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☕️ Unfortunately for us, ☕️

Dipper pines x reader, Douce amere chapter 17, ~6.1k words (sorry guys) Masterlist prev

When Dipper looked at you, he saw Bill. In everything: every minute movement, every word you spoke, every breath you breathed was a reminder that he was there too. Avoidance. If not seeing you meant not seeing him, he could live with that. Maybe.

He wasn’t sure where you slept on the first night, because it wasn’t with him. That was new. He guessed you were on the couch in Soos’ break room, but he didn’t want to check. 

It was no surprise that he couldn’t sleep. He stared at the ceiling, dead tired but unable to close his eyes. Nightmares weren’t new, nor unfamiliar, but they usually only affected him when he was asleep. Now they seemed to perforate even blinks. The ceiling was old wood, a few panels with stains, and the faded finish were enough to tell him just how aged it was. The rafters were clean though, somebody must have dusted it before the summer so they’d sleep better. The walls too, all clean. Mabel’s side less so, now that he noticed. Across the room he saw the faint sparkle of glitter along the walls by the moonlight. 

He studied the room with dry eyes, blinking in moderation to avoid the dark. Or better, whenever he had to, he dug the heels of his palms into his eye sockets so the swirling colours blocked out anything his mind conjured up. Usually you were there to help with that. 

His heart ached, and a few points on his arms from where you attacked him. Where Bill attacked him, he clarified to himself. But the line was blurry. This bed was entirely too big without you there. That was almost absurd enough to make him laugh, considering it was just barely larger than a twin.

 At least you both survived. Dipper groaned, half hoping to wake up Mabel so she’d come talk to him. But she was dead tired too, and Dipper had to do this alone. Unless you were awake. 

He shook his head without realizing, his body answering that question for him; no, he can’t go see you. That might kill him faster than sleep deprivation. But you were probably up too. He knew well enough  you might be tossing and turning just below him. It was going to be a long night. 

                                        …

Dipper trudged down the stairs, far too early in the morning for his usual liking, eyes to the steps to keep from tripping. But his legs were made of lead, or some heavy metal; they were completely weighing him down. Every step was a fight with gravity to stay on his feet. The good side of no sleep was his lack of brain power. He was running in survival instincts. His eyes looked down to stop from falling, his hands slid on the rail for the same, his body moved to find some sort of sustenance, and all without a single thought. Shutting those out seemed to be the best. 

Coffee. That was a good goal. Short term, easily archivable, and its accomplishment would help him greatly; it was perfect. 

He wiped his eyes as he stumbled almost blindly to the kitchen. The shack was quiet, the rest surely not awake yet. The more Dipper looked around, he realized it was still dark out. Or more like dim. A bit of dull moonlight was still shining through the windows.

The lights were on in a few rooms. Probably Mabel. Forgetful Mabel. Dipper flicked off the lights in the living room and the hall as he got closer. The kitchen light was on too. 

Dipper got to the doorframe, and froze, breath hitching in his chest. And it looked like you did the same. 

On the floor, against the cupboards, was you, sat in pyjamas, cradling a pot of coffee like it was your baby with a half full mug on the tile beside you. Your phone, noticeably on the lowest brightness, was almost slipping out of your loose grip. And Dipper wanted to look away, because it was clear you’d been crying, you wore all the telltale signs. Swollen eyelids, a little puffy, a little red. He hated noticing it. A pit formed in his stomach without a moments warning. Of course you had the same idea as him. Why not? Why the fuck not. Same brain. 

He took shaky breaths on even shakier legs. Your pupils looked normal. But knowing that meant he was looking at your wide and tired eyes as you looked up at him. It was a double edged sword. He gripped the door frame for balance. With his bad hand. He winced as his palm flew into the wood, straining the wrist that you…Bill- stepped on.

You flinched as he did. Like you could feel it from across the room. And you stared down into the coffee pot because maybe you both felt that looking at each other was painful. But Dipper didn’t have the self preservation instincts to follow your lead. It was all he could do to stay breathing. It was when you spoke that Dipper was knocked out of his head. 

“Do you..” you started, voice rough, shaky, dead tired. Probably from crying, if he had to guess. You looked up at him again, “do you want some?” You offered. An olive branch maybe. 

Yeah. That’s why I’m here. Dipper tensed, looking you over again, and turned away, half the tiredness evaporated from his body. He was almost in the shape to run. As fast as he could’ve he raced and hobbled back through the shack, back up the stairs, back into the dark room where his sister still slept. Back away. Back away. He didn’t get to see your reaction. As it should be. 

He carefully shut the door behind him, and stared at it for a few moments. You weren’t on the other side. You weren’t on the other side. Bill wasn’t on the other side. He rested his head against the door, a quiet sigh escaping his lips. You and weren’t on the other side of that door. You were downstairs, probably drinking coffee straight out of the pot, maybe crying. And he was doing nothing about that. Mabel’s soft snores grounded him to reality, at least. He could never be certain if you were on the other side of that door, or if you were Bill, but he knew Mabel was behind him. Asleep in her bed. 

He couldn’t stay here. 

He eyed Mabel, pursed his lips, and grabbed his backpack. What did he have? Laptop, a couple snacks, his journal was on the bedside table. He carefully slipped it in, zipped it up, pocketed a pen, and slung it over his shoulder. He didn’t bother getting dressed in more than his crumpled pyjamas before he left.

Down the stairs again, steadier this time. Through the hall again, more certain this time. He once looked back through the dark living room, at the light leaking out from the kitchen, and listened for the soft noises of mugs being set down, coffee swirling, phone tapping, even. He looked, listened, and turned away, straight for the door, opened and closed slowly and quietly. So nobody wouldn’t notice. 

The shack was Bill proof, meaning while you- the both of you, were inside, Bill was locked up. So it was the outside now, that was safe. Dipper started blindly to the woods without a plan, thought or trail. At least day was getting closer. The sky was lightening. Maybe there was some interesting and distracting creature that only came out at dawn that he could investigate, since he’s never up at this time. Maybe there was something new to discover out there. 

