Teeth managed to sell a fair many things at the market; at least half the luxuries from 8-Ball's room, and a million other trinkets scattered around the house. Chairs, tables, vases, and clothes; he sold it all, and made a whopping $1.5k in effect. Still, what did it matter with the expenses he used on rent, on food, on basic necessities? What did it matter, Teeth wondered, ripping the pale-pink calendar from his wall.

Just as he did, the phone rang, and just as he'd been doing the last week or so, played deaf. Hell, what was Cipher going to do? Kill him more? Yeah, right. Teeth waddled over to the cooler for another beer, his body nearly liquid by only eight in the morning. But, what did that matter either? What if Teeth sat in the tub and went down the drain, or flushed himself down the toilet? What then?

He was just drunk enough to feel giddy at the float in his head, teetering and tottering over the shoulders. His feet twiddled to music; some old record he'd found up in 8-Ball's room (Al Jolson before he'd been picked up for The Jazz Singer.) He was about as light on his feet as one might suspect, bumping and banging against the kitchen walls that, at some point, had held fancy little plates.

"That's how you know someone's getting old," was what 8-Ball used to say. "When they start decorating the place with dishes."

Teeth knocked the side of his mouth into the wall. "'Scue me," he slurred, sliding his hands over the crooked work of his button-up shirt, only to spill the drink in his hand down his chest. Yup; good and drunk.

Six months had been a damn-lot of time to make $15k, but that was still six months all alone. You didn't just do work all alone.

Managing the children had always been his job, but keeping customers in line had been 8-Ball's; he used to sit in the far corner of the basement with his fold-out chair, leg crossed over the knee, nursing himself on a silver flask. He'd get pretty damn teed off at a few; snapped his fingers with a pointed "Hey!" if anything went below the belt, close to killing and such. No one liked damaged goods, after all.

They did their jobs well over the years, and were all set until six months ago when Teeth had his little… accident. With 8-Ball gone and dead, it had been up to Teeth to play referee, but he was a wormly man. Who was he, Teeth thought, to get in the way of things? Where did his authority stand, when all he really did was collect the cash afterwards? He was practically a cashier.

"Eh, forget it," he'd thought, leaving those men to their own devices, practically letting hyenas loose in a museum. Sculptures smashed to bits, paintings torn from walls; it became a real mess after a while, and maybe someone like 8-Ball didn't need Teeth, but Teeth sure as hell needed 8-Ball, especially when business made a noticeable drop.

Doing the dirtying up was good and fine, but come the next customer who wanted to do the same exact thing to those boys, they saw yellowing bruises, angry bitemarks, and the illusion of purity fizzled out. One guy told another guy told another guy told the next, "Oh, don't go over there. That's for sloppy seconds."

A failing business was worse than a dead one; there was no respect for the guy who ran a well-established child ring into the ground. A lot of people walked out with the same weight to their wallets, but Teeth's mouth stayed stone-hard.

Would that have happened with 8-Ball around?

Teeth knocked back the last of his drink before leaning over for another beer. He fingernailed the flap open, half-dazed at the foam bubbling up.

Hell. What did it matter who'd gotten away with what under 8-Ball's watch? What did it matter in 8-Ball's old, barren kitchen, the last of his beer going down someone else's throat, his very name no more than horse shit on his old crock-skinned boots? He'd had a go at it, put his eggs in one basket, only to have a serpent gobble them up; 8-Ball's hand was visible from the downstair's bathroom window where it peaked out of the dirt, hollowed by mosquitos and maggots and little chiggers burrowing into the blood.

Teeth considered customizing a little tombstone for himself before he went on ahead and dug a grave around his size, but what did that matter either?

What did any of it matter?

The phone rang again, directly after the first set of rings died away. "A Cipher never calls the same place twice" was an old, terrible saying, but to Teeth, no more than urban legend. The Cipher family did business with you once, at the tail-end of a thirty-foot pole. Pray to God if you ever saw them afterwards, it was by accident, bumping shoulders on the stairwell without recognising one another until far too late, and when you decided to turn around and verify, they were already gone, probably on their way to deal it out to the next guy who hadn't been quite so lucky.

