(A/N: AS STATED BEFORE, IF YOU ARE NOT COMFORTABLE WITH THE TRIGGERS EXPRESSED IN THE STORY'S DESCRIPTION, IT IS HIGHLY RECOMMENDED TO NOT ENGAGE WITH THIS FIC, AS IT WILL BE LADEN IN VERY TRAUMATIC SCENARIOS, STARTING WITH THIS CHAPTER. YOU HAVE BEEN CAUTIONED.)

Nothing for miles.

That's what 8-Ball told him, pulling into the lot. Just trees, dry earth and a makeshift cemetery outback. Best not to try anything. Dipper wasn't sure what the man expected him to do in his current state, drowsy as he was. Wherever they'd been headed took more than a day to reach, prompting sleeping pills and water, which Dipper had been coerced into taking once he proved difficult; nearly drove them into a ditch after left-hooking 8-Ball's cheek. (He'd considered Dipper a tad smarter than that). A knee-jerk reaction to twist his body- steering wheel in hand- before regaining himself.

That little shit .

8-Ball showed restraint, even if the devil on his shoulder badgered to drag the kid deep within a drain pipe and pocket his skull with holes. He only hissed, (Dipper packed a surprising punch, no pun intended) before petting the frantic boy's knee and remarking calmly:

"I hope they kill you in there." Dipper went still to 8-Ball's quiet, near-fatherly smile.

The ride was otherwise silent.

Tired and forcibly weak, like tying weights to his ankles, Dipper could hardly raise his head by the second pill. He tried keeping track of the lay of the land (road signs, state lines, etc., etc.) The practice was like counting sheep; nail to a coffin which encouraged he give way to the sedative travelling through his person. Despite clawing efforts, the boy dozed off eventually.

This happened three times. By the third, he was so drowsy, all it took was 8-Ball pinching his jaw open, pill in hand to force-feed another dose. Dipper had lifted a limp arm, half-minded in his bleary state, to hook his fingers loose around the man's wrist. He let out a groan (Tight, fearing for his life, but lacking the brain power to remember why) which 8-Ball seemed particularly irritated.

"Oh, you think you've got it bad now?"

Dipper's head swung between his knees, pill having travelled half-way down the throat before halting; no water, and a thick lump that refused to swallow away. A headache far deeper than most, carrying throughout the entirety of his nervous system to the bones. Dipper felt he should fight, and might've done so if he weren't bordering the wavy lines of sleep, rendering him dumb and forgetful. There was a crushing weight to his neck, brain no more than soft putty as he leaned his head against the car's window, passing a fenced-up pasture.

He held out consciousness for all he could muster, slipping, slipping, and falling off. Dipper's instinct to escape bubbled up, but three rows down in a room under lock and key; a numb, seemingly nonsensical fear as he blinked and tried recalling why he shouldn't. 8-Ball turned his head, making quick assessment of the quaint little farm just left of them.

"Something-something- slaughterhouse -something-something."

Dipper slipped under again.

Awakening to the sharp slam of 8-Ball's car door startled Dipper so poorly, the last of his breath suctioned away, forcing mute panic in the legs. He spasmed, confusion spiking the spit of his mouth when he - having been at peace, asleep, floating dreamlessly to the low drum of an engine - was yanked from the truck.

"Get up, kid. Get up." Dipper tried explaining why he couldn't, though his lagged tongue felt separate from the mouth and maneuvered by a long pole. He stumbled, wrist caught in 8-Ball's guiding grip which wrenched Dipper to his feet, only for his knees to buckle, drawing him down in a dizzied slump; he could hardly face forward.

Cursing, the man took a fist-full of Dipper's collared shirt, dragging him like a pet by its leash. Dipper kicked, present to sudden panic, and his shirt digging into windpipes. An awkward, uneven cry passing his lips, pulled along a dirt-paved driveway.

Turning his head to watery, blackened vision, fighting tears against the sting of sunlight, Dipper tried finding ground that didn't slide so quickly below him, against 8-Ball's hauling. His right palm became tender to friction, while his knee snagged what looked to be a discarded fishing hook, though there wasn't so much as a lake in proximity. Confused. Dizzy, with eyes that saw everything in threes: Three suns. Three 8-Balls. Three trucks. Not his hands; his hands came in sixes. Dipper's head spun like a top.

