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unearthlyfromage · 9 months

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First Chapter of the Evil Stan fic is out now!

"The Costs of Our Hubris Chapter 1: Eyes and Sockets" is out on my AO3!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/49386823/chapters/124630234 Original AU made by @ahkaraii here on Tumblr! Shoutout to @koraesdoodles for being my wonderful beta-reader and dealing with my dyslexic ass abashdanshaha The chapter below the cut for anyone that wants to stay here on Tumblr:

Thousands of clashing colors swirling far above, a symphony of bellows swirling in coils worming its way through mind, body and soul. It thrummed in his ribs and escaped through his marred and mangled mouth in droning snores. His body sprawled out and writhed into a lifeless form, shaded by the pale and dusted rocks basked in the blooming presence of a God so sweet. Stanley Pines was sleeping. A horrible noise echoed in the winds around him, blowing and shifting in random directions, the skyline highlighted in natural disasters of all forms. Beautiful, colorful chaos. Home. The serene scene was broken by the pounding of fists, the shrieking of demons and cackling of others. One eye opened wide, and he woke up swinging. Hands outstretched to blackened rose thorns, body acting before mind as he tackled and raised a hand to the one in front of him, a wry and wild look in his gnarled, scared face. The cackles around him were all consuming, some egging him on, others telling him to knock it off, all while the one underneath merely stared.

It wasn’t until Stan broke out into laughter of his own that the scene unwound. He sat back on his haunch to snort and giggle, arms wrapped tight and sharpened finger tips digging into his sides. “Nice nap, Fishie?” Teeth chattered, stumpy flesh-pink arms prodding and poking at him. The others chided in, all poking and pulling but he didn’t seem to mind, laughter dying slow as he started to reciprocate.

“Always!” he growled, grabbing Pyronica by the horn and 8-Ball in a chokehold, the rest jeering as the two struggled. The largest of them shoved the three forward, the large purple loaf gesturing forward, his party hat shifting with every movement. Huffing, Stan let go of them, staring up at the sky. “Why’d ya wake me?” he asked, walking with them, gait sluggish but his one eye wide and alert as the other stayed hidden behind bandages as he wasn’t blessed enough to show it yet, there was no need too. No one to intimidate.

“Boss wanted to see you, Fishie” Keyhole slapped him hard on the back, earning a wry grin.

“Time t’ head out already?” Stan asked. If he were honest, he would be upset. He hated leaving. He loved returning, sitting with them all jeering, sharing stories of destruction and chaos, impromptu sparring matches devolving into rolling on the floor biting and mauling each other like rabid dogs on an abandoned island.

Camaraderie in the finer things, cheating in cards and lying about it. The only positive notion of leaving being all of them leaping off this dying realm to claim planets in their illustrious ruler's name. He placed a hand on the three-sided sigil woven into the fibers of his garb upon which he was blessed, a silent prayer at the edges of his mind that a chorus of voices accompanied, a choir of twisted wants and dreams of which he prayed to see, lest his final moments be in the endless sea of bodies.

They were talking to him this entire time, of course. But he was not focused on them now. No, instead his eye was toward the sky, the beautiful swirling colors bleeding out into their distinct streaks from the swirling point, the very center, a throne of bones and black ichor that squirmed and writhed in the same waving dance as the blood in his veins.

It was always such a treat, to stare up at everything you lived for. Sinking to his knees, he awaited to hear that shrill, echoing voice, the impending doom resting its gargantuan weight on his shoulders and pressing him towards the dry and crumbling ground as if he were nothing more than a measly tic on the body of a beautiful blood soaked dove. “GOOD JOB WAKING THE FISH BOWL,” a bright yellow light far above said, the golden glow of their God. All sound simmering to low murmurs as all rose to stand up straight, eyes of all kinds staring up in awe and utter devotion as he arose from his place on the throne and sunk down to rest just above them all. Bill stared at them all, a wide slit pupil gracing them with his presence. The clouds swirling above him, a halo bathed in the red hues of liquid vindication, the destruction of an innumerable amount hanging above him like trophies. “FISHIE FISHIE FISHIE WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN UP TO?” He swirled around them all like a cluster of vultures, snapping and snarling and starving, eye unrelenting and piercing into their very beings. The weight of power over his head was crushing, Stan's head lowering to a bow of respect and adoration as he spoke firmly. “Training for th’ day you release me again, Boss.” He kept his voice low, tone testy and stricken in fear-born respect. Forged in years of dismemberment and hard lessons taught through bloody knuckles and broken bones. “LETS MAKE GOOD ON THAT. YOU SEE FISHIE, THAT PLAGUE NEVER STOPS! THEY FLOOD MY WORLD BY THE MILLIONS EVERY SECOND, THEY GROUP LIKE PESTS! WILL YOU TAKE CARE OF THEM FOR ME?”