They were a secretive breed; never the first seen in the papers, but always in the opening paragraphs and closing statements. Competition went away like a puff of smoke, the way they'd disappear, and no one could pin it on the Ciphers, not unless they counted the chill running down their spines. It inspired fear in their efficiency; the boss before Bill had been an in-and-out, cold killer.

Generations changed, though. Bill Cipher was an entirely different species from the last. If there were ever a man to love his own face, love his own voice, love his own charisma the way he did, God had done a bang-up job making sure he challenged that charm with a wickedly sadistic mind; He littered the streets with evidence, not as myth, but indisputable proof of his glorious existence.

Six months was only a cruel line of barbed wire around the neck, slowly curling in as the days wore on. Tomorrow, the leash would be set so tight, Teeth wouldn't be able to work a single hair in between. An hour after that, he'd be nuzzled in, nice and snug, next to 8-Ball.

The thought, for whatever reason, hardly fazed him, even though there was more than enough room to wallow, what with his life's balls mashed to pudding. He was too drunk. Too exhausted.

When he'd woken that morning, a dead man's resolve coursing through his veins, there was a sense of panic- Fright- before smoothing into a shock like peace. His brain broke at every emotion the month of March invoked; Bill's henchmen were already on their way to collect half a debt Teeth hadn't scrounged more than a nickel of, and children he'd promised were actually men, and it made him hysterical as a clown. Giddy. Almost happy. That had been how the day started; 7 AM with a beer.

And, how would the day end?

Teeth finished his drink. He thought about it. He'd never planned his days out before, but at the ticking of his own clock thought it best he scheduled every second accordingly. That $1.5k was a fancy start (Bill'd just strip it from his corpse' wallet, otherwise.)

Maybe he'd learn how to ski like he'd always wanted to; Austria was scenic this time of year. Sky-diving wasn't a half-bad idea either, not if he didn't piss his own suit in the process.

Teeth looked down at his wet, poorly buttoned chest and thought about ditching the rags, getting some new threads and hitting one of those nose-raised joints. Restaurants with dress-codes. If he rubbed elbows with those folks, it'd surely ruin their evenings, and wasn't that an exciting thought?

The wormly, spineless part of his brain was only quiet, packed up and moved away. In its place, self-destruction so enthralling. That wild, death-driven thrill curled over his shoulders and whispered to him.

What did Teeth want to do with his last breath? His last meal? His last day?

He wanted to feel powerful.

He wanted to feel loved.

Wasn't the last day of his life a wonderful day to feel it? Didn't he deserve it? More than the pounding sorrow of his own mortality, the slight, tiny voice racked with sobs at Bill's men, the hunger in him raging to be fed, howling pains of exhaustion, every corner a death-trap, Teeth felt his own resolve. In that instance of facing death, and knowing months in advance that he would, he was liberated. What should he do with it? What should he do?

The question was rhetorical, of course.

Teeth got up with a slosh in his gut, a little mumble, before making his way towards the basement.

[...]

Dipper was stretched out on his back, head rested over his arm and eyes heavy with fatigue. The rear of his skull still ached from its roots since the last man, who'd had a grip like fire by the fuzz of his nape; they were becoming more violent.

Just days before, Dipper feared he might die by the hands of this 40-something-year-old (who dressed like a school counselor, with his comb-over hair and the way the glasses on his nose slid down under his eyes) if he got too excited and somehow launched his spine out by his throat at the rhythm of his hips, sinking intune with Dipper's voice, "Please don't kill me please don't kill me please don't kill me please don't kill me."

Dipper drew a breath, the inner-walls of his legs trembling with bruises, unable to close when the muscles around his hips moaned with ache. He fought the ball in his throat, his shoulders shivering as he heaved out sigh after sigh, trying with every bone in his body to control himself. Breathing was all he could manage to stay calm; "calm," as opposed to completely losing his marbles.

"It could always be worse. It could always be worse." His brain chanted, only to reflect the phrase back in a snide, strangely Mabel-esque tone.

