No one's surprised when they show up together. Mabel at least tries to be, but really, it's been obvious for well over six months the tension between them. It's only that much more obvious now, with Bill's hand in Dipper's back pocket, Dipper's eyes fixed forward.

Cipher's always been a little too touchy (Hell, having a body does things to the senses. Tingly, unorthodox things). Running fingers through someone else's hair isn't some heinous crime, and the act's more like detangling knots and separating curls than it is intimate, anyways (Dipper always bats his hand away when Bill pulls at the softer part of his scalp; he sits up and loses the spot in his journal just to push the demon off). If Bill sits too close, or rests his hands too low, no one bats an eye.

What tips people off is Dipper, who swears up and down how much he hates having Bill around, but always bites his lip, and bites it so hard one day, it nearly costs him stitches. It's embarrassing to walk around with teeth-marks on his lower lip, especially when the person he's been biting that lip for can't help but trail the markings with a slow, curling smirk. The stitches are avoided, but people notice just how often he's catching a grin between his teeth when a certain demon appears; they side-glance him every time.

So, yes. No one's surprised when they show up together. There are a few whispers of course, because-. Well, Dipper's not the house-party type, and even though Bill is, people aren't exactly trampling over themselves to invite the town's psychopath anyplace social (not that it ever stops him).

Weirdmaggedon's still a touchy topic, but it's one of those things people opt not to mention.

If someone does bring it up (when Bill first resurfaces, it's all anyone talks about), there's usually a pause, maybe a faint nod of agreement when one of them mutters, old and disheartened, "It just ain't smart, keepin' him around," before going about their business. One of the perks of having a body is that people treat you human, and one of the perks of having an attractive body is that people treat you human, and then some. If they ever choose to run him out of town, Cipher'll first have to drop all the way down from a 10 to a 6, at least.

Until then, the boys make for some pretty fantastic eye candy.

Dipper feels the hand in his right-back pocket squeeze, and promptly yanks Bill's arm away from him, knocking a fist against the demon's chest.

"Okay, yeah, no. Not cool," he repremends. Bill only rolls his eye.

"What do you expect my hand to do on your ass? Play chess?" he teases. It tricks a slight snort out of Dipper, though he makes up for it with a less than approving frown.

"God, would you try to behave?" Dipper groans, running a hand through his hair. "You're lucky Pacifica and I are cool; you're not exactly the face people wanna see around here."

Bill can only laugh at that, slinging an arm around Dipper's shoulders; it earns himself an even dirtier frown than the first. "I'm honored. I haven't been invited to one of these human-festivities since they were burning people at the stake."

Dipper chooses not to hear the part of that statement that suggests Bill definitely fucked around during Salem, and probably caused a good portion of it (Holy shit, he's been around way, way too long). Instead, he tilts his head curiously.

"Didn't you ever go to parties with Ford?" Dipper asks.

That gets a full, surprised laugh out of Bill (He laughs a little too hard, if Dipper's being honest). "You think that guy was invited to parties? Oh, sapling," he coos. Dipper glares at the condescending hand Bill pats his head with (even if it does feel kind of nice) before shaking it off. "Last time anyone in your family was invited to a party, it was-. Let's see." Bill counts on his fingers with a hum, only to shrug. "Well, I forget when the Freemasons disbanded, but-."

"Ha-ha." Dipper rolls his eyes. Bill's too charming to be this big of an ass, on top of everything else. Maybe he knows that. Bill certainly likes pushing the boundary between "loveable scamp" and "definite war criminal" every three-to-four seconds, so the line that separates them is muddled. "You're so smart and clever, it's a wonder everyone despises you."

"Jealousy often has that effect," Bill sighs, buffing his nails on the front of his shirt. He really is an ass. Even more-so when he tries getting his teeth around Dipper's earlobe, only for a hand to block his trajectory; people are already scrutinizing the openly possessive arm slung around Dipper's shoulder. That's more than enough attention.

"You're ridiculous." Dipper shrugs out from under Bill's embrace, elbowing him in the side. Bill only hums.

"And?" he presses. Dipper scoffs, the tiniest of smiles edging across his lips.

"And I hope you die. I hope we both die."

The "flattered" pose Bill takes is about as real as Stan's denchers, and the "touched" voice he uses is even less convincing. "You're really pulling on my heart-strings now, Sapling," he assures, straightening the bowtie around his neck. "You come up with that line yourself?"

Dipper rolls his eyes, but nods his head in turn. "Oh, yeah. Definitely."

"Beautiful. Plagiarism really brings out your eyes," Bill says. For a moment, Dipper slips up, and he really does smile, but it's quick and fleeting. He hides the upturned corners of his mouth by scratching his nose; hell, it's hard enough managing this demon with his defenses up. Imagine if Bill realised Dipper found him charming. They'd have to evacuate the town.

"You really are an idiot," Dipper replies. Bill smiles far too hard at that; he knows he's charming, and everyone really should be worshipping him for it, but it's the fact that Dipper doesn't outright praise him that makes his responses interesting. Even though he knows what's in Bill's pants and vice versa, he's not impressed until he is, and even when he is, he keeps it to himself. Dipper Pines can't stand narcissists. It makes their arrangement all the more ironic.

Bill hums. "You'd be amazed what an idiot can do. For example, accidentally bringing me back to-."

"Don't." Dipper cuts, whirling on him with a pointed finger. This is the one instance he can hold a look that's (by any human's standard) particularly chilling. It'd stop most people in their tracks. Bill thinks it's cute.

"Oh, are we still sensitive about that?" Bill presses a finger into his cheek, smug; probably getting off to Dipper's left eye doing that little twitch thing that he just loves. There's a beat of fight behind the boy's gaze (there always is, let's not kid ourselves), and it only amplifies itself whenever someone brings that up. People haven't let him live it down; Bill most of all.

"Screw you," Dipper seaths.

Bill has a million things to say in response to that particular phrase, but he opts to keep his mouth shut and just enjoy the sour look on his Pinetree's face. He always knows how to shut Dipper up with that little reminder, and the powertrip's kind of fantastic. Dipper's making that one face he does when he's really tee'd off, where his nose wrinkles at the bridge, his mouth gets all small and pinched, and he's slightly flushed, because that's his massive screw-up being flung back in his face, by Bill who technically is the screw up, and is screwing him, and he's never not smug about those two facts (No one needs to know the ladder, but with the way Bill's keeping close quarters at Dipper's side, a hand snatched at his waist, it's not hard to guess something's up).

Bill leads them (even though it's Dipper who's been there a thousand times) through the crowds of people. The party isn't wild by Gravity Falls' standards, aside from one guy hanging off a corner of the Northwest's chandelier, another skateboarding down the banister. It's actually pretty tame all considering, but that's no surprise with the reputation Pacifica's drummed up for herself; the last guy to misbehave at one of her parties got a pretty nasty acrylic in his eye. She's off to the side nursing a wine glass between her fingers, staring down at her phone when the two boys enter, but even with the blaring music, the low lights, fog in the air, her eyes lift on alert and almost instantly zero in on them (creepy).

Bill's tugging one way, but Pacifica gives Dipper a "look" that means she expects him to come her way, and honestly, he's at least nine times more intimidated by his best friend than he is the literal dream-demon. When Bill tries leading him towards the dance floor (everyone clears out just at the sight of him, which feeds his ego as the terrifying monster that he is, thank you very much) Dipper resists, and instead finds himself doing the tugging. Bill follows effortlessly.

Dipper raises his hand slightly on approach, not really smiling, but stretching his lips in an awkward almost-grin. "Hey, Paz," he says.

Once he's close, Pacifica takes a long sip of her wine, eyes cast over the brim of her glass, trailing up and down his figure. She puts the wine glass down, then her phone. Instead of returning the greeting, she sharpens her gaze with pursed lips, chin nestled between her fingers.

"Hmm," she hums slowly, leaning forward, then back, making Dipper shift on his feet. Pacifica grabs her wine again, and with the long line of her finger, makes a circular motion. "Turn."