A frigid three fingered hand pressed against the top of Stan’s head, and the man's eye narrowed. All they were doing was causing more harm. Boiling hatred in his chest that made his face hot and arms numb. The swirling of voices caught and caged between his ears howling and begging him to tear them apart. Rip limb from limb, eyes from sockets, drag them here to be judged for their crimes and made to bow in front of his God, the being who so graciously saved him. Gritting gnarled teeth, his entire body shivered in disgust. “Always.” It was definitive, a rage unquenching, curdled like milk boiling in the hot sun.

“I DON’T WANT TO SEE HIDE OR HAIR OF YOU UNTIL YOU BRING ME THEIR SIX DIGIT HANDS, FISHIE. WE DON’T WANT CONSEQUENCES OF INSUBORDINATION, DO WE?” Bill was leaning against him now, thin arm wrapped around him like the embrace of an old friend. “Never.” He would not waver. He would not be sidetracked, nor blind-sided, he was better. He was stronger. They were weak, they were going to hurt thousands if he didn’t do it. “WHAT ARE YOU?” “I am a weapon.”

The others, his family, colorful and chaotic all grinning at him like he had done a great service. Pride swelled in his chest upon seeing their gazes locked solely on him. This was home. He was going to miss it, he always did. How long would it be until he began to beg to come back? To the soot ridden wasteland, rolling around in dirt and salt as he scratched their backs so they could scratch his. He would make them proud.

“THAT’S JUST WHAT I WANTED TO HEAR, FISHIE!” Bill swirled the glass in his hand, cane hooked on his neck. “NOW GO MAKE ME PROUD, OR DO I STILL HAVE WORK TO DO ON YOU?” His voice deepened, darkened, a threat laced in layers upon layers, the rumbling sound of a deity testing the will of his creation. “I will make you proud, Boss.” He gripped the sigil once more, an act of comfort, of guidance. He knew the way, so long as he let the Eye engraved into his being show him where to move.

“THEN WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!” His God howled and giggled like a child, the sound shrill yet melodic, as Stan took off running.

Boots scraping against dry pale ground, fissures cracking and breaking apart like spider veins on an ancient being spanning as far as the eye could see. The only distraction in the endless sky of vibrant colors being the floating, suspended shrapnel of worlds long since lost to time, torn asunder and consumed to feed their dying prison, their dying world, their home.

He wished to be the lucky one who gets to see their world change, to stand there and stare in delight as Bill carved an Earth of their own making, a party that never ended, a victory among millions shared in the red rivers of blood from all those who doubted and disobeyed, a thick desire in his disjointed heartbeat to see what was prophesied, be the lucky fish in the endless sea to gaze upon a future carved in their Gods image, to see him spread the lovely ichor of chaos and disjointed agony into every crack and crevice of existence itself.

His destination was nearing, the drop off into the infinite void ever nearing, his hands reaching down to grip the edges as he slowed to look down, down into it. The black spiraling mass of destruction ripping and tearing at the chunk of world he put his every stake in. The thing that suspended them, kept them alive, its dying drones and grumblings heard in the white noise whispering into his eardrums, a thousand tongues he couldn’t understand murmuring promise and threat into his soul a sensation that made him writhe.

Eye open wide, he awaited his chance. The blipping, pulsing echo of unbirth ripping apart to give wrought to a colorful light of another world; one to begin his hunt that he may not return from for years to come. The thought of jumping sparked fear in him, a force that ground its heel in his spine and forced cackling from his lips, a sound wheezing and uncontrollable as he sucked in air like it would be his last. Feet digging into the ground as chunks bore from the dirt and fell infinitely into nothingness.

With a satisfied sigh at the painful thrum of life, he vaulted himself off the edge, wind blowing against him as a warning, strands of air holding his arms up and legs back, the screams of a lover trying desperately to hold its partner back from the indefinite emptiness.