He nearly tripped on the way in. It seemed he forgot to tie his shoe. Sighing he tied it, and then started deeper into the forest. Deeper, deeper, yet deeper. A left turn, a right, a path followed, a trail created through the brush. Avoiding any clearing that resembled the one from yesterday. He didn’t know the way there, and he intended to keep it that way. 

Dipper ended up in the fantasy part of the woods, where fae folk met in tree stumps, and crystals grew and shimmered around the forest floor. But that was too obvious. To explored. The sun peaking over the horizon now, breaking through the trees. How long had he been gone? Whatever. Doesn’t matter.

He walked. And walked. And trudged and stepped and nearly tripped and did trip and stumbled and even ran at times, all away from the shack until the sun was high overhead and the afternoon was rolling along. 

But then he came to a part of the forest he’d not yet seen before. Not quite a clearing, more of a grove. The trees thinned, but the canopy let in only spots of light shine through. He couldn’t see it, but he heard a stream, maybe a river, trickling somewhere beside him. Best of all though, the grove was edged by a cliff face, with moss running down the side and a few vines. And Dipper lit up when he saw the cave. 

On the side of the cliff, was a hole. And it looked deep. And as Dipper stopped to study it from a distance, he heard little scampers and drips coming from inside, and he knew he was a goner. He pulled out his journal, pen, clicked it a few times, and started inside. 

The walls were stone, and seemed black by the dim light. Somewhere further in, Dipper barely made out the shimmer of light reflected on water, and his curiosity only burned brighter thinking about what the source could be so deep in the mountain.  The floor was rough at the entrance, but quickly smoothed the deeper he ventured in, and small streams were all leading down.

The drips and water only got louder the further he ventured in, and the light disappeared behind him. Working on instinct he slowed down, pulled out a flashlight, and cautiously continued. He wasn’t sure how this was less scary than the shack right now. But it was. This was mystery, this was nature. This was a hunt for something. Whatever that was. Dipper wasn’t sure. Either way, this was an animal urge, to find out and explore, something he didn’t need think about. A motion and routine he’d grown quite used to. This cave could have been a war zone for him when he was younger, more frightened, but today? A haven. 

The cave narrowed into one tunnel, which seemed built for him. It was… person sized, a little taller than his height. And the floor was smooth enough he needed to hold the walls to keep from slipping down the water he was forced to trudge through. It all led to the small pool. Dipper heart felt electric as he realized that’s where this culminated. He clicked the pen with whichever hand wasn’t on the smooth walls. 

The shimmer of the water drew him in, like blue moonlight shined at him. The flashlight wasn’t needed here. The tunnel widened into a… chamber, of sorts. Like a room. Maybe a temple. It seemed like one. The running water flowed all down the walls from some mysterious source far above him, but failed to flood through. 

Rabidly, he started to write. All those details. The shine, the falls, the cave itself, and he drew. Even if this wasn't magical, which seemed out of the question all things considered, it would be nice to document. Maybe he could take you here, you’d probably find it pretty. Nope. He shook his head. Nope. Don’t go there. A few lines of his drawing were shaky. 

Then something drew his attention. In the pool, more like a puddle, which marked the centre of the blue and glowy cave chamber, he saw something. More specifically, him. He saw himself, and suddenly the journal lowering to his side.

Seeing yourself in the reflection of water wasn’t abnormal, and completely divorced from paranormal. What made it odd, though, was the angle. Dippers first thought was of math. By where he was standing, the pool should not reflect him the way it did: he saw himself closer to it, as if he was knelt beside it looking in. Or… the other him was looking out. 

And this was a siren song to him. He did as he was told. He knelt beside the puddle, knees splashing in the stream, viciously scribbling notes into his journal that when he could barely read if he tried. 

The reflection smiled, and turned around, and Dipper did the same. There was nothing. Just the cave. And he could squint to see the light of the outside behind him. Nothing. He looked back, and his eyes grew wide.

The electric curiosity in his heart dissipated in a single breath. Behind the other him, was Mabel and you. You both came up behind him with lightning speed, landing and steadying yourself on his shoulders, shaking him a little. Oh god. Dippers face fell further as he watched, paralyzed. You both seemed excited, and he looked like he was laughing along with whatever idiot game you two wanted to play. Like usual. Like normal. 

He sunk further into the cave floor, his whole legs into the shallow stream. Carefully, he closed his journal on his lap, and watched. 

Stan and Ford made an appearance too. Ford came up beside Mabel and started excitedly explaining something to her, surely. He knew that face on him, that was what Ford looked like when he was proud, maybe had a brilliant idea, or maybe a stupid one. The kind of idea Mabel would love. And Stan spoke to you, like he was telling you a joke, or maybe you did something to make him proud, too. In his annoying Grunkle way, he ruffled your hair. 

What was this? The pool seemed to entrance him, and he had the good sense to notice. He jerked his head away and stared at the wall for a moment before anyone else could make an appearance. What is this place? He, slower this time, made note in his journal. This was weird. A mystery. Isn’t that what he came for? To solve some problem, investigate something crazy? 

He looked back. The scene was nearly the same. Just… his family. He ignored he pit growing in his stomach for the second time that day. He swallowed, and something tasted like burning. Maybe it was his heart in his throat. They all looked very happy. 

With curious and careless hand, he reached out, and touched the water. The touch felt electric. Static. He pulled his hand away with apprehension. 

The touch was short, barely broke the surface, but the ripples washed the image away completely, and he was alone again. And the drips and running water felt so much louder, even if his heart pounded in his ears. What just happened? 

He blinked. Maybe this wasn’t a mystery he wanted to solve today, actually. If nothing else, it reminded him; maybe he should be somewhere else, right now. 

He stood, suddenly remembering his legs were drenched, and cringed. There were things in that reflection that were impossible. He thought again of you, and shook his head more violently this time. But there are places he should be. People he could talk to. Sighing, he left the cave. 

                                        …

The sun was actually low, maybe a few hours from setting when he got back. There were horrors in that shack. He stood outside a moment. He could avoid the horrors. He could. If he was lucky. 

When he stepped up to the door, he didn’t get the chance to open it. Before he could react, it sprang open and out jumped Mabel, straight into a tackling hug. The wind was halfway knocked out of him, but he smiled. Maybe even laughed through wheezing as she practically squeezed the life out of him.