He was hardly alert enough to give warning before vomiting all over the man's shoes.

"Oh, my-! Hell!" 8-Ball stopped, stomped, looking at the mess in disbelief. "Goddamn-! Those were my-! I just-! Ah, shit!" He hissed, toeing off his shoe. Dipper's lips played up in a spacey smile, a pass of dopamine that assured him it'd been the right call even as his shirt collar grew tight. He lifted his head just a bit, feeling more level, more grounded after releasing the contents of his stomach. His eyes shut before opening wide, giving him an opportunity to survey his surroundings.

Pine trees. A thick, endless grove of needled evergreens- tall, like they might tickle the underbelly of a plane. It was an overbearing sight. Clustered from the same seed, what looked to be miles and miles of unbroken land. As 8-Ball worked to remove his sock, sodden in acid reflux, Dipper willed enough to peer ahead at what looked to be no more than a grey, cape-cod style home; a four-set of windows out front, cracked and crooked framed. Peeled paint. Splintering steps led way to a door that didn't quite fit its hinges. The forest was a plaster of green - inescapable claws - the house, a daunting centerpiece in its small birth. Dipper's mouth went dry, fingers clinging to dirt as his brain shovelled fog.

He was not going in there.

"Hey!" 8-Ball snapped, jostling his hold on Dipper's shirt. "Don't go getting any bright ideas. There's nothing for miles out here; you're more likely to come across Prince Philip's necromancer than a cop." He slung his one sock to the side, working now to toe away the other, spotted in vomit. For this, 8-Ball released his grip on the poor boy, bending down to help crack his foot out, which - unlike his right - had a clubbed shape about it.

Dipper gasped at the relinquished strain on his neck. His hands, thankfully, positioned him steadily atop the elbows, so he wouldn't end up face-first in a puddle of mush.

"...ah-h. Fu-. Shi-i-." He tried, only to diagnose a dry scratch in his lungs; an itchy sound escaped him. 8-Ball snorted.

"Whatever you say, Skipper." He pulled his other shoe off, disgust scribbling over his features. 8-Ball hitched a lip before staring back down at Dipper, fighting tooth and nail to stand despite the drugs in his system. "You'd better be worth the trouble. We don't waste time training slow learners." The man eyed him, something cold and detached like a severed arm.

A heavy ring to Dipper's ears. Though his head tried fending off perpetual whirling, his limbs were still severed from their respective nerves, making even the sand under his nails feel less an invasion, and more an extension of flesh. He bent at the knees, scrambling uselessly, clawing at dirt to ground himself. There was a semblance of reality somewhere before the shadow of his person, provoking him to stand, which he eagerly tried. When it began to feel he might at least ease himself into a crouched position, the flooring shifted, and his sense of direction waned. His head swiveled, taking with it the full-force of his neck, then shoulders, then torso, ending him up on his side.

"Get your praying done now, if you gotta. Teeth'll be out in a second, and then it's " bye-bye " the outside world." Dipper groaned something like sorrow, though barely touched. He felt inverted. Heavy in his arms and legs, but light in the belly. Why was he so afraid? Why was he here? He rolled onto his stomach to prop himself up on hands and knees, only to feel his palms phase through the earth, even as they kicked up dust.

"I can't-. F-eel." Dipper rotated his wrist (Left; shattered to bits only last summer after plummeting off the water tower) which usually let out a pop and a crumbling feeling. Only a muffled click this time, and maybe a phantom of vibrations through the joint. Dipper's breath quickened.

"Count your blessings." 8-Ball looked to the sky, a hand shading his eyes; two-something in the afternoon. Nice weather for fishing, though trout weren't scheduled to be restocked until October. "Next time, you won't be all doped up, and it'll be a helluva lot worse if you try fighting back; they don't go so easy on the coherent ones."

Dipper didn't know what that was supposed to mean. Only that, one minute, 8-Ball was hacking up spit and shooting on a toad's stool. The next, letting out a sigh of relief, arm raised to signal when the cape-cod's screen door flew open.

A man stepped out, pants pulled all the way to his armpits, making him stubby and squat; hardly 4'ft, if that. Pink like a baby, fat in all the wrong places, though nothing as comparably remarkable as his smile; Stretched his lips something-fierce, mouth bulging like an orangutan's. When he grinned- front porch, hands on his hips, having caught sight of Dipper in all his sideways thoughts- pearly whites took up half his face.