Closing his eye, he relished this, enveloped himself in the warmth of a free-standing exit. He hit the ground hard as he sucked in the damp air of a new world surrounding him.

He did not know where he was, but he knew he had a purpose. He scrambled to his feet then dug his claws into the nearest wall to begin scaling it, its structure porous and alive. Thick strands stuck to him with every pull of his hands. It was soft, spongey. Mushroom, perhaps, he voiced to himself asking for agreeance in the disembodied horrors of his fragmented inner narration.

They seemed to agree.

Standing up tall, he stared down at the world below him. Thousands of people, creatures of all kinds, shambling to and fro. None looked like him. None were to be judged for crimes, lest Bill himself arrive to take the land by siege.

Growling lowly, he had a feeling this hunt would take longer than normal. He found them all quite fast, usually. Yet here he could not see a single one. Scaling back down, he clung to shadows as he made his way through this new planet. He’ll find one soon enough.

He was sure of it.

#revised evil stan au #my user on ao3 is unearthlyfromage #unearthlywritings #“The Costs of Our Hubris”#gravity falls au #Stan Pines #Ford Pines #Evil Stan AU

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unearthlyfromage · 8 months

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Chapter 2 is ready!

Huge thanks to @trangenderstan my amazing editor and @koraesdoodles my fantastic beta reader!

Content warning! This story has gore, body horror, major character death, psychological torment, etc. If that's not something you can handle, it's alright! Not all stories are for everyone.

AO3 link;

For those that want to stay here on Tumblr, the chapter will be under the cut!

There was an intrepid silence throughout the large and cave ridden wilderness. Crackle and squeal of odd logs under the blaze of a roaring fire, the man sat in his cave poking at the embers with a large metal rod. It wasn’t as if he’d been here long, no, he was merely hiding out. Away from his crimes, far from civilized people living off foreign lands. A forest of no trees, of no bark and leafy green. Instead, moss. Moss and stone and flowers as far as the eye could see, amongst rows and rows of large fungal brilliance.

Setting the rod down with a huff, satisfied with the warmth, he checked the roast sitting racked above the flames as it was licked and tasted by pure heat. Some kind of three tusked and six limbed boar he’d shot down after it attempted to charge him.

It would make a fine meal, Stan figured, digging through the many bags he’d kept tightly strapped down to one another for the sake of travel.

He watched as it took out a leather bound tome, and sat in a criss-cross as it jotted inquiries and findings of this strange land, a way to keep its wits he figured. Document the places he’s been, the things he’s seen. Everything is quiet, peaceful. A silence he’d grown to love over the years, a change of pace from the whitenoise of other people surrounding him all his life until that swirling bright light dragged him in from the darkness of normalcy.

He was so enthralled he didn’t notice the eye in the darkness.

The creeping and lanky thing staring at him with hunger, claws digging deep into the fungus he’d been latched onto. The boar smelled nice, but he was more focused on the pig with its nose stuffed in its book.

Sliding down the large, thick stock he left jagged lines down either side as he did. The large, black disfigured fingertips slicing through like a steak knife to warm butter, clawed and mangled feet doing much the same. He heaved a satisfied sigh. He had him right where he wanted him.

Stan wasn’t a picky person, not by any means. He knew a tasty meal when he saw one, and it looked so helpless. Of course it was armed, the modified pistol beside him on his belt buckle quite obvious in the glint of the two moons. Slinking his way around the perimeter, Stan eyed this creature like the spectacle it was. Contemplating how he was to do this, he realized that he’d have to find a way inside the cave if he really wanted to have fun. It’s not the prey itself, but the way you approach it, that makes the moment.

Slinking off and into the darkness once more, his one unblinking eye bore into the other with a finality, he thought of a way to make him move. The sounds of wildlife were so loud behind him, the yapping and chittering howls of strange four eyed canines heavy in the air. They smelled food, and so did he. He was going to enjoy the spoils.

He took a moment to process the way these things sounded. The way they skittered. The whimpers and yelps they let out when fighting amongst themselves. Eye refusing to move from his target, he saw the way the other’s head lifted with every noise, that telltale fear yet intrigue. There was no better bait than giving them what they wanted. He fought back the urge to guffaw at past moments, times where he’d played with their minds and watched the way they ticked. Sickening as it was.