”Broooooo,” she said. Not a coherent thought, but maybe they had twin telepathy, because he understood it perfectly.

“I knowwww,” he groaned, wrapping his arms around her. He didn’t realize his knees were starting to give in until she adjusted to hold his weight better. 

Once again, more melancholic this time, “Bro,” she said. 

“Yeah,” he moped. Yeah. This did suck. And he didn’t know how it happened, or why, or how, and he bailed on them today. But he had to do that. “Right?” He laughed. Mabel would understand.

She groaned, slightly too loudly into his ear, and he winced. “Come on, they’re by the exhibits with Grunkle Stan,” she said, slowly letting go of him so he could regain his balance. “And tonight’s a scary movie marathon of only crappy sequels.”

Dipper thought a moment, mostly about nothing, and then nodded, following behind her. He shut the door as he passed though. Bills in this house. He shook his head. Nope. Don’t go there. 

The shack was a comfortable quiet. The dull hum of electronics offered a warm buzz to keep silence at bay. And the closer they drew to the living room, the more the sound of the tv covered even that. And when he sat on the couch, he could imagine things were normal, even though he hadn’t bothered to change into dry clothes. Like the reflection. 

He and Mabel talked a little. About regular things, mostly. And he was tired enough for the nightmares to barely touch him before he fell asleep. 

                                        …

Bill Cipher. Dipper pines. His sister, friends, you, weirdmageddon. Hands around his neck. Your hands, this time. Not Bills. Flashes of unfortunate images blended with even worse memories played on repeat and burnt themselves into his brain.

Dipper shot up with a gasp, hands flying to his throat as he inspected it frantically. He could feel his pulse hammering just from a touch on his neck, and he couldn’t tell if the sweat was on his hands, or just his whole body. A single wipe of his brow revealed it was the latter. Holy shit. On instinct, his shaky hand patted the bed beside him. It was empty. Shit. He fought the instinctual thought that you might be dead.

He shuddered, curling his legs up close to him. Even if it was empty, he couldn’t tear his hand away from your spot on the mattress. Fuckkkkk. Breathing. Breathing. Deep breaths. Shaky breaths he tried to steady. Mabel was still asleep across the room, lightly snoring. He didn’t need to wake her. But it didn’t stop him from glancing over, which quickly devolved into staring. Her breathing seemed a lot easier than his. 

How much more of this did he have to survive? 

That morning he found you in the kitchen again. The same as yesterday, alone on the floor with your coffee, cup, and puffy eyes that looked up at him widely.  At least this time he was desensitized. Instead of flinching and buckling in terror, he simply turned and walked away before… either of you could speak.

God, of course you were there. You really did have the same brain. Same as yesterday. No coffee for Dipper, because he was headed as far away from the kitchen as possible, stumbling through the living room with blurry vision, flushed face, shit he was totally crying. Or… almost crying, at least. He sniffled, blinding himself even further by eyes the ceiling to stop tears from falling. Because fuck that. 

He hit the wall with his shoulder on the way upstairs to his room.

”Bro,” Mabel said as he stepped in. She was sitting up in her bed, eyes bagged and tired. “Dipper.”

“Oh sorry,” he murmured, wandering back to his own mattress. “Did I wake you?” 

As he sat down, he heard her sniffle, and whipped his head around to see her sleepily trudging over to him, one of her stuffed animals hanging in her arms. She practically fell into the bed beside him as she sat down, and wiped her face on the sleeve of her nightgown, “Dip, are you alright?” She asked, voice tired and rough. “I didn’t get to ask you yesterday.”

She did?  Well, kind of. They talked last night. Maybe no about… that. But close enough. Dipper pursed his lips. Guess checking in wasn’t a terrible idea. “I’m whatever,” he sighed, wrapping an arm around her. He sighed again staring at her bed. All her stuffed animals and plushes were near the headboard, rather them spread down the side with a few at the foot. All bunched up near where her head and arms would be. Guess she needed all the support she could get. “Hey, Mabel,” he started, turning back to her. “Awkward sibling hug?”

She nodded, “yes please.”

Dipper blinked, and realized he was barely crying now. He won, the tears didn’t fall. He turned, and wrapped his sister in his arms as she did the same, neither letting go for a good minute. Her hair tickled his face a little, and somehow that got a half smile out of him. 

“Dip, do you think we’re gonna have to like-“ she paused, presumably to think. “-go through all that again?”

He was glad his head was still resting on her shoulder, because she couldn’t see the way his face fell. “I don’t know,” he admitted honestly. “I think… we have things under control for now, though.”

Her arms never loosened around him, and he could feel her chin move with her words, “Yeah.” She snorted a laugh, and Dipper smiled just slightly hearing it. “That unicorn hair just keeps coming in handy, huh?”

Dipper smiled, and moved his head to try and escape her hair, “yeah, you did good with that one.”

Mabel nodded, and held on a little longer, and then her arms slackened. “Pat, pat,” she said softly, patting his back before he let go. Dipper smiled, doing the same to her. Mabel Mabel Mabel. At least she was alright. She kicked her feet off the side of the bed idly, “Hey, you guys have another thing in common now, I guess,” she said.

“Pfft,” Dipper couldn’t help but scoff. She was right. And he hadn’t thought of that. “Yeah,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Yeah.”

“Are you gonna talk to them?”

”No,” he said. 

Mabel nodded silently, and Dipper couldn’t read her face. “Are you gonna talk to Grunkle Ford?”

He hummed. That, he wasn’t sure. He probably should. Ford might have a plan, or know what to do. “Maybe,” he muttered, nodding along to himself. “Maybe later.” He wasn’t sure whether he wanted later to be the next minute, or never. 

                                       …

Another day. Another nightmare. Another early morning, maybe night, actually, where with hushed feet he made his way downstairs trying not to wake anyone. This time for real, this time maybe he could do it. Get the coffee. The more he imagined it the more it seemed like nectar of the gods, maybe the one thing that could cure him.

He managed just slightly more sleep though, small victories. It was basically sunrise when he made his journey downstairs this time. There was just enough light spilling in from the windows that he didn’t notice the light from under the kitchen door. 