"Teeth, you son of a bitch! Get your ass over here and haul!" 8-Ball called out, to which the pink, toothy man quickly scurried over.

"You're here!" He called out excitedly. "Oh good, oh good!" Teeth's hands twisted, little legs carrying him the short distance from house to hostage. He needn't crouch to be eye-level with Dipper, sprawled and fading fast.

"'Course I am. Now, get him inside before I kick his ass over the moon; damn kid puked a load on my boots." 8-Ball punctured his words with a twirl of his finger, still hanging onto the one shoe. Teeth gasped.

"Not the Tims." He pleaded sympathetically, scooping down for an arm-full of the boy. An initial heave, bridal-style, before Teeth slung the entirety of Dipper's body over his shoulders, much as one might wear a fox's fur corpse around the neck; he was short, but strong as an ox.

"Cry later. Where's the client?" 8-Ball asked, angled for the cape-cod home.

"He's in the garage, eating one of your TV dinners. I tried to stop him, I really did-."

"Just shut up and bring the damn kid in." 8-Ball grunted, waving him off. A three-day trip across the country, and all he'd been looking forward to had been a thing of frozen apple-wedges, ground beef and peas. He left his shoes out front, so as not to track anything inside. "You get the money outta him yet?" He asked.

" Eh-h-h... I got the usual rate out of him. He says he'll only cough up the extra if the kid's any good." Teeth replied in a low voice; his partner was by no means an explosive kind of anger. Regardless, the tension in 8-Ball's back was slow, growing ridged. Wound as a man in his field of work who rightfully hated his own profession. He let out a bitter laugh.
"' Good.'" He mocked with a sneer. "He finishes: It's good. What's he expecting from a greeny? The guy knows what he's paying for, getting one fresh out of the box."

Teeth nodded his head in agreeance, hoisting himself and Dipper- hardly a fight to his gaze, half-lidded and looking to go under for the twelfth time- up the patio steps.

"No doubt." The man tilted his head against the edge of Dipper's collar. Something like victory in his stomach, getting an eye-full, then a low whistle. He hummed appreciatively. "Kid looks pretty high-quality, don't he?" Teeth commented, though with an air so casual, it had 8-Ball shifting a side-glance even as he opened the door for them. "Half-way decent legs n' all."

His partner frowned. "Don't get high off your own supply."

"Aw, come on. Just admiring the craftsmanship-."

"Admire on your own time; wouldn't be the first I caught you taking a bite outta the product."

And boy, had he. It's one thing doing business with the kinds of guys they've been finding (Low-lives, the lot of them. Not that 8-Ball was a saint by any means, but he assumed superiority late at night, drowning out wanton shrieks from their cellar with a record player, Ralph Stanley and Dolly Parton; he liked "Little Sparrow"), it was something else entirely to work with one.

Teeth waltzed through the entrance, huffy and proud. "How could I not?"

"Is that a serious question?"

Teeth persisted. "I'm telling you, get them while they're young-."

"You'd better bring that client in before I slap you inside out." It was stern as the finger pointed between Teeth's eyes when his partner reared on him. The man stumbled back- nearly dropped Dipper, who found himself gone under once more, just as easily as he'd resurfaced. 8-Ball could be a cruel man when needed, and his job-description specifically entailed it, whether that be abducting, loaning, or executing; there'd been a Kryptos before there'd been a Teeth, and 8-Ball never shied reminding him of the fact. Fear like ice thawed once Teeth found the boy an empty couch-cushion, reluctantly laying him down.

He cleared his throat, stepping back from his partner. "I'll uh-. Go get..." Teeth paused, snapping his fingers in remembrance. "-Mr. Seedy. Give 'em the rundown."

"You do that." 8-Ball was stoic; watched Dipper on the couch, draped peacefully, chest rising, falling and wondered how one might find that arousing. Didn't nearly get his rocks off like those tanned milfs back in Palm Springs; hardly a curve to his chest, and- while pretty- still a boy.

"I'll give him the ol' talking to, yeah? No flash, no refunds, protection-and-such." Teeth shifted his gaze to the boy on the couch, wary in his strange, cycling mind. Walking backwards, edging towards a swing-latched door that led to the garage (Mr. Seedy was nearly finished with his TV dinner), the man nodded in his direction. "Better wake the kid. Bring him down to the cellar in five." 8-Ball grunted, waving him away, to which Teeth lingered only a moment, stared a hole through the side of Dipper's cheek, before disappearing. The door to the garage swung on loose hinges.