Dipper chokes a weird, surprised noise. "Are you serious?" he sputters. Pacifica lifts an eyebrow at that. Right. The only reason Bill's allowed within thirty feet of this party is because Dipper's adhering to dress-code for once. Every inch of fabric on his person is Pacifica-approved (Of course it is; she picked everything out).

It's impossible to win a stare-down with the face of a multi-million dollar fashion corporation, but Dipper damn-well tries, before finally giving in with a groan and one quick spin on his heels, displaying his outfit with a complete lack of flair.

"Happy?" he sighs.

Pacifica nods, letting her lips uncurl. It's a lot of approval from someone like her, the most glaring proof being the phone out of her hands, but it hardly lasts.

"You'd look better in a skirt," she mutters into the cup in her hand.

If that weren't the topic on her tongue for the past nine months, Dipper might've been caught off guard. He's still not sure how he's fought her demands off this long, but it's a miracle she hasn't gotten what she wants yet. Call it divine intervention, or just a slow, calculated death.

"How about Over My Dead Body?" he replies.

"Coward," she snorts, fixing the strap of her dress before shooting his figure another up-and-down. Her face looks almost pained, if not the slightest bit amused. "Those legs are wasting away under ripped denim, just FYI."

"Were you gonna say hello, or did you just feel like scrutinizing me?"

Pacifica tilts her head. "Hello, Dipper. Bill. Those legs are wasting away under ripped denim. Just FYI," she repeats, this time with a slight laugh in her voice. Dipper's either trying not to frown, or trying not to grin, and either's just fine by her.

"Remind me to wear Crocs next time I'm here," Dipper says, crossing his arms.

Pacifica eases more firmly into her seat, leaning over to retrieve the phone at her side.

"Go ahead. You'll be shot on-sight," she jokes (Or does she?), taking one final swig of her glass to finish it up. It eases her features out of that really hard, really judgmental expression that Dipper hates.

This time, she stares at the whole of him, not just an up-and-down glance, sliding an arm over the couch to cradle her cheek. "You look good, though. Actually, like... I'm kind of impressed with myself." A hum, then a nod. "One more turn," she says with a twirl of her finger.

Dipper laughs despite himself. "No. You've had enough for one night."

"You're the one who agreed to this, nerd. I'll tell you when I've had enough." Pacifica looks, then shakes her head. "I really did do a good job." She balls a fist under her chin and leans out like she's watching TV, which is a little weird, definitely. Dipper shifts around (should he - like - pose? That'd probably look silly).

"A great job!" Bill chimes in, resituating an arm around Dipper, who jumps at his interjection. Bill's hand weaves its way through Dipper's hair like a pet. "I'm surprised you cleaned him up so well! He's usually a little... ya know."

"Hey! Fuck you," Dipper bites. The arm over his shoulder is practically thrown off this time, and the hand in his hair is slapped away. Bill doesn't seem to mind.

If Pacifica's even a little freaked out by having Bill Cipher at her party, she doesn't let on. The slightest hint of mortification is a shrink in her iris and maybe a small drop in posture, but it snaps back like a finger, and she's casual and composed. Instead of looking scared, she looks amused.

"Well, obviously. That's to be expected from a commoner. I'm hoping to teach it out of him one day," she replies, crossing a leg over the other.

Dipper gapes at her, because-. Well, rude, for one. For another, she says it entirely too easily. "Okay, fuck both of you, actually," he scoffs. They don't seem to hear him.

"You're ambitious, I'll give you that. Can't imagine you've faced a harder project." Bill rests the side of his head in his hand, glancing over his partner like he's some jumble of wires that just won't untangle. Isn't that just the pinnacle of asshole-ary? Dipper starts to scowl.

"He's got potential. Under all his... stuff." A butler comes over to refill the empty wine glass in Pacifica's hand. She rotates it around, a smile itching her lips when she lifts the cup to her mouth.

"I'm within earshot, in case anyone forgot," Dipper snarks, looking between the two of them. This, at least, gets them to stop for a moment. Pacifica rolls her eyes, taking a too-long sip before setting the glass aside. Her mouth prunes at the taste; this wine's a bit stronger.

"Right, right. Sit down." She gestures towards a seat for him to take, but Dipper keeps to his feet. "I still need to coach you on your hair. Did you use the-?"

"Yes, I used your overpriced conditioner," Dipper sighs.

Pacifica examines him, then hums approvingly. "It looks good."

"It looks the same," he shoots back.

"I can assure you $400 dollars worth of imported à feuilles persistantes is not the same as washing your hair with the bar of soap you used on your ballsack." The drink in her hand raises to her lips. Again, it's a little strong, but her features maintain their composure, so that when she meets Bill's eye, her expression is level and good-humored.

"Wouldn't you agree?" she asks.

It's all Bill can do not to break into a laugh, even if his face is upturned in the most annoying expression.

"You're a genius. He's absolutely glowing under your influence! I hardly recognise the guy," he goes on to say, loving the rise each word gets out of his Pinetree. Dipper's arms are practically braided over his chest. With his shoulders up around the ears and a perpetually unappreciative glower pulling the corners of his lips... Well, he looks downright adorable, but it's mainly funny.

"See?" Pacifica throws her hand out, gesturing at the demon, but looking at Dipper. It takes exactly three seconds to recognize he's not amused, and another half-second to see he's not playing along. Her arm drops. "I'm unappreciated." She waits a beat, then sighs. "It's alright. You don't do charity work for recognition, you do it for the greater good."

Jesus, are Dipper's friends all assholes?

He blinks slowly, easing out of a pout, into stoic. He shifts his weight onto his right foot. "Are you done yet?" Dipper asks.

"Almost," she hums, wiping a thumb over her lips. Again, she twirls her finger. "One more turn."

There's a groan. Dipper's head tilts back with an eye roll, shoulders dropping at the demand. Of all the important people in his life, why are most of them sociopaths? Is it him? Dipper tries not to think about it when he lifts his arms out, making a full 360 for the diva nursing her second glass of wine.

It's not a round of applause, but Bill whistles obnoxiously, and the sound Pacifica makes is a good one. It takes her one lean-back to drain the half-cup of wine in her glass (holy shit). Pacifica looks at him, then away, like he's hard to face.

"You look so, so good, oh my god." Her head falls into her hands with a groan, which really should be flattering. Dipper wants to be flattered, but it's almost too obvious Pacifica thinks him being even remotely attractive tonight is due to giving him a bottle of conditioner, pants with a belt, and taking off his glasses. The entire thing is just about patting herself on the back, and-. Holy shit, he needs to see a psychologist; everyone in his life is a narcissist.

"I should get an award for this," Pacifica lifts her head.

Goddamn bitch.

Dipper's about to say something in response to that bullshit, when Bill winds up just behind him to grab his face by the cheeks; he gets a pretty strong pinch going on either one.

"His stupid little face brings it all together, doesn't it?" The demon drags his head close, tricking a mewl out of Dipper's mouth; shocked definitely, but also discomforted, and maybe a little desperate for touch that isn't condescending. He wrenches his face out of Bill's hold, scowling even harder now.

He should've known putting these two in the same room was going to cost his self-esteem. Whatever's left, at least. Dipper rubs his cheeks.

"Totally, totally," Pacifica nods. One of her servants is coming over with another bottle of wine, even though it's been less than a few minutes at best, and Bill's smirking at Dipper like his little "Stupid Face" comment was brilliantly romantic. Well, it's on the lesser side of insults with a ring of the ghost of a complement; that's fair in a way. Still, Dipper's eyes lower, hands sliding down his pants. He retucks his dumb designer shirt back under its dumb designer belt.

"Right," he huffs, then lower, "I'm gonna get a drink."

"Need help?" Bill asks, trying for the millionth time to get his arm permanently around Dipper's shoulder. The smaller steps out of it, like ducking trees.