You startled him less the third time. Instead of a flinch and a jump, or an instinct reaction to flee, he decided to think. It was you and your coffee pot again, but you were laying with your back on the tile, staring at the ceiling before he walked in. Normal pupils. Blotchy face and puffy eyes. Just like yesterday. He winced as he saw. Don’t go there. 

You were a coffee hog. And you were looking up at him, like a deer in headlights. Like he’d caught you. 

He could survive. He could survive this, and survive that look. He eyed the coffee pot resting on your chest to get away from your terrified stare. It was looking like he’d fail his mission again. 

“Do you… want some?” You asked, with all the same living tenderness and ragged sadness as last time. And Dipper had to steel himself, leaning against the doorframe with his forearm this time to avoid hurting the bruise on his wrist. 

His eyes darted around as he looked at anything but you. Your stained coffee mug was on the ground beside you, still. A few cupboards were ajar, the rows of cups peeking out at him. The sugar was left out, as with a cooking pot. God, you were everywhere. There wasn’t a place he could look in this kitchen where he wouldn’t see you.

So he met your eyes. “Y/n,” he started, surprising himself with the steadiness of his voice. “Can I have the kitchen tomorrow?”

The question was almost funny. Like you two were divorced parents and he was fighting for custody of the room. You both seemed to love it, and it couldn’t be shared. The concept could’ve been funny if it didn’t make his heart burn and leave a bitter taste in his mouth. 

You nodded, looking at the white tile floors instead of at him. 

Okay. He sighed, nodding to you before leaving. Okay. Coffee tomorrow. After all this time. He walked aimlessly outside, sitting on the porch, and resting his head in his hands. God, were the two of you just stuck? He needed that coffee more than you, he really did. You should be fine without. 

Dipper rubbed his temples. Don’t go there. But really though, what right did you have to be in such bad shape? Why were you still so shaken up. Shouldn’t that be reserved for the rest of them? Who actually lived the apocalypse? Ugh stop. He shook his head. He knew better than most being possessed wasn’t fun. You could have the coffee today, that was fine. Tomorrow was his day. He might die without it. 

                                          …

His thoughts seemed to ring true. He would die without it. That night, after avoiding people, doing a little seething, he had some of the worst nightmares yet. They all ended with his whole arms black and blue instead of just the wrist. And with several other people looking the same. Except you. Never you. You weren’t on the receiving end of anything like that. Your most striking feature was Bills manic smile, that you wore far too well, and that was practically burned into his brain. His subconscious seemed to love the image. And instead of reaching for your spot on the bed he just got up and left, brow furrowed. Coffee. 

Oh god. His face fell into a scowl when he saw the light shine under the kitchen door. Not again. 

Dipper sighed, hand clutching the doorframe. Same as always. Every fucking morning. He asked, but here you still were, same as always. Dipper never imagined he’d get used to the look of you crying, but it was getting far too familiar, and he was getting far too desensitized.  “Y/n,” he said lowly, blinking long and slow. He took a deep breath before he spoke. He loved you. He loved you, he thought. Just to remind himself. “Y/n, do you really have nowhere better to be,” he said, gesturing at your spot on the floor. Every single time, right there. Sulking. He could feel his voice raising, almost against his will, “-Then right here, every morning.” 

Like there was no escaping you. First in his dreams, and now this. His hand was shaking. Legs too, oh boy! He gripped the door frame harder, to steady his hands and his balance. He loved you. And he wasn’t looking at Bill. “I asked you yesterday,” he said glaring at the floor. 

As much as he tried to avoid seeing you, perceiving  you, he couldn’t help when you spoke. Eyes to the tiles. Eyes to the floor. You sniffed, voice shaky and soft, maybe even raw. Unlike how Dipper had ever heard you before all this. But it was a voice he was getting used to, “What?” you asked. 

He clenched his fist, digging his nails into his palm until he broke the skin. Oh, fuck you. No. He could not do this. You only needed one word, one was all it took, and it felt like a stab wound. Or so he assumed, he’d never been stabbed. And he couldn’t resist a bit of torture, so he looked up at you, and that was a twist of the knife. He clenched his jaw. This is so stupid. “Can you just-” he shook his head, trying not to glare at you. “Can you just give me the kitchen?”

You sat there a moment, barely reacting, reminding him slightly of a wet kitten. “I-“ you started, staring up at him, then looking down at your coffee pot. Shakily, you stood up, and placed it on the counter behind you. “Okay,” you practically whispered. 

You stood awkwardly a few feet in front of him, and he realized he should probably step aside. You didn’t meet his eyes when he did, and he was half glad. He might die if he saw them up closer, more detailed. They might seem sadder. “Y/n,” he sighed. “Can you… not be in here, tomorrow morning?” He asked, “please?”

You nodded, and left behind him, and the kitchen was empty. Your cup still say on the ground where it was beside you. The coffee pit was still half empty. Dipper sighed, completely alone. At least he had coffee. It didn’t taste as good as he’d hoped. Nothing like nectar if the gods.

What did you have to cry about? He shook his head. Don’t go there. No but really, though? You got yourself into this. You were the one who brought Bill here. It’s not like you’d ever met him before, it’s not like you had any… experiences… the way he did. Or any of the others, really. Did you even know what was at stake? You never lived the apocalypse. You didn’t have to survive that. So why were you so fucked up about this? Shouldn’t it be him crying on the floor, if anyone? 

But no, here he was having to drink the coffee you brewed, keeping his shit together, mostly, while you were… that. Why did you have to bring him into this god damned Shack? He stared bitterly into his cup, and swirled the coffee around. It was lukewarm at best. 

If only, what? If only he was with you when you found him? If only he noticed sooner? If only you had the common fucking sense to say something? Bill could’ve tricked you. But you could’ve said something. If only you didn’t find him. If only you did anything different. If only you weren’t in the woods that day? If only you were anywhere else. Like if you never came to Gravity Falls.

His gaze softened. Even in his head he was going too far. Was he? Is the world gonna end because you were at the wrong place at the wrong time? Or because he didn’t tell you enough? You should have had the common sense to tell somebody about a statue in the woods. You weren’t an idiot. Or so he thought. And suddenly he was right back to glaring at his mug. And yours, which he didn’t bother to pick up from the floor.