8-Ball sat himself down at a small kitchen table, just right of the living room couch; two-something, good weather for fishing, but no fish. He leaned back in his frail wooden chair, feeling every little crack between joints, a creak in the floorboards. Worn out flooring, pierced and marked by the devastatingly long trail of fingernails scraping down hardwood; a line which drove through the entrance into the hallways, leading to a white-painted door that led into the cellar. Hell, he'd dragged a few kicking and screaming. The thought didn't bother him; 8-Ball hated children.

He took a minute to himself, letting linger the subtle ease of his muscles after such a long drive, before standing.

It was tedious work, this profession; lots of travelling. Which- at first- he hadn't minded. Though, years of neighborhood watchers, parents and those cheeky suburban's who couldn't keep their peace without diving nose-first into someone else's mailbox, took a surprising toll. Days- weeks, sometimes- on the road, almost definitely resulted empty-handed. Like fishing, except he liked fishing- was pretty damn good at it, too- and trying to catch a person was lots more than dangling the right kind of bait; it was time and place. Made his unfortunately descriptive features a real drag on the whole ordeal, especially whenever he got caught, which was rare, but inconvenient to the schedule.

8-Ball had his truck. He had his truck, and Teeth had the connections; his partner knew where to find slime-balls willing to play, all considering the man kept company which much-reflected his own. Knew how to sniff out potential clients wanting to dip their hands in the extreme stuff, tight-lipped experiences for the depraved. While 8-Ball was out "fishing," Teeth was often drumming up business among his like-minded friends, bringing in rolls of doe. Which was-. Yeah. It was ideal. Still, new material was always appreciated, and if their current "fish" weren't making a splash, well...

Dipper had better hope he's good.

8-Ball moved towards the sink, filling himself a glass of water. The window placed over the faucet led way to his backyard, displaying an unhinged nature of roots, trees like skyscrapers; a beacon to see the tops of these massive trees and know (oh), that's the spot. That's where I get my fix; visible for miles, and obscure enough as to not draw unwanted attention. Good underground code for "The Pine Tree's Child Ring," as Teeth coined it, who then passed the information onto a private forum of thirty to forty people. Kept everyone out-of-the-know away from their little hideout, and everyone in- the-know coming back for more with change in their pockets.

Seven jars under the kitchen counter, screwed shut with red caps; $500, each container. Getting closer and closer to their goal by the second, though far from fast enough, considering what 8-Ball and Teeth were saving up to pay off.

8-Ball motioned towards the couch and hovered before his captive- Dipper, fast asleep, when he should've been running for his life. The dosage instructed only take one a day, an hour before bed with a glass of water; he'd gotten the boy to take two at once, then one right after waking back up, and every other time he so much as stirred. (He was young. He could handle it.) The last had been sometime in the morning, though there was such a potency to his system, Dipper might not get back to normal until-. Well, 8-Ball didn't honestly care enough to calculate.

The glass in his hand tilted out, over the boy's head, before spilling into brown curls, down his neck, and trailing the soft lines of his tired face. Dipper jerked, letting out a shocked cry to the cold soaking his shirt, though- as before- his limbs wouldn't cooperate enough to properly flail. 8-Ball pat his face sharply for good measure.

"Trust me. This isn't the worst part."

[...]

Transparent vision, staring through his own existence when Dipper looked to his palms, wavering and pulsing like speakers where his eyes tilted. A halo of color emulating off the skin. He could feel its weight, as well as the structure of his bones and where the nails of his fingers pierced flesh. He could wage the pressure of his blood carrying throughout the body, every bump on his tongue, and this odd, daunting inevitably that distorted his own presence; a claw before the shower curtain to be torn away, dagger in hand, ready to strike.

Whirling, whirling, whirling, like Dipper was strapped to his bed in the midst of a tornado. Much like being baptized- an ocean filling his lungs- he felt cool water dumped over-head, his soul separate from the body when 8-Ball put his hands on Dipper- up by the bends of his arms- to drag him off the couch, on his feet, and down the cellar steps; a bleak, winding curl of walk that sank into darkness, birthing black so wide, he wasn't sure the steps led to a room or the bottom of a lake.