"Getting drunk? I'll figure it out," Dipper tries for playful, but it's uneven with a little too much hurt in his voice, and it doesn't help that he stops frowning. If anything, it proves he's actually thinking about things, instead of just letting the jabs wash over him like he always does.

Bill's a clever guy, despite his usual antics. He catches the slight mood shift easily, eyeing Dipper over before running a hand down the side of his own face (he adores his Pinetree, he really does, but he can be so sensitive, and not in the fun, sexy kinda way). Bill groans, and with a forced smile, tries drawing Dipper in from where he stepped away by his hand.

"Come on; we're teasing, Pinetree!" Bill whines.

"Mmhmm," Dipper hums, leaning away from the hand holding his; he's not... mad, per say. He's not mad at all. It's just-. Well. He can already tell it's going to be a long night with these two ganging up on him so naturally, it's kind of draining.

And, okay. Maybe he feels pretty good in Pacifica's pretentious little outfit, even with all the added bells and whistles (Dipper fought off a nose piercing with his dying breath, but his ears suffered their fate. They sting like hell, Mabel won't stop poking and prodding the backs, and he can already tell if Bill demands to attend anymore of Pacifica's lame events, it's only a matter of time before there's a ring dangling from his septum).

It's not a big deal being dragged down from that cozy almost-confidence, it's almost unnatural to feel attractive, but it's just-.

Very frustrating. Dipper slips his grip out of Bill's.

When Dipper steps back, Bill groans harder, the smile on his face at least somewhat annoyed, but he's pushing to keep the mood light. "Oh, don't be like that! You know I could never live without your stupid little face, when it makes that stupid little-. Yeah, yeah, that," he assures, gesturing at Dipper's apparently stupid face.

Dipper lifts a hand to his cheek, then frowns. "I'm not-. My face isn't-. Whatever. I'll be back," he grumbles tiredly. There's a punch bowl just a few feet away, and people are starting to resurface now that Bill's out of sight. Dipper looks towards it, making a small half-step in its direction, when something dings at the back of his brain.

There's only one person capable of causing any real damage in the time it takes him to cross the room for a drink.

His eyes go slanted. Dipper spins around on his heels in one swift move, layering Bill with challenge in his gaze, and an accusatory finger jabbing the demon's chest. "Don't do anything while I'm gone, okay?"

It rings a laugh out of Bill's mouth. "It's cute, you think you have authority over me."

Dipper plants his hands on his hips, and while it does nil in the face of an omnipotent dream-demon, it's at least entertaining enough (If Bill's honest with himself, he lets Dipper get away with way too much, just for being idiotically fun to mess with. Otherwise, he'd be a pile of ash, the way he pushes things).

Dipper's face doesn't ease up at his teasing. With a sigh, Bill relents, lifting his hands in surrender (his Pinetree's a real card, this one).

"Alright, alright! I'll play nice as long as you're away, then it's business as usual. Deal?" Bill offers with a sly grin.

Dipper really steps back this time, and with a nasty, not-playing-around look, he eyes the hand outstretched towards him and makes a point of avoiding it. Instead, he turns towards Pacifica. "He," Dipper hisses. "Stays off the wine, got it?"

"Already done." Pacifica solutes, her eyes cast on her phone.

"Buzz-kills," Bill sniffs. The demon doesn't seem fazed by way of his tone. More playful than anything, and probably amused they think their "teamwork" can keep him in check.

(It has, but-. Well, this is a party. They're both out of their element here. No doubt about it).

Bill crosses his arms, leaning off to the side as he watches his Pinetree wade into the clustered crowds of people. He has to admit, even without the fitted pants, it's always a pleasure getting an eyeful of him from behind. Always. Bill rests his head in his hand as a sharp, coy smile spreads across his face.

There's shifting behind him when Pacifica speaks. "You think we took that too far?"

"Huh?" Bill turns, looking back at the girl who has her palm rested flat under her chin. It takes him a second to realize where her eyes are rested, but once he catches on, he lets out a snort. "Aw, he'll get over it! He knows we're not serious." Bill waves her off with his right hand, grinning in the direction his Pinetree disappeared amongst the crowd.

"He probably doesn't," Pacifica retorts, lowering yet another glass of wine from her lips (The fact that she's being so whiny about Dipper's sad little ego-. someone should probably cut her off for the night).

Bill considers her words, looking off. His hands slide into his pockets; even with just the top of Dipper's head all he can make out from the crowd, the stench of moping is palpable. It's not hard to see where Pacifica's coming from.

"Yeah, he's stupid like that." Bill nods, sliding his hands out of his pockets. "The hot ones always are."

To that, Pacifica has to agree. "Uh-huh," she goes, lifting the drink in her hand. She's definitely had too much now, what with the lazy, lidded glaze over her eyes, and the way she drops the glass from her mouth. Still, her head tilted to the side, a small hiccup behind her hand, Pacifica nods in Dipper's direction. "You should say something."

Bill puts a defensive hand over his chest. "Me? You started it, Llama. I'm just the comedic relief here," he protests.

Of all the years Bill's known Dipper, and the previous year when he got to know Dipper, on some weird, invasively human-level, they've never really been... sincere. Not that they lie to one another (although they definitely do), but they keep the mooey-gooey to a minimum. It's not Dipper's style (he's a real worm when it comes to expressing himself). It's definitely not Bill's style, since he's got the same problem, but about 1,000x worse.

Pacifica's looking at him though, like she can see right through his skull, into his brain. It's tingly and purseptive and actually pretty freaky on humans, Bill thinks. He's... kind of impressed.

She levels him with a cold, piercing gaze. This time, her voice is threatening. "You should say something."

Yup. Bill is very, very impressed.

Impressed enough not to kill her on the spot of course, but also enough to take another, less wistful, more contemplative glance in Dipper's direction.

Hell, he's got nothing against confrontation. Dipper might appreciate the gesture (ugh) and Bill can get himself a few kisses if he's smart about the whole thing (less ugh). Besides, his human could do with a few more pounds on his ego; it's healthy!

Instead of admitting defeat, he lifts his shoulders, drops them, and walks into the mosh pit of humans. As he does, he twists on his heels, back-peddling to call out to Pacifica.

"I can see why you don't have a lot of friends! You're scary; keep it up!" He gives her a thumbs up, to which she raises her middle finger.

Where Dipper's situated, the red solo cup's brim gnawed between his teeth keeps in place. He likes chewing on things. No shame in that. The cup begins to split at the rim though, and that's a little more weird. He's trying not to bite his fingernails (He kicked pen-chewing two summers back, but picked up the ladder by chance; like quitting cigarettes and starting cigars).

A hand rides down his chest. His clothes feel tight (really tight, with the way these people are so close to his sides, shoulder to shoulder, back-to-front), but when he pulls at the collar of his shirt, it creates this giant gap against his chest like an endless, open train-tunnel; he must be impossibly malnourished then. He must be so boney. And yet his clothes are incredibly tight, and every inch tailers like a second skin.

There's a creek of plastic under his teeth and a trail of punch down his chin. Dipper quickly snatches the cup from his mouth, wiping the drink off his lips, and instead rests back on one foot, mindlessly placing the nail of his thumb between his teeth. He's not biting down, but his features are tense.

He feels... Really gross. In public. The designer clothes aren't helping, regardless of whatever Pacifica might say. With the way everything moves and bends with him, not the least-bit stained, torn, tattered, Dipper feels completely outside of his comfort zone; It's not a flannel shirt and some jeans he's wearing. It's not his everyday, run-of-the-mill get-up. He's wearing... Clothes. Really nice clothes, and-.

Well, he felt good before, but now he just feels pretentious, like he's geared up for everyone to look at him. Like he thinks he's hot shit, even though he doesn't. Dipper, at the sudden turn of his stomach, snips down on his fingernail and finds he's tearing into it on impulse. The tension in his jaw flexes, tooth breaking nail, before easing up when he's torn off a strip. After over a month without biting, it throbs a little, but it's calming.

He takes a breath- two- dropping the hand from his mouth before taking a sip of his drink.