He knew better, maybe. He knew Bill tricked people, and he knew you weren’t stupid. And he knew you probably felt… some pretty strong emotions, right now. But what the fuck did you have to cry so hard about? 

Don’t go there. Just don’t. At least he had the kitchen to himself for a while.

                                              … 

Again. Again, again again. He asked, again. And you didn’t listen. Again. On the floor of the kitchen, just like yesterday, just like the day before. Felt like fucking forever. Like you and him were stuck in that god damn kitchen, trapped by his early morning want for coffee and your inability to sulk anywhere else, with your half empty pot of coffee, and similarly stained mug. Every god damned time. How many days had it been? It all seemed to blend together. But the moral was: who in gods name were you still a wreck like this?

“Y/n,” Dipper started, running his hand through his greasy hair, catching on the tangles from days without brushing it. And he thought briefly about how on a normal day you might run your fingers through it, or at the very least spray him in the face with dry shampoo to tease him. And the more he thought of that the angrier he got. He took a breath. Breathe. “Y/n,” he said, hands shaking. “Come on.”

You looked up at him, face blotchy from tears, presumably. With a ragged and throaty voice, “What?” you asked. And he was forgetting you could sound any other way. 

What do you mean, what? Get out. Of the stupid fucking kitchen. He deserved that. He deserved to go get coffee. “Why,” he said, taking a breath. Breathe, breathe, breathe. “-Why are you here?” He was talking with his hands now, gesturing wildly at you with each word, however shaky he might be. 

“I-“ you started, hand halfway reaching out, then retracting to the safety of the handle of the coffee pot. You had a wide eyes, sad eyes, tired eyes, wild eyes, and Dipper winced as he saw the little red veins around your pupils. Your throat still scratched with each syllable, “I wanted coffee.”

Oh fuck off. He was shaking his head now, and his hands were still because they were balled into fists at his sides. “Y/n, fuck off,” he said, voice getting louder. And suddenly it was all rushing to the surface, and his body was moving on its own. He stepped forward pointing at you, and you reacted like it was a spell, shrinking into the floor and the cupboards. “You fucking brought Bill back,” he started, stepping again. “And you didn’t tell me anything until it was too late. Then you did this,” he yelled, joking up the fading yellowish and purple bruise on his wrist. Even after days of fading it still looked sickly. 

It’s not that he didn’t notice your face falling, as you clutched the pot like a lifeline, it’s that he wasn’t done. “And for some fucking reason, after all that,” he spat. “You’re incapable of doing the one thing I ask, the one thing.” 

You stuttered, speech choppy, “What… did you,” you cleared your throat, “ask?”

What did he ask? Dippers face scrunched as his hands fell. “Yesterday,” he said simply and lowly. “And the day before, I think.”

You blinked, looking once at the floor before back at him, still and silent as a statue. 

“I asked you to stay out of the kitchen,” Dipper snarked, standing over you. But his anger was dissipating and his confusion growing. Did you really not remember? That was worrying. Was Bill still in your head? No that was impossible in the shack. Memory loss of some kind? That seemed most likely. Trauma induced? Mental or physical? Either from when he hit you in the head, or it was mental state induced. Were you that dramatic? Don’t be mean. 

“You-“ your feet were retracting as you curling further into yourself. “You didn’t ask me anything yesterday,” you mumbled, staring into your coffee pot. 

You quickly tensed, eyes darting back to him, “-that I remember,” you added quickly. “I-I know I was… out, yesterday.”

What? What was your angle? That’s… “What?” 

You pursed your lips, and swallowed, eyes falling back to the floor. “Well, I was…” you trailed off, thumbing the coffee pot. “I wasn’t me.”

”That was like, days ago,” he spat. And then paused. And paused. And then looked. At you, at the coffee pot, and the mug beside you. Okay. At first, there was no thought, just an empty brain staring at a cup. Alright… 

You said something, but Dippers brain was starting to move again, and it seemed to tune you out. Why didn’t you remember, and why did you never learn? And why did you think… that was yesterday. Okay. Alright. 

Without another word, he turned around and left, headed upstairs, and shook Mabel awake. She was tired, dazed, and confused, but she answered his question: what was yesterday. 

Well shit. Her too. And Dipper came to the conclusion that he might be the weird one, and he might be in a timeloop.

Next

Guys I’m sorry. This is a two parter too that’s the worst part. These two chapters almost killed me. So god Damn long and a fuckimg doozy 😭

I got to like 4K words and realized I hadn’t covered half the stuff I wanted to.

Also I got real sad again around the time I wrote this, can you tell 💀

Taglist: @dead-esque @cipheress-to-k-pop

[pocketgalaxies]

sam: *gives everyone cans of silly string*

everyone: *starts shaking their cans*

marisha:

marisha: that stuff is so hard to clean up

everyone: bets on who uses it first lol!

marisha: just don't get it in the panels.

marisha: or in the cams.

marisha: or in the rafters.

marisha: or in the grid.

tal: i remember when you were fun.

marisha: D:

[zablife]

You're No Good For Me

Tommy Shelby x OC Satine

Summary: When Tommy comes into possession of a new club, the Shelbys want to know more about the beautiful and seductive performer working there. What happens when Tommy confronts her about her hidden past?

Author’s Note: Requested by @goodnightkatherine who wanted to see Tommy with a jazz singer men are obsessed with.

Warnings: language, mention of drinking, violence, possessiveness, hints of dark!Tommy, PTSD, mention of a weapon

“Bloody hell, the tits on her! Didn’t I tell ya?” Arthur asked, a wicked smirk curling around the edges of his whisky glass. His eyes never left the stage where a voluptuous ginger haired beauty leaned over the crowd. As her gloved hand seductively slid along the curve of her hip, a slight shudder ran through Arthur. He shifted in his chair, adjusting his trousers just as her ruby lips parted once more and she purred the last line of a lovesick ballad into a golden microphone.

“They’ve got a little perch for her up in the rafters and she swings on it like a bird. Last night she even did an act with red silks where she tied herself-“ Finn started, excitedly.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Arthur cut him off. “Shouldn’t he be working the door?” he rolled his eyes toward the table, irritation visible in his clenched fist.

