes and a mouth, its tongue lolling out as it notices Stan.
"There is one more thing I want you to do," Bill continues, giving him another push until he’s on the couch. His knee sinks into one of the thing’s open eyes, making it groan; the humanity of the sound makes Stan feel sick. "I want you to thank me, Stanley."
Stan sputters, turning around on the couch to face Bill. “THANK you?”
"Exactly like that!" Bill floats down to Stan’s legs, starting to take his shoes off. Confused, Stan kicks out, only to have Bill grab him from the ankle and squeeze him hard, until the bones crunch. Stan screams, ceasing his struggles. Bill goes on: "Seriously though, I need you to express some proper gratitude for sparing your miserable life and those of your niblings."
Bill makes it clear just what kind of gratitude he’s talking about when he floats up to Stan’s chest, grabbing the front of his jacket and ripping it open. He does the same with the shirt, sending the buttons flying around; Stan is sure Bill could get his clothes off in a much easier way, but Bill is all about the show. He watches as Bill extends one finger, turning it into a long blade. He can’t stop himself from shuddering when the blade slips under his undershirt, starting to cut it open; he shudders even more when Bill’s free hand pushes down to Stan’s groin, cupping it.
"Will you let me see the kids then?" Stan almost says 'if I do this’, but he manages to swallow the words down; it’s obvious he’s going to do this no matter what happens. But he needs to hear this from Bill. He’s aware they may just be meaningless words, but he needs to hear them anyway.
He needs some hope to be able to get through this.
"You will get to see the kids then," Bill says, resting his blade-finger against Stan’s throat. "Until then, I suggest you start singing my praises."
Stan doesn’t hesitate.
*
After it’s over, Bill transports Stan into a dark cell.
For a while, everything is silent. All Stan can hear is his own ragged breathing, and his paranoid thoughts. What if Bill has been lying to him all this time? What if Mabel and Dipper are dead, burnt to ashes like Ford was?
His eyes are stinging from the very idea when he hears a shuffling sound from the corner of the cell, followed by sharp gasps. A moment later Mabel and Dipper are rushing towards him.
"Grunkle Stan!"
When their arms wrap around his neck, their cheeks pressing against Stan’s own, something snaps inside Stan. He’s sobbing before he can even think about stopping himself, his eyes welling up; he cries even harder when he feels Mabel’s small hand under his eyes, trying to wipe the tears away as quickly as they come out.
"It’s all right, Grunkle Stan, it’s all right!"
He wraps his arms around them, pulling them near; he cries and they cry, too, Mabel sobbing out loud while Dipper buries his face into the crook of Stan’s neck, shuddering silently against it. They are so small, Stan notices, nothing but bones and skin and rapid heartbeats; yet all their body parts are intact, and as of now neither is bloody or bruised. They’re as all right as they can be.
As long as they are that, so is Stan.
Fandom: Gravity Falls
Characters/Pairings: Bill Cipher/Stanley Pines, Stanford Pines, Mabel Pines, DIpper Pines
Prompt/Challenge: "Dystopia" at hc_bingo
Word count: 1692
Ratings/Content Notes: Mature, contains character death, violence, torture and non-con.
Summary: Plan to deceive Bill fails miserably, leaving Stan to face the consequences. A Bill Wins AU.
Stan can still see Ford’s ashes on the floor.
He can see them as the glowing red hands yank him down to his knees, holding his hands behind his back as Bill floats over to him. He keeps looking at them as Bill’s own hand starts glowing red, until it’s on fire; he doesn’t stop looking even when Bill presses his burning hand to his forehead, and it’s only his eyes reacting in a reflex to his eyebrows and lashes getting singed when he finally breaks the contact.
"You got a lot of nerve, trying to kill me like that," Bill says.
Bill’s hand lifts away from Stan’s face. Stan can smell the scorched flesh, feel the splits on his forehead, but he pays no attention to any of that. He opens his eyes and searches for Ford’s ashes again, only to find them gone.
Gone.
"Trust me, if I didn’t know it hurts you more to live, you’d be smoldering on the ground too," Bill continues, ignoring his devastation. "But don’t think it will be easy for you. I will make every second of your life h-"
"And the kids?" They were dragged away earlier by Bill’s crew, given even less of a chance to say goodbye to Ford than Stan was. Stan doesn’t know whether to hope they’re still alive or wish that they aren’t. He hopes for the former nevertheless.
Bill frowns over being interrupted, but then gets thoughtful. "Haven’t decided yet, actually," he admits. Words are both a relief and they aren’t. "But for now, all of you hurt more when you are alive, so they’ll get to enjoy breathing for a little longer."
That doesn’t sound good at all, but Stan takes it. It has to be better that the kids are still around; things can still go up from here.
Can’t they?
He wishes he could ask Ford, but he has a feeling he knows what Ford’s opinion would be.
*
Stan doesn’t get to see Dipper and Mabel.
The moment he realizes that Bill has no plans to let them see each other, he throws his last claim to dignity away. He begs. He grovels. He kisses the bastard’s little black feet, acts as a stool for him. Bill could demand all of that from him anyway, but Stan knows it counts when he does all of it by his own free will.
Eventually, Bill relents. But not without a price.
"I want you to make a public confession to the world," Bill says, tipping Stan’s chin up with his cane. "I want you to tell them that you and your failed assassination are the reason they are suffering so much. I want you to tell them that your stupidity got your brother killed and your niece and nephew imprisoned and tortured."
"Tortured!" Stan can’t hold back a cry when Bill draws his cane back and strikes him in the face with it, hard. The idea of Dipper and Mabel being in pain still hurts more.