Looks don't mean anything, anyways.

Dipper closes his eyes for a second, but it's hard with so many people coming within inches of him; it's this daunting force about to topple him over. Instead of easing out of the invasive fold of his clothes (everything touches everywhere; every rib-bone is visible through the lining of his shirt, he can tell), Dipper feels himself settle into his own thoughts. He grits his teeth, breathing harshly through the nostrils.

Looks don't mean anything.

But it's-.

Dipper rubs the back of his neck, hunching over himself, feeling about as pathetic as he probably looks.

He wants to be attractive.

The thought makes him frown. He abandons his solo cup by the punch bowl, creating a wide berth for one guy trying to score himself a drink; the man leans over the table where a stack of red solos reach the ceiling, and his arm feels dangerously close to where Dipper stands, just by being outstretched in his direction.

His skin clams up.

The whole of his skeleton is just poking through his body. He looks ridiculous with his shirt all tucked in, the pants clad over his legs fitted and right, instead of three fingers over-sized. Dipper wants to tear out the backs of the stupid, dumb studs Pacifica had pierced into his ears, but they're still fresh and sensitive. The hair on his head isn't sitting right, and he hates how there's space in the shoes he's wearing, because they're new and stylish and meant to fit.

He's so stupid. This whole event's stupid-.

"Got'cha!" comes a booming voice from behind him. Dipper yelps at the hands slammed over either shoulder and nearly falls on his back when he's whirled around to face-.

Dipper, for the billionth time that night, slaps Bill's hands off him.

"Thought I'd lost you to the crowd! You're a hard one to track, you know," Bill tsks, wagging a finger in his face.

Dipper's features flinch, first sour, then sad, then a soft, indifferent look as his hands slide into his pant-pockets. "I was by the punch bowl." His head tilts in the bowl's direction. His gaze doesn't meet the demon's.

Bill glances briefly at the punch bowl before rolling his eye.

"Gee, thanks for the heads-up. I'll look there next," he snorts, smirking himself silly. The mosh of people surrounding them hasn't dispersed with his presence like it should have. It's too close-knit to notice the demon, and Bill's too pleased with the privacy to announce himself; it's been a long time since he was last unsuspected by a town full of idiots. Or even a room.

One guy tries squeezing past him, and Bill trips him up with a concealed leg, watching the poor fellow bang his chin into a corner of the table.

He turns back towards his Pinetree with a bright, preening smile. "Find what you were looking for?" Bill asks Dipper, falling back so naturally into that easy tone, it's only by chance Dipper notices Bill's finger tapping against a folded arm, the back of his foot jittering once and then settling.

Dipper doesn't give a verbal response; only grabs his drink from the punch bowl table, lifts it with this pressed, tee'd look, wiggling it in Bill's face like 'right here, jackass.'

Bill purses his lips. "You sure took your sweet time getting it."

"I was gone for like, two minutes." The drink rises to his mouth, but Dipper only speaks into the cup. His nose tilts almost completely into the solo, and with the bridge of his nose only hairs away from the cup's brim, he looks like a sad, muzzled dog.

"It doesn't take ten seconds to grab a cup of punch," Bill tsks again, reaching out to lower the drink from his Pinetree's mouth. He peers in. "And look at that; you've hardly touched it!"

"I'm not thirsty," Dipper snips.

"Then why'd you get one?" Bill shoots back.

Dipper doesn't stammer like he normally would, feeling all too stoic when he shrugs the question away. His back leans against the wall behind him, and he finds he's gravitating more and more towards the corner to his right, all until he's nestled in like a bird. He looks off towards the sea of people practically walling them in.

"I felt like it, I don't know. Why do you care?" he asks, even though it's not actually a question. It's an accusation. Bill shouldn't be so tuned into whatever Dipper gets himself up to, whether it's moping around or drinking his drink. The last part's a jab, and Bill knows perfectly well it is, because all it's really meant to do is get them talking about why Dipper's so obviously upset, or run the demon off. There's fair opportunity for some smart banter wedged between those words, but for once Bill's not fast enough to catch the opening slot before Dipper's eyeing him, looking away, and nodding ahead.

"Go back to Pacifica. I'll be there in a sec," he mumbles, replacing the cup against his mouth.

Bill only saddles up next to him, cozy in the corner Dipper's wiggled himself so pathetically into. "Eh, she's no fun. Not like you," Bill teases, side-eyeing him graciously.

Dipper doesn't look at him. "Yeah?"

Bill throws an arm out, one big, narcissistic grin cut across his face. "Of course! There's no joy in life without you around to laugh at!" he assures.

Dipper looks at Bill once, then away, and something sinks in his chest.

Is Bill being funny?

Or...

Well, after a guy's non-stop "funny" for the past few months, you have to stop and wonder if he's actually joking, and you're not just diluting yourself to protect that little bit of ego in your back pocket.

Dipper huffs. "Right."

He makes a move to step out and away from Bill's presence, maybe to get another drink, even though the one in his hand is still mainly full, but the demon catches him by the waist before he makes a complete half-step.

"Hey! That's a good thing! I'm calling you entertaining!" Bill draws him in close, chest-to-chest, sounding so exasperated, Dipper can't help but glower.

There's a rumble in the demon's throat, and a grin across his lips. "Oh, don't make that face; it's too cute!"

What face is he making? Dipper's not sure. Bill presses a finger against his nose, making it scrunch and pinken.

"What? Having a 'stupid face' is cute?" Dipper can't help but let some of the hurt seep into his voice, wafting the hand on his nose away, but Bill's eager to play around; he doesn't catch on until after he's opened his mouth.

"Very!" He leans in sharply, looking every ounce the handsome jackass that he is, his hand placed at the side of Dipper's head, eyebrow arched high.

Dipper waits for Bill to drop the act, but he doesn't.

A beat of silence. Dipper hums, then nods his head.

"I'm gonna walk away now," he says.

Again, he steps out of Bill's presence. As though expected, the demon hauls him back by his waist for the second time, swinging him a little before they're hip-to-hip. It's a good sign, the way Dipper moves so easily under his touch. He's upset, but he's not actually fighting. He wants Bill to make things better, in whatever way he's aiming for, if he still allows the demon to wrangle him around without socking him in the nose.

"Woah, woah, woah, hey, hey, hey! Ok, alright, I'll cut the crap; yeesh, kid," Bill huffs, letting the smile on his face drop. He levels Dipper with a semblance of seriousness, but nothing close to satisfactory. "So you got your feelings hurt-."

Dipper jabs a thumb behind himself. "Walking. Away," he warns.

This makes Bill groan a long, terrible sigh.

"Ok! I hurt your feelings!" he confesses, throwing his hands in the air. The next part, he says hesitantly, almost uncertain, like the phrase confuses him. "And now you're upset?" Bill tests the words in his mouth. Well, they sound right, but his whole body goes on high alert with how his Pinetree's expression shifts so seamlessly; there's a very crucial detail missing, if the deadly sneer on Dipper's lips is anything to go by.

"Would you like to be more specific, or is this going to be more of your cryptic bullshit?"

Bill can't find it in himself to fire back with some brilliant retort, but he makes a sound so obviously offended, it's nearly wild how naturally the noise manifests itself.

"I thought you liked my cryptic bullshit." Bill protests. Dipper folds his arms over his chest; as much as Bill would like to lick a little harder at that particular wound, he knows not to get off track.

"Fine, fine, I'll cut to the chase," is Bill's tired reply, rubbing the underside of his eye; Llama's getting one hell of a nightmare after this. He sucks in a deep breath, holds it, and lets it out in one big puff.

"It was a joke," he explains.

There's silence between them. Dipper stands there, still, like he's waiting for something more to follow the initial statement. But, what's he waiting to hear? The guy's got himself the whole situation, start to finish, muscled in with an explanation and a kind of takesy-backsies, in an "I didn't mean it" sort of way. That should be enough!