Whispering a few trial runs to himself, his mouth curling to match notes, neck twitching in effort he managed to make rather convincing mimics. It was far easier to parrot human noises but animals weren’t too difficult compared to them, it just required a little more practice. Hunkering low he emitted these crowing howls in mocking gestures to the actual thing, on his fours to make adequate sounds in the bush-like moss growths, kicking it up as he circled.

At first there was panic, they all looked the same when they panicked. The way their eyebrows twitched up, mouth curled down and posture lowered, ready. Of course this was not true fear. He knows true fear, in their sniveling vulnerable faces pinned underneath him he’s seen it. An expression that spoke thousands of words. Second, it was curiosity, eyes narrowed and standing up straighter as if he were some kind of higher power. Typical, as they were never anything more than false Gods. Needless to say it got his attention alright, standing up with his gun out and aimed ready to strike. Stan was no dumb animal - he knew this thing was about to shoot, and made louder, more growling sounds to make hairs raise in that way he so adored.

A marvelous, echoing bang rustled through the moss laden woods in a tremble as he fired. Stan eyed the charred greenery just a little up from where he was, a pained croaking whimper leaving Stan’s lips in the hopes it makes the man come up to see if he’s hit anything. Getting up on his feet to silently slink towards the cave away from him, he watched as the idiot took the lure well, boots crunching atop the small rocks to scour the area with a light, talking to himself. Stan paid no mind to it, quickly entering the open stony maw to clamber up the walls and wait on the ceiling, in a divot that goes just above the lip.

Angry mutterings filled the empty echoes, the sounds of scraping and something settling as the other sat down to prod at the meat some more, talking of ‘getting better at his sharp-shooting’. He’ll have to help with his eyesight, staring into the back of his head. He could dig around in his skull a little, find what makes him so rotten. But only He could see such impurities of the mind. Stan was nothing more than a driving force, and he understood that perfectly.

Dropping down slowly, silently, arms flexing taught as he gingerly set his weight towards the floor. Tips of sharp, gnarled toes brushing against rocky ground, he let go once he knew he could ease down silently enough to be masked by the roaring flames. They were so beautiful, even if they were the wrong color. Orange was angry, uncontrolled, unpredictable. Blue fits the dancing brilliance so much better. Tantalizing in the way they waved, every curve and curl exactly as He designed them.

The softest click of talon-like digits against the ground was his only warning, face snapping backwards just in time to see Stan lunge, a yell of panic quickly turning to wails of agony as Stan buried him nose down in the burning embers, stomping down on his wrists to keep him from grasping at his weapon. Screams of laughter and deep, guttural wails filled the forests as Stan quaked with enjoyment, raising his head up to let him breathe the smokey air just to dig it back down, his blackened hands calloused and largely unaffected by the lapping and coiling heat that sunk bites and sharp kisses into the others flesh, melting glasses to skin and eyes as hair went alight in the struggle. He was yanking him by the hair so hard he was sure he tugged out most of it by the time he found it boring. Looking down at his feet, Stan loved the way that disgusting thing writhed and curled in agony, his cries quieter now, interlayed in horrific coughing fits of a man inhaling fungal spore laden smoke.

Throwing him away, he grabbed the gun from its place on his body and threw it far into the woods. It misfired with its impact, but that was hardly of any importance. Stan busied himself with getting the boar off its rack, as the meat tried to crawl away, sucking in breaths like a newborn, grizzling like one at that. He didn’t think the man could see anymore, given the way his eyelids glued shut with melted plastic and tempered glass, but there was always the chance. He never knew why they tried to run at this stage, it wasn’t like there was an existence to look forward to past this point.

Dislodging the metal skewer, he walked towards the crawling man, shaking six fingered hands grasping at the moss as if it would save him. Dragging him back by the ankles, he relished in the fresh sob of wordless mercy that left him, a plea that needed no eloquence. A plea that would ultimately fall on deaf ears, gripping him by the throat to steady him. Hands gripped at Stan's wrist, clawing at his face with desperation, weak legs kicking at him as he garbled and gasped with an agonal need to survive and yet none of it truly mattered.