Tommy leaned back in his chair, studying the effect she had on his brothers and every other man in the club. “Go on, Finn,” he ordered with a jerk of his chin.

As the number came to an end, he placed his cigarette between his lips and clapped stiffly, the deafening noise drowning out the huff of a laugh that escaped before an honest assessment. “So this is why you want to stay in London, eh?”

“S right,” Arthur affirmed eagerly as he poured another round. “You need someone to keep an eye here.”

“On the club, Arthur,” Tommy reminded his brother with a sharp note of warning.

“And she’s part of it, ain’t she?” Arthur grumbled.

Tommy shook his head warily, “Remember what dad used to say, brother. Fast women…”

“And slow horses…”, Arthur interjected with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I know, I know, Tom!”

Tommy held Arthur’s gaze for a moment as he finished bitterly, “Will ruin your life.” He stamped out his cigarette in the ashtray, glancing back toward the empty stage. “I’ve things to do first, then I’ll give you my answer,” he replied, abruptly ending their conversation.

“Go on then. Don’t let me keep ya,” Arthur bellowed with a sweep of his arm. Allowing the king to exit in grand fashion, he remained at the table unwilling to allow his baby brother to spoil his evening or his plans for the future.

———————————-

The passageways beneath the stage were dark and winding, causing Tommy’s chest to constrict unnaturally. It didn’t bother him when there was chatter from the girls, but now it had become eerily silent save for the rush of blood through his ears. Tommy made haste to the dressing rooms, forcing his boots to thud upon the concrete floor a bit harder than necessary.

Soon he came upon the room he sought, breathing a sigh of relief at the glow of pale orange light seeping from beneath the door like an outstretched hand saving him from the smothering darkness. Like a beacon it called to him and he pushed the flimsy panel open without knocking, any pretense of formality forgotten. 

“I need to speak with you,” he informed the woman sat at the vanity. The redhead looked up with a look of bored detachment, powdering her nose as she raised her eyes to meet his in the mirror.

“Can I help you?” she asked with a foreign lilt he immediately recognized as French.

“You don’t know who I am, do you?” he asked incredulously.

“Are you an admirer?” she asked with a sly smile. Tommy cocked an eyebrow at her, but she only giggled in return. “I have many of those.”

“No, love, I’m not here to throw roses at your feet,” he confirmed. 

“That’s a pity. I like roses,” she pouted. 

“So I’ve heard from your previous employer, but there’s going to be a new arrangement. You see, as of last week, I own this club,” Tommy informed her as he clasped his hands behind his back.

She turned slowly to face him, head tilted to catch a glimpse of his shadowed face beneath his cap. “Are you here to fuck me?” she offered breathlessly.

Tommy shook his head. “No, nothing like that," he assured her, removing his cap slowly and placing it on a nearby chair.

“Then this job will be easier than I expected,” she purred, standing to her full height. She was easily a foot taller than Tommy and she carried it with a casual elegance.

“What’s your name?” he asked, fishing his cigarette case from his pocket and turning it over in his palm.

“Satine,” she replied without hesitation, a smirk playing on her lips mischievously.

Tommy laughed mirthlessly, the sharp note of annoyance clear as he rolled his eyes. He took a moment to light his cigarette, the flame of his lighter flashing in her cat like eyes. “Your real name,” he pressed in a low, dangerous voice, taking a step closer to where she now stood.

In such close proximity she was able to scan the details of his face, pale skin still youthfully freckled but the sunken cheeks and dark circles beneath his eyes bore the passage of time. She looked away before he could glimpse the recognition hidden in her gaze, but she’d already lingered a moment too long.

Tommy seized on it immediately. “You think I don’t know you behind a few rhinestones and hair lacquer,” he taunted, exhaling a large plume of smoke toward her. Leaning in to capture her face in the palm of his callused hand he hissed, “Say your fucking name.”

She tried not to recoil, but the tight lipped smile that tugged at her mouth gave away her discomfort. “Why do you need this?” she asked, jerking her chin away in defiance. 

“Cos I want you to admit what you are...what you did,” Tommy spat, hand flying to her delicate neck as he forced her against the opposite wall. 

Red nails clawing against his wrist, Satine shook her head. “I-I did nothing…” she sputtered.

“Yeah, you did nothing," Tommy nodded in agreement as he emphasized the last word. "Left me for dead," he seethed, tightening his hold until she was left gasping for air before him.

Her eyes welled with tears as they had that final night spent together, tucked away in her tiny flat making promises of a life together after the war. Back then he didn’t care that she fucked Barney first, knowing he would be her last. She’d promised him she’d be his forever. She said, "I'll wait through any storm to be by your side."

It was that thought alone that drove him to dig after the tunnel collapse, clawing his way from the depths of the blackened earth to seek her embrace. There was nothing but emptiness waiting in her flat, however, the neighbor apologizing with sorrowful eyes when forced to recount the man come to collect her. For the better part of a year, he chased a ghost before returning home to Birmingham alone.

As the memories washed over him in quick succession, Tommy allowed the rage to consume him. He watched her head loll and her eyes roll back in the moment before losing consciousness. A low whimper from her pulled him out of himself, the intoxicating sound of her causing his hands to shake uncontrollably. With that, he released his grasp and backed away to the center of the room as nausea gripped him.

Satine fell forward clutching her chest, a coughing fit descending upon her as she struggled for breath. “T-tommy,” her desperate voice called out. The sound echoed around him like the beating of the shovels inside his skull and he turned away clutching his head. 

“You’re no good for me,” he reminded himself as he screwed his eyes shut. But I want you still, his tortured mind replied, fingers fumbling beneath his jacket for the cold comfort of his revolver...a decision to be made.