And yet, the look on his Pinetree's face only sours at Bill's response. He blinks so slow, it's almost comical.

"Alright, yeah. Nope. Fuck you," Dipper breaths after a moment, near-laugh, but also... Not a cry, but the offence taken up in his voice isn't anything fun to hear. He's pulling away from Bill again, and as much as the demon tries to keep him in place, Dipper's putting a little more muscle into forming a gap. Not a good thing. The hand running through his hair can only be in distress.

"I get this is like-. Like being an ass is your thing, but you seriously don't have an off switch-?"

"It was, though!" Bill interrupts. Dipper jumps. "You think I'd pick at your looks if you weren't the most screwable guy here? You're usually so unphased!"

Dipper doesn't seem to understand that the whole thing was for fun! If he were actually unappealing, Bill wouldn't have said a word (it's hard keeping the mood light when some ugly bastard's got their self-esteem in a tizzy, just because you bothered to bring up the obvious). Besides, Bill meant no harm. Hot-egos are usually cushion enough to get a few good jabs in, and for people like Dipper, who don't get they're attractive, it's all about thick skin. His Pinetree usually has thick skin.

Not tonight, apparently.

"Well now I am phased, okay? And it's-. Look, you're being a serious dick right now, so could you just cut it out?"

There's a very real pause between them when Bill looks into his eyes and Dipper looks back; they seem to be thinking the same thing the second it's said, because the demon's face sort of... morphs with the request, into a very confused shape, and Dipper only looks disappointed in himself.

"Cutting it out" isn't really an option.

Bill scratches his chin, clearing his throat. "...Dial it back?" he suggests.

There's a drop in Dipper's shoulders, from being tight and wound, to so sloped that they practically dislocate from their sockets. He sighs, dragging a hand down his face. "Sure. Whatever."

"Alright. I'll try." Bill stretches his arms up then out, like he's preparing for a marathon. His elbows lock with the interlace of his fingers, making a slight crack at the pop of his knuckles, which gets an eyeroll out of his Pinetree. Maybe even a little scoff.

"You," Bill coos, drawing the boy in, once again, by his hand, until he's got either arm wrapped around Dipper's lower back. "Look stunning tonight." His teeth are sharp to a point, the pink of his gums peeking out under his lips. It gets the tiniest of snorts from Dipper, but that's only because Bill's so ridiculous when he needs to be (He might also like the closeness of their chests). The demon goes on.

"You looked stunning yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that, and the day you were born," Bill layers, leaning in on his target until their foreheads are pressed together. Dipper's looking away now- down, between their bodies- but the tiniest of grins twitches the corner of his mouth before evaporating.

"What? When I was a baby?" he deep pans, trying with every muscle not to give in so easily, but-. Damn it, his demon is so charming sometimes.

"Don't ruin the mood." Bill pokes his nose. "Llama-."

"You," Dipper corrects. Bill scoffs.

"Llama and I, how about that?" The arms around Dipper's lower back pull him in a little closer, and he steadies himself awkwardly on his feet. Dipper tries (by god, does he try) not to tilt his head up- he wants the hood of his brow to keep him glaring- but with how close they are, and how much taller Bill is than him, Dipper finds he has to if he wants to meet the other's gaze. It makes him feel small. Like this, it isn't so bad, but it's patronizing the way his chin comes up just above Bill's collar bone.

"You know we love poking fun at you. You've got that little... your nose does that tiny-. And then your eyes get all-. I can't reproduce it of course, but you get the idea. It's fun making fun of you."

Dipper's shoulders, if it's possible, drop even harder than the first time.

"You're losing me, fast," he warns. Bill's quick to add on.

"But, sometimes we go a little overboard, she and I. You're a big boy about the whole thing, you never take it to heart, so I guess we just..." Bill's head tilts side to side, looking up in contemplation. "Thought you wouldn't take this to heart, especially with how you're looking."

Dipper's defenses are instantly back up from where they'd slipped down. He's leaning out of Bill's touch now, expression wary with offense.

"And how am I looking, exactly?" he challenges. Bill doesn't skip a beat.

"Like a hot young meal, obviously," he shrugs.

Dipper falters.

It sucks. It sucks so much, because he can already feel the tension slip out of his clenched jaw. His eyes go wide and a slight plea bleeds into his expression, right before he brings himself back into that stern, immovable look; it feels way too good hearing those words, and hearing them like Bill means it.

He's only trying to flatter him, Dipper reminds himself. He tries to maintain the hard face he's making, but it's too vulnerable now. Looking up at Bill, his brow's furrowed, but his eyes are borderline begging for validation, even as he squints at the hand patting his cheek.

"You'd think a guy like you'd have a bigger ego to pick at, but you're all insecure about crappy human stuff."

Dipper lets the hand stay; It's warm and scarred from palm to wrist in scrapes and all other madness Bill gets up to. He's leaning into the touch and he knows it, but as long as Bill doesn't bring it up, it's not happening, and they can still argue like Dipper hadn't melted the second Bill came after him in the crowd.

"So it's my fault?" Dipper says. Bill runs a thumb against the side of Dipper's cheek, feeling the tension of his pulled expression, but it's less reflexive, more forced with the way Dipper actively has to concentrate on keeping up that tight, upset look.

It's not hard to guess Bill's already won with just how easily his human opens up to his advances, practically unfolding with every touch. A lot of him wants to laugh (watching Dipper's "challenging" expression flicker in and out of existence is too much like an angry dog wagging its tail, and who doesn't enjoy a feisty submission?) but he keeps to the script. It's no fun winning when your opponent's still able to move.

(And maybe, just maybe, the thought of anyone finding Dipper less than satisfactory- who would ever doubt Bill's fantastic taste?- leaves a weird, agitated ache in his chest).

"I think it's a lot of people's fault for scrambling your self-esteem to hell." Bill's arms leave him for only a second, flaring out for emphasis (It's up to both of them not to mention how shitty that lack of contact feels, or just how good it feels when his hands resettle on Dipper's waist).

"I'm just here to let you know that what Llama said, and maybe a smidge of what I said, were only said to keep the potential of a massive ego in check."

Dipper rolls his eyes. "Ah, yes. Because I'm the one with the ego."

"You should be!" Bill's grip tightens at the phrase. A kind of "zip" motion, the way Dipper's lower back pulls in at Bill's hands, like the demon needs him that close, can't stand having even an inch between them (even though there never was).

It catches Dipper off-guard, who now has his shoulders practically up around the ears and a very much squeezed look on his face. With his chest puffed out the way it is, he looks close to popping, just before Bill eases up. Dipper coughs when the demon's grip loosens; frowns, but he's been doing that all night.

"I mean, come on; I've seen everything! I'm a pretty picky guy when it comes to fleshy-stuff, but do you ever hear me complaining about that face? Have I ever turned you down?"

Dipper thinks about it.

Well, no, not from what he's seen. Not in an "I find you revolting" kind of way, at least. Bill is picky with his company; he'll talk to anyone, but he only hangs with a select few, and bangs even fewer. For all Dipper knows, he's the first to actually win Bill's favor in that department, which has to mean something. Bill's nowhere near refined, but he's about as high-maintenance as it gets, and who's to say he'd get within 30 feet of a body he didn't like the shape of?

Dipper...

He keeps it in mind.

Bill, master of the mind, doesn't miss the blatant contemplation flashing across his Pinetree's face, and decides it's the perfect weakpoint he needs to move in for the kill. He plays up the smirk on his face (the same one, coupled with lidded eyes, usually means trouble on Dipper's end), pressing a thumb under his Pinetree's chin.

"You're one fine," Bill starts coolly, riding his tongue over his teeth. "Tantalizing." The hand on Dipper's lower back drops an inch. Bill feels the breath in his human's throat catch. "Flexible little mortal," he purrs, leaning down to capture those lips in a kiss.

Easy. Too easy.

Except Dipper blocks the trajectory of his mouth with the palm of his hand.

"You still haven't apologized," he deadpans. Bill tries so hard not to groan.