"Where-?" Dipper's tongue split in two, then four, then eight, until he couldn't imagine asking farther.

"Hell, does it matter? Far as you're concerned, we're in the Taj Mahal having Makhani." 8-Ball let out a laugh void of humor before jerking the boy's arm back, giving access to Dipper's ear. He spoke soft as death. "Don't matter where you are; you're not leaving this place outside a body-bag."

His statement hit- it certainly did- though caught between synapsis clogging the roots. Dipper only felt initial fear, stumbling as a result, before the words fluttered to pieces inside his head. He could hardly remember his own name, though he tried.

"Why?" Dipper waited patiently for a response. None came, and once they reached the base of the cellar, 8-Ball was quick to lead him into a corner which supplied a large yellow mattress, stained to hell in something sprouting mushrooms. He shoved the boy over. Dipper fell onto his side before rolling on his back, feeling a loose set of worn springs below him. Even here, Dipper didn't know to be afraid.

He only focused on his breathing, the interior of the room and a distinct light trailing from the hallway into the cellar. Dipper tried to find incentive to quake, but his fingers hardly listened to him. He needed motive to force himself up; fatigue weighed heavy in his mind, and confusion least-frightened him. Rather, knowledge spurred terror (Terror that could rouse him to stand). There was barely reason to escape- his mind rationed- second to sleep.

A hand groped his thigh.

Dipper's head tilted. To his right, a man no less than forty, peering over him with a smile, half-teeth, half-gone. Dipper hadn't noticed him in the darkness. Eyes bore like needles, blank all but a drive the boy couldn't wage in his current state. He looked static, impulsive, though holding back. A mustache. Bald on top with hair he refused cutting away at the sides, which led into a mullet. Spectacles less for intelligent men, and more the cuckold of some suburban street. His hand was cold on Dipper's leg, just above the knee.

All at once, the boy was afraid.

" Hey, hey, shush." Dipper must have made some kind of noise, what with the way this man comforted him. He placed a palm against the boy's face. "Don't cry. Don't cry."

Dipper wasn't crying (though, the thought that perhaps this man expected him to was worrisome). The man buried his thumb in Dipper's cheek, swiping at pale flesh. Dipper leaned out of his grip; he didn't know him.

"It's okay; Heard you were new here. How old are you?" He scooted in, having been seated on the floor, off the mattress. Now, the man was advancing, shifting his weight so he sat hip-to-hip. Dipper said nothing to his question, instead trying to stand; his knees felt inverted. His calves did no more than flex. Still, he found strength enough to roll onto his stomach, though his nose cringed at whatever sour smell was omitting from the mattress. The man's hand slid from his thigh, though returning shortly after onto the back of his left knee.

"Okay, you don't have to answer." He wet his lips, pulling in a shaky breath. "This is your first time, right? Don't worry. I'm not like those other guys. I know how to treat a pretty boy... Do you want me to do that? You want me to treat you right?" Contradicting himself the moment his hand slid into Dipper's hair and tugged, thus hoisting him into an arched position. Dipper hissed, then screamed when it felt his back might snap in half. He'd never felt how wide his chest expanded with each breath before, and never before knew the constricting layers of skin around the bend of his throat. Horrified, Dipper's body willed a jerk.

"Let- Ah! Ah!" The man craned his neck to the side, coercion Dipper on his back. It hurt. The whole experience hurt, and the fact that this man was hurting him spurred panic he should have felt ages ago. Now, it was all-consuming. Where was he? Why was he here? Why couldn't he lift his damn head? There was build-up in the way this man eyed him with a smile, trying for soft, coming off cowardly. A nasty croak when he apologized and shifted away from the boy, instead positioning himself at Dipper's feet. He took a trembling hand to Dipper's equally trembling thigh, pinched and made room between his legs.

"You're a damn-lot prettier than my wife." The man's hand rode up his thigh- stopped- before riding back down, trailing needles all along its path.

Dipper remembered Mabel's magazines- the ones he stole. The ones under his bed back in Piedmont, hidden between pages of "Ordinary People". He remembered them, and the initial shame of looking over each photo, and thinking Playgirl magazines were a bit odd for a boy like him to own, or want to own, and one particular photo which often encouraged a flaming rock to form in his stomach, where a man lay between the legs of another, and it drove Dipper half-mad wrapping his head around how that might feel, being he was a boy, and the thought of engaging in whatever those two men had been engaging in made him float, heady, like he might expect a woman to react. It was all hypotheticals then.