-----------------------

Tag List:

@peakyswritings

@evita-shelby

@shelbydelrey

@alanadetigy

@wandawiccan60   

@severewobblerlightdragon

@lovemissyhoneybee

@theshelbyslimited

@kittycatcait219

@callsign-fangirl

@christinasyellowflowers

@notyour-valentine

@theshelbyclan

@red-riding-wood

@polishcrazyone

@elenavampire21

@little-diable

@lyarr24

@jomarch-wannabe

@the-fangirl-diaries

@kmc1989

@everythingelseisextra

@stilestotherescue 

@helen06dreamer

@chaosinkest1996 

@pietroxreader

@galactict3a

@cillmequick

@brummiereader

@call-sign-shark

@runnning-outof-time

@look-at-the-soul

@garrison-girl-08

@dandelionprints

@thomashelbyswife

@allie131313

@kpopgirlbtssvt

@kmhappybunny240

@babaohhhriley

@emotionalcadaver

[imaginethebeautifulworld]

So I was reading Phantom of the Opera and some of Erik's descriptions made me think so much of Gil! I remembered how amazing your Hades and Persephone fic was, and I was hoping you could do something with the Phantom too? Thanks so much!!!!

Hello, Anon! I absolutely adored Erik in the book, and now that I read your ask, I can easily see the similarities, too~ I grew up on a weird blend of the book, musical, and both the 2004 and Lon Chaney films; I tried to honor that blend in this a bit, but a majority was pulled from memories of the book. I hope you enjoy, and thank you for your patience~

The theatre was filled to bursting, the audience awed, riveted, mesmerized, your voice weaving an enchantment over hundreds of unsuspecting admirers.

He was proud of you.

Your voice reached him even in the highest and most of isolated rafters, a platform forgotten- abandoned- by the stagehands stationed several stories below. Your voice was full, carrying all of the strength and conviction and passion as the character you were playing.

Gone was the timid spirit he had stumbled upon all those years ago, broken and shattered from loss, left with only the protections of a then-aloof guardian and a firm, dispassionate teacher.

He was drawn to you from that first day, a twist of compassion, of understanding; in spite of your upbringing and (even then) impressive talent, you were still an outsider, your peers and the other students keeping their distance, leery of your background, and some envious even then.

Yes, the companionship and camaraderie would come in time, but in those first few months, he saw the same loneliness and sadness in you he'd once carried so heavily himself, and his heart ached to comfort you.

The first time he spoke to you was purely accidental, a slip of a whisper he prayed you would dismiss as a ghost, or mere imagination. He had grown too comfortable in answering you when you were alone, his voice always near silent as you spoke to your mother, your father, and sometimes the angels themselves.

It was the latter with which you had caught him, crying out with a broken heart after discovering another student had sabotaged your satin slippers, intent on seeing your failure, your embarrassment, and (as likely was the case with that particular little shrew) your dismissal from the school.

But you persevered, successfully completed your performance, never once showing your distress until you were away from the others. It was only then, hidden away in a forgotten practice room that you showed your anger, your sadness, your hopelessness. The mask had fallen, and he was once again struck by the beauty of the fractured soul he admired so deeply.

"Please," you whispered, and it broke his heart to hear it, "I feel so alone."

It ached, being unable to comfort you, seeing your progress and healing of the past few months tested so needlessly. He ached for you; he was angry for you.

"You are not alone."

It was a fleeting, foolish slip, his temper and his longing both getting the better of him. Your sudden silence choked his own breath, his entire body freezing in terror.

For a moment, for an eternity, there was naught but silence.

He didn't dare move, fearful of how even the slightest shift of fabric could give him away, could startle you, could-

"I was half-afraid I had gone mad, speaking with shadows and expecting them to finally reply."

You were... teasing him, only a little, though at the time he was still petrified that you would demand he reveal himself. You had moved closer to the false panel, studying it closely, seeking out any faults that might give away its secrets. For a moment, your eyes were perfectly level with his own, and he feared you could hear his heart racing in his chest.

But soon enough you had drawn away, crestfallen. "Perhaps I have gone mad," you murmured, sighing in defeat. "Perhaps the rumors are true, and you are nothing but a ghost."

Memories of his time spent serving in the court of a distant empire flickered to memory, a rueful sound resembling laughter slipped past his defenses. "Of the many things they may wish and claim me to be, dead is not yet among them."

Your focus once more returned to the panel, and he instinctively took a step back. "Please-" he began, quickly cutting himself off.

Where others would have pressed forward, you paused, then took several steps away from the wall, granting him his distance, a warm sense of appreciation, and another he couldn't name at the time, sparkling to the surface at the warm breath of relieved laughter you released soon after. "You- You're really there."

That moment, one he could still so clearly remember as the peripeteia, the decided, unexpected change to a familiar script, one which would set the trajectory of both of your lives for the next ten years. It would lead to many late nights spent in practice, in conversation, in debates about the literary characters you loved so dearly. "I am always here."

Your aria had drawn to a close, the spell broken by the deafening roar of the audience's applause, and Gilbert was pulled from his memories, unable to conceal his smile.

Brava, Schatz. Bravissima.

He stood to his full height and began to make his way towards the nearby ladder.

For your role, another scene yet remained- a joyful reunion between your character and the valiant hero following the defeat of the jealous villain, a happy end to a romance so riddled with tragedy.

Gilbert needn't see the ending; it was a tale as old as time.

His footsteps were silent and certain, following a path he could traverse in his sleep; he had already paced it many times in his dreams.

Of all the false doors he had constructed in his opera house, there was one he had yet to pass through, one which now loomed before him. The room beyond was bathed in the ethereal golden glow of candlelight, a world outside of the darkness, fueling even more of the torment already plaguing his mind.

He was haunted by his doubts, by his need to... His need to properly introduce himself.

You had risen so high, could fly even higher, could rise above anything the fools in this theatre could ever hope to imagine. With your voice, your grace, your elegance, and your perspicacity, he had no doubts you could soar to a realm where only angels once dare tread. Perhaps it was wrong to want to burden you, to-

Movement on the other side of the glass brought his thoughts once more to a standstill. You were laughing, carefree, glowing with happiness and a brilliant light which followed everyone through the corridors after a triumphant performance. His heart fluttered to see you so beautifully framed, a living portrait he yearned to touch.

He frowned at the thought.

These feelings...

He had cared for you when you first arrived, a deep friendship slowly growing, even as he never allowed you to glance upon him. Slowly, then almost in an erupting whirlwind, those feelings had adapted, deepened, solidified. He was left hoping, wishing...

You were an Angel, in the most benevolent, compassionate of ways, but even an Angel would surely shun a Devil's Child.

For that was what his eyes and his appearance had always been: that of a devil. And surely-

Another figure was entering the room, and you were quick to abandon the comfort of your velvet settee, rushing to embrace-

No.