"Don’t you be fucking interrupting me." Bill presses the tip of the cane to the underside of Stan’s jaw, pushing hard until he’s choking. "Anyway, I want you to make sure that the whole world knows what a miserable failure you are by the time you’re done with your speech. Think you can handle that, Stanley?"
He doesn’t even need to think about it. "Yes."
*
The writing process turns out to be unpleasant.
"That’s no good," Bill says, underlining an entire paragraph with red. The color trickles on the paper out of nowhere, making Stan dread its origin. "You don’t sound self-hating enough, Stan! I thought that was supposed to be your sweet spot."
Stan doesn’t try to argue, moving on straight to the rewrite instead. Bill, who has been hovering behind him so far, rests his hands down on Stan’s shoulders, making him shiver.
"Yes, that’s better! ‘Miserable, worthless scum’, now THAT sounds more like you!" But the hands on Stan’s shoulders are gripping him hard, the fingertips hardening into claws. "But it’s still missing poetry, Stan! I know there is an artist inside you, just let him out!"
"I’m finding it a little hard to concentrate," Stan blurts out, and immediately regrets it. Bill laughs behind him, but his hands are still angry on Stan, his claws pressing down on Stan’s flesh.
"You better get it together," Bill warns him. He stabs down with one clawed finger, piercing Stan’s left shoulder; Stan screams. “Otherwise Pine Tree and Shooting Star may not be in one piece any more when you meet them.”
He wants to grab his shoulder, try to soothe the pain away. Instead he crosses out what he’s written again and starts over.
*
Just before the broadcast of Stan’s speech begins, Bill snaps his fingers. When Stan goes on air, he’s wearing his Mr. Mystery get-up again.
For several minutes, Stan can’t say anything. He has his papers in his hands, but he is barely aware of them; all he can see, all he can feel is the suit on him. All he can smell is Ford, his sweat and burnt flesh; all he can hear is Ford’s surprised shout when he caught fire. He thinks he’s going to throw up, or faint, or do both at the same time.
He snaps back to reality when Bill starts tapping his foot in the air, the movement catching his attention. His gaze drifts to Bill’s eye, eye that is curved in what he knows to be a smirk, eye that is full of pleasure. For a moment, all Stan feels is rage.
Dipper, a voice from the back of his mind says, joined soon by another one. Mabel.
He straightens his papers and starts talking.
*
"That was fantastic, Stan! You sure are a showman!"
"Yeah, yeah." Stan doesn’t want to hear one word out of this thing ever again, but he has to. “Can I see the kids now?”
"Oh no, not yet." Wrapping his fingers around Stan’s arm, Bill snaps his fingers; they are transported into some kind of a demented living room, complete with a grand piano and Bill’s portrait on the wall. Bill pushes him towards a couch, which Stan recoils from when he sees that it has eyes and a mouth, its tongue lolling out as it notices Stan.
"There is one more thing I want you to do," Bill continues, giving him another push until he’s on the couch. His knee sinks into one of the thing’s open eyes, making it groan; the humanity of the sound makes Stan feel sick. "I want you to thank me, Stanley."
Stan sputters, turning around on the couch to face Bill. “THANK you?”
"Exactly like that!" Bill floats down to Stan’s legs, starting to take his shoes off. Confused, Stan kicks out, only to have Bill grab him from the ankle and squeeze him hard, until the bones crunch. Stan screams, ceasing his struggles. Bill goes on: "Seriously though, I need you to express some proper gratitude for sparing your miserable life and those of your niblings."
Bill makes it clear just what kind of gratitude he’s talking about when he floats up to Stan’s chest, grabbing the front of his jacket and ripping it open. He does the same with the shirt, sending the buttons flying around; Stan is sure Bill could get his clothes off in a much easier way, but Bill is all about the show. He watches as Bill extends one finger, turning it into a long blade. He can’t stop himself from shuddering when the blade slips under his undershirt, starting to cut it open; he shudders even more when Bill’s free hand pushes down to Stan’s groin, cupping it.
"Will you let me see the kids then?" Stan almost says 'if I do this’, but he manages to swallow the words down; it’s obvious he’s going to do this no matter what happens. But he needs to hear this from Bill. He’s aware they may just be meaningless words, but he needs to hear them anyway.
He needs some hope to be able to get through this.
"You will get to see the kids then," Bill says, resting his blade-finger against Stan’s throat. "Until then, I suggest you start singing my praises."
Stan doesn’t hesitate.
*
After it’s over, Bill transports Stan into a dark cell.
For a while, everything is silent. All Stan can hear is his own ragged breathing, and his paranoid thoughts. What if Bill has been lying to him all this time? What if Mabel and Dipper are dead, burnt to ashes like Ford was?
His eyes are stinging from the very idea when he hears a shuffling sound from the corner of the cell, followed by sharp gasps. A moment later Mabel and Dipper are rushing towards him.
"Grunkle Stan!"
When their arms wrap around his neck, their cheeks pressing against Stan’s own, something snaps inside Stan. He’s sobbing before he can even think about stopping himself, his eyes welling up; he cries even harder when he feels Mabel’s small hand under his eyes, trying to wipe the tears away as quickly as they come out.
"It’s all right, Grunkle Stan, it’s all right!"
He wraps his arms around them, pulling them near; he cries and they cry, too, Mabel sobbing out loud while Dipper buries his face into the crook of Stan’s neck, shuddering silently against it. They are so small, Stan notices, nothing but bones and skin and rapid heartbeats; yet all their body parts are intact, and as of now neither is bloody or bruised. They’re as all right as they can be.
As long as they are that, so is Stan.