It really was too easy.

"Sorry you're so sexy-," Bill starts. Dipper's palm shoves even harder against his lips, pushing his head so far back that his throat makes a long, bumpy ridge.

Sure. Fine. Okay. So Bill's gotta play nice, no surprise there. Still, his Pinetree really should stop while he's ahead; he's getting a little too comfortable around the same guy who shot a hole through his stomach once.

Dipper pulls his hand back at the shake of Bill's head, and looks on intently as the demon smooths a hand through his hair, a grimace clear on his face. He huffs. "I'm sorry I teased you. I promise to ease up on the whole looks-thing, and we should seriously consider signing you up for self-confidence classes."

That hits the nail on the head apparently. Suddenly, the slight smile Dipper's been starving off is blooming across his face in full color; he's leaning into Bill's arms just a bit, like his half-hearted little "sorry" was all it took to have him easing out of that sturn pose. It probably was.

"I'll pass," Dipper says, placing either hand on Bill's chest. He straightens up for a kiss square on the demon's mouth, humming at the warmth spreading through his ribcage before pulling away. "I forgive you for being an asshole," he pokes.

Bill snorts. "I accept your forgiveness." Another kiss, this one fast and fleeting, before he's arching his eyebrow. "Are we good then?"

Dipper shrugs, looking off. "I mean, yeah?" he replies. A hand comes up to rub the back of his neck; he feels a little silly now that the smoke's cleared, and he sees just what he was so upset about. The thought has him clearing his throat. "Looks aren't everything. It doesn't-."

Bill stops him short. He already knows what idiotic notion his Pinetree's working off of, and- sorry, not sorry- it has to be the worst thing ingrained in that annoyingly brilliant little mind of his, right up next to his moral compass and empathy. Before he knows it, he's smacking Dipper's little checks between his hands, forcing the human to stare him straight in the eye.

"Oh, no, no, no, no, no. None of that. What did I just say?"

Dipper startles at the hands on his face, but unlike every previous instance of contact, simply endures it for the weirdly endearing possessiveness it suggests. He squints.

"That you're sorry?" Dipper guesses. Bill shakes his head.

"The other thing," he hints.

"I need self-confidence classes?"

"Yes, but the other thing." Bill rolls his eye at the human's cluelessness. It's so obvious, honestly, with the theme of the day being all the same. He waits a beat for his Pinetree to catch on, but he just keeps looking at the demon with that dumb, mortal confusion, and by god is that frustrating. The demon can't help but groan when he blurts out, "You're sexy, moron!" Bill throws his arms up. "Stupidly, idiotically sexy!"

Dipper jumps at the exclamation, and just the look he gives Bill; well, it can't be hateful- he could never hate Bill (except for when he did, but those times are over, far as grudges go). He looks more annoyed, like Bill's still teasing him after the little roller coaster they just rode. Like he'd kick him while he's down (he wouldn't, for the record. At most, he'd laugh, and maybe take pictures), because Bill's so obviously mocking Dipper and all his silly human insecurities.

Dipper really, really doesn't think he's attractive.

From an outside view it's already insulting, but from Bill's perspective, as the guy putting all his winnings into this biodegradable bozo, it's a pretty big question of his judgement. There isn't anything worse than suggesting he- i.e. Bill Cipher- is wrong about anything. Ever. Him, the guy who's been around for eons, knows his shit, thank you very much.

Dipper's face sets in mild frustration for only a moment, then his lips press inwards, eyes snapping down as he fists the base of his shirt. Bill trails the look on that human's face- wanting to be desirable, but trying not to care- that's the final straw.

"Oh, come 'ere," Bill coos as he buries his face in Dipper's neck. There's a slight yelp as his Pinetree's backed farther into the wall behind them, into the corner of the room, and a hand comes to the side of his throat, thumb pressing into his jugular. The boy's back goes rigid, before melting at the smooth circles rubbing into his neck, and he can't help but snicker when Bill layers the back of his ear with a kiss; it tickles.

"You're a dork," Dipper snorts, running a hand through the demon's hair. He cradles the back of Bill's head as it moves around, first near the ear, now trailing towards the dip in his collar bone. It gets a pleased hum out of him. "You're so," he starts, head leaned back. Dipper's trying to find the word he needs, swaying side to side on his feet, but he can't focus with how Bill decides to suck a particularly dark hickey into the side of his neck. It's all easy, smooth pleasure- fuck it, he's seen worse PDA at parties, and at least they're not-.

Dipper jumps, tightening the hand fisted in Bill's hair. "Your hand's really low right now."

He wiggles around a bit, feeling the one hand situated on his neck, while the other one comes dangerously close to his crotch. Bill's got a hand in between Dipper's thighs, right below the important stuff, just rubbing up and down, up and down, making the fabric of his pants slide against his leg.

"Mmm," Bill hums against his neck. He sounds smug, a smile pressed into Dipper's throat.

"Your hand's really, really low. Bill, you're-," Dipper stops himself then, breathing harder than he'd like when Bill slides his palm over his crotch, and just circles around. He bites Dipper's neck, worrying the skin between his teeth.

"You are so hot, you know that? You were built to be looked at." Bill adds pressure to the designated area, basking in the way his Pinetree's knees jitter, like he can't keep himself up, so quickly swept away by the sensation. There's growing interest under Bill's palm, and within seconds, he can lay the full of his hand against the cute cock trapped in Dipper's left pant-leg.

Dipper huffs, because if he doesn't huff, he's not sure what sound he's going to make, and that's just the problem. "This is-. Wow, you move fast. You're moving-. Uh-." Dipper's very close to drawing more attention than he needs. He ducks his head into Bill's shoulder and bites down, stuffing his mouth full of the demon's shirt when he can't help but let out a slow, long groan; this damn guy's leaning in about as close as humanly possible, and with how Bill's going about stroking him through his pants-. Dipper gasps, lurching forward when Bill's hand slides up, off his privates, only to slip a hand past the constraints of his belt and handle him, skin-on-skin.

Holy shit.

"Bill, we're-," Dipper tries, but he gets lost in the sensation. His eyes squeeze shut at the twist of Bill's wrist; he's hot-handed, digging past his waistband to get a fist-full of Dipper in this crowded room, and even with any number of people capable of turning around and seeing just what the demon's doing, Dipper can't help the tight coil in his lower abdomen. He knows what Bill's trying to do; it's annoying, and inappropriate, and he loves how that hand feels on him. Bill's trying to prove a point, in the most mortifying way possible.

"Bill, we're in public." Dipper braces his hands on either of Bill's shoulders; not pushing away. Trying to steady himself on shaky legs, with the hand down his pants shooting chills up his spine in tantalizing, slow strokes. Bill's thumb swipes over the concealed slit of Dipper's cock, chuckling against the human's neck at the almost violent jump it does in response.

"Stop?" Bill asks coolly, stilling his hand.

A whine catches in Dipper's throat at the sudden halt, but he swallows it down. The corner they're in is curtained by a mosh of bodies swaying to music, puffing smoke and singing at the top of their lungs. There are people nearby, but nothing close to brushing hips or bumping shoulders, not with the way Bill's caging them in, body to body. When Dipper peeps his eyes open, peering around, no one seems to be watching, and if anyone is, he doesn't see them, and if he doesn't see them, they don't exist.

He sucks in a breath at the sight of Bill's hand down his pants, peeking a bit of tongue out the corner of his mouth to wet his lips. This is stupid. This is probably really stupid. "...Just a minute," Dipper says.

Bill grins. "Can't last any longer?" he teases, starting up that slow, teasing pace he had going before. It startles a groan out of the human, hands at either side clawing the wall, like he's clutching for something to grab onto. His mouth falls open before snapping shut, and he really needs to keep himself under control if he plans on spending any more summers in this town. Dipper bites his lip, furrowed in determination, that aroused, angry look that drives Bill crazy, bare on his face.

"Shut up," he chokes, sliding his hands farther down the wall and wrapping one around Bill's wrist; the one in his pants.