You were laughing, falling into conversation with an ease that only came-

You were familiar with this... this boy.

Perhaps even intimate, his traitorous thoughts interfered, the herald to the invasive darkness which followed.

It was a cold, bitter thing, rising from the depths, twisting and corrupting his every breath.

He had been careless, allowing you your freedom, allowing you to slip away to the gilded sanctuary of your guardian's maison de ville.

This boy dared to presume he could even look upon you, let alone embrace you, speak with you so candidly, even addressing you by your given name-

Gilbert felt his rage, his envy, grow stronger, even as that bedamned Raoul finally departed for the evening, leaving your bright smile in his wake.

You often called Gilbert your "Angel of Music," a bringer of light to your once dreary and dark days. You used it affectionately, a term of endearment for one you saw as a companion, a compatriot in curiosity.

But much like his namesake, Gilbert was Fallen, cursed, a creature of shadows and Night.

It took so little to pull him back into the Darkness, and now, with the sting of envy plaguing his every thought, Avarice and Doubt whispering in his ear, his ambitions had changed.

You were his.

He would ensure no one else could dare claim you, would have the slightest chance at your heart.

With skill honed from years of practice, Gilbert silently slid open the trap door, his voice carrying over to you in a tone he himself barely recognized. "Insolent boy. The impertinence of him, sharing in our triumph."

You startled at his voice, turning to him instinctively, your eyes widening in disbelief, before you graced him with your brightest smile yet.

Your joy glittered with more radiance than any star in the heavens, but its glimmer eclipsed your awareness, obscuring the darkness in the figure stealing ever closer.

"Hello, Engel."

Thanks for reading!

Special shout-out to @the-scribe-and-her-scribbles for unwittingly inspiring me today to finally sit down and write. She's an amazing writer, and if you haven't checked it out already, I highly recommend her ongoing series It Will Come Back.

[earlofbats]

One Last Dance

Hey! Sorry @zipper-ghost it's not very long! My gift for the @palestaticexchange I wrote you a little vignette about Kim and Harry returning to the church a few years later:

“You, do you really think it'll be there?” Kim looks up to the church.

It's cold again, many years cold.

You tighten the grip on the cane and shift it under the weight of your palm.

It's fine wood body holds your weight and moors you to the earth, keeps you on the ground.

Kim's hand comes to hold your shoulder, you feel yourself sinking into the mud.

Soon you'll be buried there.

“It's still there…” you offer, distracted as you take in your surroundings.

It isn't, not really.

The church has a thin blanket of snow snuggled up against the doors.

The ice on the steps cracks and shatters like glass under your weight.

Kim hesitates at the stoop watches with nervous eyes as you rest your hand against the handle.

He’s uneasy, you’re acting strangely and despite his trust in you he is unsure.

“There's no music.” he states firmly.

“…oh? But can't you hear it?” You give Kim a smile that crinkles at your eyes as you push the doors open.

They drag along the rough wood, bending and splintering, metal rust flaking off the hinges.

The space is set with a stillness, its dim and silent air floats dust particles into the light.

No one has been here in years.

“They boarded up the hole..” Kim follows loyally behind, looking down at the base of the portrait where wood has been paneled along the base of the giant glass pane.

You look up.

Gone is her ethereal beauty, her soft and gentle features now reclaimed.

sprayed across her face a new visage, cartoonish and dripping down red against her glowing lungs.

A dead man smiling.

The defeat of history… The Hard Core.

Your grin widens yellowed teeth shining gray in the light.

You turn to Kim and point.

But he isn't looking in your direction, no he's looking towards the center of the room.

It's bigger, the size of a newborn, an infant it grows everyday bit by bit.

A child of a real revolution, a true undoing.

You turn back, limping over toward where Kim stares off into the rafters.

“You would have said no.” You state your hand coming to brush against the back of Kim's.

He looks down at it with a fond and tired expression, a long weathered kind of look.

“Probably…” Kim turns his palm up and wrangles your fingers into his.

You give it a light squeeze and nestle in close to him.

Your eyes flutter close, your breath seeps out into vapor.

Thoughts orbit around your head in their fine line across your halo.

Little drops of ideation swirling around the pull of your mind's gravitation.

Tender thoughts.

Thoughts you think about when you need the softness against the folds of your brain.

Kim's mustache against your cheek, his body against the curve of your spine, his breath against the back of your nape.

“Please….” Kim breathes against the inside of your collar “can we-” he stops himself with a hitch of breath.

You open your eyes wide, the reflection of them glimmering in the shine of Kim's spectacles.

“Kim,-” you turn to face him grabbing his other hand in yours, “I had to know-” you tighten your grip “I just wanted to see how much time we have.”

“Wh-” Kim stops himself. He wants to ask questions, but knows he doesn't want the answers.

“It's okay,” you assure him.

“We didn't come for the club…did we?”

You don't let your smile falter “we can still dance.”

“Harry…” Kim scolds.

“No, the club is not here. It's in Jamrock…boogie Street maybe. It's under the earth in the concrete…” you trail off,

The long steel rafters intertwined like spiderwebs crawling outward along the ceiling and down to the foundations, the thumping vibration against the catacombs of intersecting housings, the music at the end of the world brought to you by the youth of the final generation.

A sound you had seen the birth of.

The hole in the world lingers in its stratus.

The revolution is sound and radio waves.

You shuffle your feet, running your hands to find their homes at the dip of Kims pelvis, thumb resting over that narrow jut of bone.

You hum a tune and sway from one foot to the other.

Kim tries to hold back a smile he rests his head against the wide expanse of your shoulder and allows himself the respite.

The ocean breeze seeps through the cracks, glides along the wood and rotting varnish, brushes up against your cervical nerves, prickling hairs on the back of your neck.

There in the Jamrock Quarter, she stands proudly, the new church, the new faith, three friends sit at the helm of a technological wonder, at the new vibrations.

The Paliseum, a sanctuary of a new religion.

Kim stops your movement and pulls you away from him.

Ever so softly he kisses you.

His lips feel like hope and the kiss tastes of a future worth existing and you think to yourself,

“Disco is dead, long live disco.”