"It could always be a whole-lot better, too." That voice was so quiet, though. So meek and unsteady; not like Mabel. More like those men, who wore their belts well above their guts and sopping wet tennis shoes with neon laces. He'd heard nothing but talk from them over the months, and only ever imagined Mabel's voice, so much so that they were starting to intermingle. When he heard it, and heard that things could get better, that they were supposed to, it filled him with dread.

It could always be worse, he didn't doubt.

But, could it really be better?

"Stop. Just stop." Dipper thought bitterly, his face pulsing-hot; he could feel it when the tears tracked down his cheeks, into his ears. He took a deep breath through the nose, his chest rising with strain. "Panic" meant frantic and stupid. He wasn't stupid. He was frantic, but not so much if he breathed.

Stay calm. It's over.

For now.

Dipper exhaled.

It's OVER.

A creek from upstairs.

FOR NOW.

Just when Dipper started to doze off, the basement door pulled open with a squeak. The muscles in his lower back flexed, bracing as he hauled himself to life. He wormed a hand over the worse of his bruises, hoping to sooth the throbbing before anything more happened to them; It was going to be one of those days again.

His eyes readied for the lights to turn on, but when nothing happened, Dipper sat up slowly, rubbing away the wet tracks on his cheeks in listless disinterest. Was it time to eat? His body reacted like it was, but those days it always did, always hungry.

Teeth was up the staircase, hands on his hips, a stance he only made when he was piss-drunk. That should have been alarming. It would've been, if he were anyone else. Of all the things to scare Dipper, the one thing that didn't scare him was Teeth.

It hadn't always been that way. The first month, he'd been terrified, especially after witnessing the full-force of Teeth's body strangle the life out of 8-Ball; Teeth had reacted in violent, hysterical waves, shaking 8-Ball's corpse until there was a loud pop and the neck bent too far back.

It was Darwin who eased Dipper out of it. "He's pathetic," he'd explained in between spoonfuls of that same yellow-y paste. The kind of guy who wanted his balls crushed, or liked when someone else fucked his wife. The passive type. He'd been right.

Sometimes Teeth would thread his hand through Dipper's hair from the gaps of his cage, but those were only ever longing touches; he had them in that basement all to himself, no one for miles to find them, and still hesitated to actually do anything. Which was good. Probably a blessing from God.

A blessing, or a temporary fix.

"Hi guys." Teeth's words casted their way downstairs, his frame awkward and stiff, the hands on either side of him not exactly touching his hips. Dipper lifted his head towards the steps, only to lower it in disinterest; Teeth's mouth got chatty when he was drunk, the same way a car started up with gas in its tank.

"Hell-o," Teeth said again, this time drawn out. No one said a thing. Dipper laid himself back on his side to resimulate that sleepy sensation. At most, Teeth was a pest. Annoying, but not dangerous.

"How're we doing today? Good? Good," Teeth chirped, only for his foot to slip against the edge of the first step and catch on the second (he still hadn't thought to flick on the lights.) He righted himself quickly. When he did, it was like walking down a fancy staircase of marble, in that his back was a bit straighter and he looked just the slightest bit cocky; protocol for six to eight beers.

"Good, good, good, good, good. I'm feeling so good! You know what I mean?" Teeth cheered. He reached the base of the steps, only to sling an arm over the roof of Kaleb's cage, which was also protocol. The only thing that didn't seem to be protocol was the expression he wore, grimy and rot with grit, instead of curled and meek, as it usually was. The thought had Dipper sitting up again, slow with reluctance and a nagging voice that called him paranoid, but what part of him wasn't?

Teeth watched him sit up. "Yeah, you feel me," he commented with a nod. They locked eyes. Teeth smiled. "You're feeling all over me," he went.

Dipper's body stopped entirely. There was a stutter up, his elbow locked at an angle when the comment slapped across his face; not that he hadn't heard worse before, but that he'd never heard it from him. Teeth only laughed.

"Kidding, kidding!" His hand flew off Kaleb's cage before resetting itself, cheek resting across the knuckles. Dipper pulled himself in.

"Just thought I'd check in on you all; see how we're doing down here." Teeth popped the topside of Kaleb's cage, making the boy inside flinch. His eyes drifted across the room in a billowy, rolled motion, lips pursed at the sight of Dipper (relaxed, but curling and tightening with every second.) His eyes moved along just as quickly, a sniff to his nose, gaze unfocused. "Looks like everyone's all settled in… Yup. Good and settled."