The Northwest's guest bathroom isn't nearly as luxurious as the main bedroom's, but it's bigger than any hotel room either of the men have hooked up in, and definitely more expensive.

The bathroom door's knob is encrusted in intricate golden designs, peddled in tiny leaves and vines, with the whole of one great, old silver tree wrapping around it in 360. The painting that hangs over the toilet is pretentious as anything else (men on horses is one thing, but a man you know on one is something else entirely; Preston Northwest has no taste). The sink is pearly white- marble. Just above it hangs a wondrous, entirely too-large mirror framed in golden vines and leaves, just as the doorknob.

Not that either men seem to notice.

Once the door's shut behind them, Bill has Dipper slammed against its frame, hands placed on either of his Pinetree's hips as he grinds his waist against his. Dipper's left hand fumbles for the knob's lock, just barely twisting it in place before Bill's hand is back down the front of his pants, and fuck. This demon's impatient.

Dipper hisses at Bill's right hand twisting in his pants, his left palming Dipper's ass. He's exactly zero percent slow, now that they're alone (Bill was close to pulling Dipper's dick out through the zipper in that corner, and he would've if Dipper hadn't realized the breeze sliding over his tip). With the crowd all gone and Dipper in full agreement, it's all Bill can do not to jump right to the good part.

He's got an agenda, after all.

"Feels good?" Bill asks, twisting his wrist on the upstroke, in that heady way he knows his mortal likes. Dipper's wanting to say something, but it's hard with his bottom lip trapped between his teeth, taking short, tortured breathes through his nose. Dipper rolls his hips up, trying to get a little more of that friction as he wraps his arms around the demon's neck, which Bill loves. It's impossible not to when he knows the guy's practically never kept happy. At least here, like this, Dipper's simple and easy, with every button Bill knows are good to press.

He pulls his hand off, looking smug at the noise his Pinetree makes.

"Aw, look at you." Bill coos, running a finger down Dipper's face. Dipper forces himself to let the lip between his teeth go, puffing out a breath as he slides against the door, braving a glare he can't back up. "Just a hot little human trying to get off; so cute," Bill teases, sliding his hand back over the front of Dipper's pants.

One quick move, and the fly's coming down, belt undone, underwear tucked neatly below his cock, and with Bill's hand back on him, it's hard to look ticked off.

Dipper manages.

"Ah-. God, stop talking. Just-." Dipper's head falls back, thighs clenching when he looks down to see that tan hand wrapped tight around his erection. He wants to compose himself- to look in control- but how to go about it when all he knows is that hot swim in his gut and a vicious smile close to devouring him whole? Bill squeezes Dipper's hip bone, and he finds his body jerking both from and towards the pain.

"You should see yourself." Bill presses the pad of his thumb against the underside of Dipper's dick, watching as a bead of precum pearls at the tip. He swipes it away, and the glide of his hand becomes that much easier. "Fuck, you drive me more insane than I already am, did you know that?"

Dipper swallows a groan, running a tongue over his bottom lip where the outline of his teeth burn red. "Ugh, just- put your dick in me," he starts. Bill laughs, but spins them around to face the mirror. He shoves Dipper against the sink, forcing him to catch himself by gripping either of the faucet's crystal knobs.

Dipper's eyes lock on his own reflection; his face has gone completely flushed by now, hair a mess, the erection between his legs hard as a rock, and now left unattended, what with Bill's focus repurposed to slide either of his hands down Dipper's ass. The image is invasive, vulgar, like he's watching porn rather than living it, and yet he feels what this guy in the mirror's about to experience, the hands running up and down his back, raising his designer shirt to the dip in his spine, a predatory smile cast over his shoulder from Bill's reflection-.

He looks away.

There's a sudden whistle from behind him as Bill, having moved Dipper's pants down to his mid-thighs, discovers something rather interesting in his back-pocket. "You brought lube? Oh, that's filthy," Bill purrs, running his fingernails up Dipper's spine, ravishing in the full-body shiver it elicits, all while his other hand pops the small bottle open.

Dipper's face goes red from his cheeks to his chest, all the way to his shoulder blades; it's a beautiful color, Bill thinks, wetting his fingers with said lube and rubbing circles between Dipper's legs.

"Some of us- come prepared." Dipper gasps at the cool press behind him, feeling two fingers drag up and down while Bill's hand pries him open to watch. Again, he looks up at his reflection, but he has to glance away because if he doesn't, he's going to topple over the edge, and Bill already thinks he's trigger happy.

He sucks in a breath as a hot finger slides inside him, peeking his head out from where it'd been resting behind folded arms to watch the steady rhythm of Bill's hand coaxing him open.

"Trust me, you're not prepared for this coming," Bill jokes. Well, it's a pun; Dipper doesn't doubt he's walked into yet another one of these encounters severely out-classed. "I'm gonna make you cry."

Bill lays the whole of his chest over Dipper's back, and with his free hand, lifts his Pinetree's ducked head up by the chin, so his hand rests possessively around Dipper's craned neck, and his eyes are level with his reflection's.

It's surreal, watching his own pleasure bloom before his eyes. This time, Dipper can't turn away- not with Bill's thumb digging into his cheekbone, index and ring pressing into his throat- so he shuts his eyes.

"Keep talking, and I just might," Dipper snarks back, the hand around his throat sliding away. That gets a chuckle out of Bill, who decides to speed up the jerk of his finger until he's practically slamming into him. A second finger slides in, and ten seconds later, there's a third, and a very deliberate press. "Oh-."

Dipper can't help but curl into himself, mouth agape at that fiery pressure shooting through him. For a second, it's all he can think about, and- eyes shot open, forehead pressed against the glass- he watches freely the congratulatory smirk curl across Bill's lips, and his own expression, twisted in all kinds of ecstasy.

"Easy, Sapling. Don't want them hearing you out there." Bill rests his chin against Dipper's shoulder, their eyes meeting in the fogged reflection of the mirror. Looking Dipper in the eye while he takes him apart, and seeing that resolve break just at the prompt of Bill's dominance, is always fantastic. But seeing Dipper's gaze, and then seeing the whole of himself, how completely and entirely he's incapacitated his Pinetree, made him submissive, easy and malleable as any other conquest, is an entirely new sensation.

Oh, he likes this.

Bill leans up, just a bit, to push Dipper's shirt above the shoulder blades. "Hands behind your back," he commands.

The pause lasts only a moment, with the line of Dipper's back going rigid in first alert, then arousal. His eyes trail the reflection of Bill behind him, who's taking the undone belt from his designer pants, pulling it from its loops with obvious intent; he's holding it in his free hand, and with his other, twists and presses so hard that Dipper yelps.

There's a lip between his teeth, then there's not, and Dipper finds himself slowly folding his hands behind his back. He swallows, layering Bill with expectation.

"I'm trusting you," Dipper says finally; he can't help his heart leaping in his throat as Bill takes the belt in his hands and binds either of Dipper's wrists behind his back.

"Bad idea." Bill punctuates the statement by cinching the leather tight, and then looping it several times, keeping the excess leather clutched in his fist. "Unless you're trying to get fucked an inch from your life, that is."

Dipper can't see from this angle, but he absolutely feels Bill's fingers slide out of him, and hears the purr of a zipper being undone. Seconds later, there's a firm, thick length nestled between his cheeks; he shivers when Bill pulls back, tapping his cock just below Dipper's tailbone before lining up and leaning in.

"Oh," Dipper can't help the bubbling sound that escapes him, practically pushed out of his chest. He hisses between his teeth, forehead leaning against the faucet, the sweat of his skin dotting the back of his neck before sliding to dangle at his Adam's apple. He swallows, and the sweat flicks off.

"Mmm, look at that; your body opens up so easily for me." Bill places a hand against the back of Dipper's neck, using the grip- along with the hold he has on his bound wrists- to lead further in. His Pinetree's just so tight. It's almost painful, looking down and seeing the hot stretch that surrounds him, trying desperately to suck him in. Bill rocks his hips and nearly loses himself to the high-pitch whine it drags out of Dipper. It's fucking sinful, is what it is.