The man was quick to untie Dipper's shoes, take away his socks, his shirt, his jeans, until the boy was as bare as the day he'd been born. It was humiliating enough with his head out of the game, and terrifying when he placed a hand to Dipper's chest, which the boy felt too weak to shove off. Arms hardly cooperated, begging to cover his more intimate parts; they were batter away.

"Yeah, baby. Relax. Relax." Dipper would never have been able to guess how awful it might feel, having this strange man's hands all over him, or when he caught his eyes drifting down towards Dipper's limp shaft. For all the panic, his brain was so blank, the only warning it mustered was a constant draw-back to the magazines and what had happened on the pages; somehow, Dipper wasn't entirely convinced. Only light, discomforted, captured in a cage of hair raising nerve-endings. The man drew his hand down to Dipper's hip-bone, looking tortured when he leaned away.

"I'm gonna make you feel so good." Dipper couldn't comprehend. Still, his breath went shallow to the ghost of his usual wits shaking in fear, warning from the subconscious waves which suppressed it. The man smiled down at him, and something died.

Jeans and boxers hooked by the thumb, yanking down to pull out his-.

Oh my god.

Dipper could've asked what he was doing, but the question felt stupid when the man grabbed a hold of either ankle, working to the frantic pace of a rabbit's beat. He struggled. Dipper really, truly struggled. Heart drumming behind his eyes, mouth dry- the man wasn't some great show of maleness (might even be a bit smaller than average). The proximity was intimate, though. His hold was firm; guiding. Dipper had never seen another one in person, aside from his father's and Grunkle Stan's, and even then, they hadn't held it with such intent. He tried to wrestle his legs together. The man's presence kept them open.

"Be good." The blunt way of which he initiated it- Dipper shrieked, feeling just how forwardly he placed the tip against his netherregians; barely an instance of preparation. Confusion. Panic. He spasmed for all it was worth, rooted to that mattress. His pulse spread throughout the entirety of his person, alerting all five senses, so his ears would ring, and his eyes would blank out, and his nose would shrivel, and his body would numb and spike with dread, and all he could taste was the spot of which he bit his own tongue. Dipper snapped his eyes shut, feeling the precarious way the man's tip throbbed against him.

It wasn't happening.

It wasn't real.

It wasn't.

The man led in.

Burning fire through his insides, splitting Dipper in half with a pain so foreign, it mirrored that of being shot. The man groaned, face twisted. Dipper made the most inhuman sound, half-dead from shock of the impact. His eyes rolled up, mouth hanging in what one might mistake as ecstasy, which- for a moment- the man indulged himself to believe. A short-lived pride, up until the boy below him blubbered something akin to death.

"Sto-op! He-lp!" He wailed. The man tried to reassure he could make Dipper feel good- he was almost settled inside; he would take care of him. Dipper tried pushing back, but all his squirming was for not, the way this man boxed him up. It felt like, pushing in, the man stole the air from his lunges. Everything... stretched. It made room; room for something that wasn't supposed to be there, and it hurt. It hurt, and Dipper shrieked just how much it hurt, crying how it was worse than being stabbed, worse than losing an arm, worse than catching fire.

It had been a dry entrance; nails-to-chalkboard levels of pain. Pulling out however, was like ripping out his lower intestines. He felt hesitation, then a more full retraction which had his toes curling, his eyes bulging.

"Stop!" He whimpered shrilly.

The man moaned, hands on Dipper's shoulders; Oh, God. The top of Dipper's head hardly reached the dip in his collarbone. He had to curve his back just to see it, the point in which they connected. It spurred him on. Dipper was so young. So tight. He liked the dryness- the feel of tissue close to tearing.

Dipper couldn't breath. He couldn't breath. Eyes opened, the man. Eyes closed, the magazines. He cried and cried, fingernails digging into the fabric of his assaulter's shoulders, because Dipper was naked, but this man still had his own armor on, what with a t-shirt and some jeans pulled down to expose himself. He was vulnerable in ways that should never be experienced. The kind of nakedness that crushed its own foot and hobbled around.

He shook, feeling the man above him rearrange his insides on an atomic level.