Despite all his struggling, Stan still plunged the skewer through his mouth, watching the way he went rigid at the searing of heated metal piercing through parts of him he’s never felt before, splintering through soft tissue and jutting out through him, just under his tailbone, moving muscle and bone and soft tissue to the sides. He twitched, flame-broiled mind attempting to process the input of so much pain, and Stan delighted in the little show as he propped the body up on the fire.

Standing there, Stan regarded the scene, trying to judge on the twitchy jagged movements of his whether or not it’s just his body reacting, or if he was actually still alive. Either way, he wouldn’t be for long. Sitting down, he flicked through the papers, one hand holding the heavy book as the other dug handfuls out of the boar to his side. It was a little raw, but he doubted anything living inside this thing would survive his body. Barely anything does, if the diseases he’d stamped out that were presumably “fatal” were anything to go by.

It was generally boring drivel, the only thing irking him were the constant mentions of Him, all the words they choose to use blaspheming Him and His influence, claiming Him to be some sort of monster. Growing increasingly angry with every word, his claws dug rivers through the beaten leather covers, shaking in his grasp as he bore his eye into the corpse.

Standing, he threw the tome into the roaring flames, embers billowing in plumes at the sudden intrusion. He stayed unphased, teeth grit tight enough to rattle his poorly mended skull. He spit on the mangled face as one last act of disrespect, and took his leave, stomping away into the dark woods. Scary and unclimbable to normal persons, but he could see quite well in the dark, not nearly as well as something created for the night but He had graced him with the privilege of such an upgrade.

Moss was soft under his gait, the winds cool on his thick, marred skin. Opening his mouth, he smelled nothing more than an airy, earthy smell, ever so slightly sweet but pungent. Mushroom. Lights in the distance, an indication of life past the rustling of creatures behind him cawing and baying, he figured he could try to find another on the same planet, in the same universe. Though he knew he’d have to leave eventually, they might be cockroaches but they spread out far and wide.

Stepping foot onto paved dirt, he rolled his shoulders. The town was sleeping, night gripping the souls of all the residents putting them under into sleep so sweet and enveloping. He loved towns like these. Silent, empty, the few odd souls up at such an hour stumbling about or slinking away. Criminals and grifters, people after his own heart though he could never place why - he was a man of intense and dedicating loyalty he had no time nor care to dabble in such a thing - it wasn’t as if his nose worked to begin with to take most narcotics.

Taking out a battered photo, he stared down at the look-alike with hatred. An old wanted sign, detailing the high bounty of one Stanford F. Pines. It stained the bottom of his small bag for a decade now, and faded as it was; he found it quite useful to his goals. His steps were quiet for someone so large, lumbering over to a person-esq creature asleep on a bench, hat tilted downward and arms lazily crossed.

Waking it up abruptly, slamming it into the wall it leaned against, he allowed it a few sputtering gasps before dangling the paper in front of it.

“Hello,” he growled out, eye boring deep into the many eye-like dots it had instead. His lips split into a wide open grin. “Have you seen this worm recently?”

It just doesn’t make sense. There was no rhyme or reason to the death of all of these people. It had stopped for a moment, the track growing suddenly cold and dead and yet they always seemed to pop back up again. It was gruesome scene after gruesome scene, the same person. With no explanations, no leads, there was hardly anything they could do but document the phenomenon.

Every town they visited shied away from them. Barred and locked their doors demanding they leave, talking about some great darkness that laid claim to their homesteads and haunted their streets, demanding to know where people that looked just like them were hiding. It was almost scary, in a way. Knowing you are being hunted like vermin. It was a sour taste in the back of his mouth, looking over the papers they had on the subject.

It was dead for years, but the information gatherer they sent to one of the neighboring planets close to their home base grew silent. He already knew about all the natural dangers from the locals, so dying by them was low but never zero. Something about it made him intrigued, the question on his teeth asking if it really was this thing yet again, back from wherever it was hiding.

Who was this thing, if it was a ‘who’ at all. It could be a ‘we’, an ‘it’. Anything. It could be a part of Bill's entourage, but all of their questionnaires rung up dead for that line of thinking. Setting them down, he huffed a sigh and drank from his mug of coffee, six fingers tapping against the wood in a rhythm.

Why was it doing this?

#gravity falls #revised evil stan au #gravity falls au #stan pines #evil stan au #ford pines #the costs of our hubris #unearthlywritings

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