After what feels like forever, he bottoms out with a snap, feeling the body beneath him writhe, arms straining at his bound wrists, panting and shifting and suddenly so overwhelmed by the thick length nestled inside him; not pressing, but bumping close to where he actually wants it to hit. Dipper arches his spine, trying to move back on Bill's cock, but the grip of his nape is firm, and when Bill pulls out, he pulls out slow.

"Bill-," Dipper gasps, trying to turn from his own reflection to the demon behind him, but Bill's grip is impossibly tight in his hair. He pushes back in, pulls out, and then snaps forward hard, making sure Dipper sees his own twisted expression.

"You're so good. Just a perfect little-." Bill growls into his ear, bending forward to sink his teeth into the side of Dipper's neck.

"Oh my god, please-." The belt holding Dipper's hands in place is starting to dig into his wrists, but it's nothing compared to the painful throb of his cock; if he grinds forward, there's nothing but smooth, unblemished marble, and if he grinds back-.

Bill's no help, obviously.

"Everyone wants a piece of this, but only I can have it; isn't that right?" Bill takes a second to himself to ease into a quick rhythm- Dipper pants and moves back on it, like he'll die without it- before slowing down again. The sound his Pinetree makes-.

Dipper thinks he's the one being tortured here; he has no idea the finesse that goes into Bill's work.

"Fuck-. Bill, fuck me; fuck me, come on," Dipper goes on to say, each word breathy, the hands behind his back clenching into tight fists. He's shaking now- literally shaking- he feels light-headed at the angle he's being fucked at, red-faced, and every last drop of blood directed towards his dick. It's awful. It's fantastic.

Bill lets go of his nape, sliding his hand instead around Dipper's throat, pulling him up from his folded position so his chest is on full display; a long, taut stretch of Dipper's stomach, his cock curved and aching with precum, and his knees buckling as Bill rocks into him. Dipper wants so badly to act in control, but right now, with the image he makes in the mirror, he'll be lucky to walk away from this with even half his pride.

He doesn't really care.

The hand around Dipper's neck squeezes; there's nowhere to look but ahead, and he sees himself, shivering, red from temple to thighs, practically splitting his lip open with how hard he's biting down. Each slow, calculated rock works a muffled moan out of him, grinding against that really good spot, and he watches, mortified but entranced, as his face shifts into one he's never seen before.

It's one Bill's seen a thousand times though, and at a thousand and one, still loses his composure. He snaps his hips once, stirring around to draw out yet another tight whine from his Pinetree, before deciding he's played it slow long enough.

"Eyes on the price, sapling." Bill directs Dipper's gaze forward, starting up a brutal pace.

Dipper's body convulses at the sudden speed, every muscle clenching up, chest heaving like it's impossible to breath in his position, and a hand wrapped tight around his throat- it might actually be hard to breath, but that's the least of his worries now.

Bill's cock drags mercilessly over his prostate, trailing over and over again (if he was trying to drive Dipper insane, this would be the way to do it). With the grip Bill has on him, squeezing but not choking, arms behind his back, Dipper can hardly shift around, let alone angle, just having to take the long, invasive strokes as they come.

"Bill, Bill, Bill-," Dipper starts to chant, head falling back on the demon's shoulder as the building pressure inside him becomes unbearable. He feels it right through his cock, zapping electricity as his body braces for a release Bill's yet to provide him. The hand around his throat tightens, and his head lifts from Bill's shoulder.

Their reflection is obscene.

"See that?" Bill grits through his teeth, slamming into the body before him until Dipper's practically impaled. He sucks in a hiss, taking the hand not around Dipper's throat, and placing it at the human's hip; moving him back on his cock with the glide of his wrist. "This is what I see; just you, completely gone, taking what I give you," he breaths into Dipper's ear, meeting his gaze in the mirror's reflection.

Dipper's mouth falls open with a moan, and Bill can't help but smile at the sheer volume- that's one way to get caught. The hand that'd been wrapped around his throat clamps tightly over his mouth, leaning them forward so one of Dipper's legs ends up propped on the sink's countertop, fucking into him with new-found vigor. Like this, Bill's cock goes from sliding against him, to hitting with such accuracy, it nearly hurts.

Dipper cries out against Bill's hand, straining against the belt, but it doesn't budge. He stares wide-eyed at his reflection, and nearly comes when he notices the tears streaming down his own face.

Bill did say he'd make him cry, but this is so much more than what he thought he could handle.

"And you always look so grateful for my cock," Bill purrs. His thrusts are becoming more erratic, but he keeps his eye on the mirror at all times. "Doesn't take much-." He hisses. "-To satisfy you. Not with a dick down your throat."

Bill's cock punches his prostate, and Dipper has to fight to keep up. The position they're in now has him practically chest-to-chest with the mirror, shoving him up with every hard thrust from behind. Bill's not letting up, regardless of the heavy puffing of his chest, eye lidded and glazed. If anything, it means he's going harder, faster; fucking Dipper like he hates him, and Dipper loves that.

Bill takes the hand rocking Dipper's hips, and moves it to the front, just above Dipper's cock. There's shifting around on Dipper's end, bare interest when he sees those fingers, how close they are to brushing over him, how close he is to reaching his peak. His hips tilt up, trying to bump against them, but Bill lays the hand flat across Dipper's stomach.

When Bill presses down with the ball of his palm, thank god for the hand over Dipper's mouth. He actually squeals.

Oh god. Oh god.

Dipper can feel him there.

Inside, thrusting up, bare pressure behind the skin of his belly, and when Bill pushes against it, there's a hot flash running all throughout his system. Bill is literally-. He's-. He's right there, and with the way Dipper's stretched out, his back pressed into Bill's chest, he can even see the slight dent created with each of the demon's thrust.

He's so deep inside him.

He wants Dipper that much.

Dipper writhes, straining against the belt holding his arms back, coming with a long whale while his body shakes at the intense throb of his cock. His hips buck out at the continual assault of his prostate, huffing and breathing; it lasts longer than he's sure is normal. Once the climax subsides, he goes completely limp, just leaning into the thrusts with weak little wimpers.

"So hot, just so-. Fuck," Bill bites, shooting into Dipper at the sight of his climax. Dipper lets out a small whine, his spent cock jumping uselessly. The demon rocks his hips forward, milking his finish for everything it's worth.

They stay like that for a while, both puffing, sweaty, looking over each other like they're some new discoveries. Bill slides out after a moment, working to undo the constraint of Dipper's wrists.

"In case you couldn't tell, that was meant to boost your ego," Bill huffs a laugh, slipping the leather off. Dipper's hands spring out from either side, rotating round at the tight feeling locking either wrist up.

"Hmm," Dipper hums, sliding his eyes shut, completely exhausted. He sets his arms out in front of him, and they jitter. Okay. That was-.

Wow.

He opens his eyes again, and stares at himself. A lip curls in before sliding back out. Leaning off the sink's countertop, Dipper can't help but notice the yellowing bruise left on his waist from Bill's tight grip, the bite mark on his neck. He looks like a mess.

Bill seems to like that though, for whatever reason, and who's Dipper to look a gift horse in the mouth? Regardless of how he feels, there's at least one person who finds him attractive; that's more than enough.

Dipper shrugs, a slight smile on his lips when Bill comes up from behind, wrapping his arms around the human's waist. There's a very good ache inside him.

"You should go into motivational speaking," he jokes. Bill laughs.

"You couldn't pay me to fuck anyone else the way I fuck you; you're spoiled as is," he replies, placing a kiss against Dipper's neck. It's warm and soft. He leans into it, smiling.

"Good. I don't want you to." Dipper looks up at the demon and can't help but snort into the kiss levied across his lips.

He pulls away, working to fasten his pants back around his waist; Pacifica's probably wondering where they ran off to...

On second thought, she probably knows.