" Uh, ah- You like that, huh?"

Dipper bawled a resounding "No."

It had only been the first "in," and the first "out," but already he could feel himself shutting down. White flashed across his vision when the man teased a roll (he hadn't the practice for finesse, or the care to make it pleasurable. Only tested the waters, made sure they were fit for swimming, and dove in). There wasn't a word for the sound Dipper made; he clung to the man's shirt, who found pace in his eager journey for release.

Dipper's knees pressed firmly into the mattress when the man hitched his legs up and to either side of him; a tight pull in his hip flexors when his muscles fought the stretch. He was fast. Every pull, every push, felt it might turn Dipper inside out, or have him explode. Between the "That's right take it yeah bitch" and "God, I hate myself I hate myself I'm gonna cum," he found time to suck a hickey into the side of Dipper's neck (a horrifying tension to feel blood rushing the surface, all considering just how thin his skin was, like he might pop) and nearly tore his nipple off with the few teeth he had left.

Pushing away at the man was like striking water; phasing through matter. His assaulter hardly noticed the resistance. A hand went out to claw at his face, only for Dipper's nails to disintegrate, skin fuzzing like static, floating so high he could watch his own defilement from a third-person view. The only thing tethering him to the mattress was the prick nestled inside him.

It smelled -in that room- like masturbation. Dipper hardly had strength enough to lift his hand over his mouth, just as the man leaned down for a kiss; he cooed his baby to give away his "first kiss," to which the other wept. His first had been a complication while dealing with mer-folk and his sister's obsessive nature, though desperately pleasant at the time. A strange, primal stance chanted to hold firm on it, and to not indulge the fantasy of giving away his second to this man. He pressed his palm down more firmly (weak, but resolved) shaking like a leaf at the bare thought of his other first being stripped before his eyes.

He would never get it back.

The man wanted so badly to kiss him though. He yanked the hand from Dipper's mouth, no more asking than he'd done before, to invade a second side of him- kept separate from lust, that kissed passionately and plentifully. When he kissed the boy, it was near-intimate. Dipper arched off the mattress in sudden hysterics. A sob of three loops that reverberated from the belly to the throat. He kissed him. He kissed him, and was happy to tongue into his mouth, and happy to stink of morning breath and flavored dip.

An invasion of self. The stripping away of. Dipper felt panic- more than before. To be ripped in half was like splattered blood on a canvas, but to initiate a kiss? It was hanging the artwork. Feeling this man piston into him, his "Oh oh oh," his hands scrubbing untouched skin (Skin that shriveled in reply) carved deep marks to Dipper's discombobulated body. Lips on lips; It was an entirely seperate raping.

"Ah- Ah, yeah that's right. You're mine." The man threw his head back before bowing forward, making Dipper cower in fear. He choked on a laugh, smiling. "You- you're good at this. This i-is all you're- oh fuck!"

Even a virgin could distinguish the exact moment of strings being cut. Dipper knew what that screwed expression meant for the man and for himself. This time, Dipper's legs jerked. His hands found incentive to rip into his assaulter's hair. The man was looking at him. His eyes were open -intense- distinctly like chasing prey. His mouth hung wide. He grit something dirty, edging low into Dipper's collarbone to whisper close that which the boy would never forget (years down the road he'd still wake in a cold sweat, gripped blankets to ball his fists, and clench his chest against his rabbit-foot heartbeat).

"I-I love you."

The man bit a hard line into his shoulder, so close Dipper could visualize the exact countdown to his release.

Like dying. He recalled vaguely a time his father had come home from work, and- having shared bus rows with a local nurse just off her shift- informed with fascination that, apparently, most dying patient's final breaths were used to call out for their mothers, and not some poetic ode of wisdom as most depicted on the big-screen. It struck Dipper cold then, though here, made perfect sense as a hand pressed into his throat.

A name bubbled up, twisted knots pushing to the surface a desperation so frantic- so pathetic. It didn't stop him, sobs wracking his body, shaking the mattress to its foundation when he shrieked Mabel's name in a sudden mass of panic.

Electric pump of a lightbulb caused it to shatter from pressure. The man's back arched, his core tightening with a stutter and then a stop, forcing his head into the hitch of Dipper's chest. He smiled. Frowned- pulled out and away before sifting through darkness for his jeans.

Dipper went under.