Teeth drew his hands from the cage, instead placing them on his hips. His top lip smeared the underside of his nose. "Free room, three meals; must be nice," he laughed.

Dipper's features pulled like on a string. Down so hard, he couldn't imagine the complex, bitter expression of his face, but that had only fed into his captor's plan.

Teeth was only trying to get a rise out of them, the same way someone threw food in an animal exhibit, or ate octopus whole, alive, just to feel its suctions grip the inside of their mouth. A man like Teeth took any kind of conversation, whether pleasant or snarky or other, when he was as lonely as this. Sure enough, he caught a glimpse of that boy's reaction, and a gleam of exhilaration shone in his eye. Pride.

"What? Did I lie?" Dipper, catching on just as quickly, wiped the expression clean off his face before turning from the man. It did little to deter him; Teeth practically pounced at Dipper's reaction, who couldn't help but flinch at his back-muscles drawn inward, forcing his body away. It attuned him to the man's presence. It made every inch of him physical and real, the harder Dipper pretended not to see him.

Teeth knocked a knuckle on Dipper's bars (Tap-tap-tapping a fishbowl), but the boy wouldn't turn his way, not with the spine of his back frozen in place. Dipper's breathing came out in puffs, hands shaking as they curled over one another to stifle the tremors. (His body often fell into this reaction when anyone got too close.)

"Why'd you look at me like that?" Teeth asked with a slur. He rounded the cage to get a better look, but Dipper ducked his head until his chin touched his collarbone. Had Teeth ever tried to strike up conversation like this? Dipper couldn't remember a single time. The man tisked. "Well, don't try hiding that face now. Come on; what're you thinking? Speak up. Go ahead." He prodded.

There was a bit of playfulness in his tone. A kind Dipper knew too well now; fascination in the mangled, disfigured body of a large rodent, and the thick cavity of insects decomposing it, piece by tiny piece. As an adult, it's revolting. As a child, it's magnificent, and you want to see more of it; you want to see the ants feed and carry pieces back in a thin black line, and then smash the nest with a rock, but only after the carcass is rotting bone and moss. For a moment, you're as evil and inhuman as the very monsters you fear.

That was the tone Dipper knew; the tone that made him walk on all fours, or liked to spit in his mouth. The kind with magnifying glasses, angled just right against his skin, so he'd be walking, just minding his own business, only for the heat to build under his shell, and then he'd pop. The kind that, before he could put any breaks on it, startled a sob out of his throat. Not a cry, but the air bursting from his lungs when panic made room inside him. He could see his reflection in the glint of Teeth's shoes; a face six months older.

How many beers is this protocol for? 12? Is 12 even possible for a man his height?

"Oh, don' be scared; I'm bein' nice!" Teeth whined. "I'm always so nice to you all, don't you think? Not like 8-Ball. 8-Ball was an asshole to you guys, right? I felt bad! Seriously!"

"No, you didn't," Dipper thought, drifting his eyes up to glare at the man, only for the image to be obscured by a dent in Teeth's pants, five pink fingers readjusting it. "Not even a little."

People like Teeth didn't just fall into these circumstances; they sniffed them out. Crawled from the depths of their caves for a front-row seat, and maybe they saw themselves and hated every piece of their own faces for it, but never enough to stop, and certainly not enough to feel sympathy. To acknowledge wrong-doing without putting a stop to it was just that; an ice-pack for the guilt.

Teeth's fat hand wedged between the bars to clap Dipper's shoulder, who jumped so hard at the contact, it shook his fingers off, no problem. When he did, Teeth's face twitched, like he'd hoped Dipper would fold into the touch. "Paw," he'd say, and the boy would give it to him. Teeth moved on quickly.

"Remember when I gave you all those haircuts? That was pretty cool of me, right?" Teeth's hands slid down the sides of his pants, clearing his throat. He checked in on Kaleb to see if he was listening, but the boy was just as far back in his own cage; Darwin had his hands over his ears. Teeth's molars ground down before releasing.

"Hard work, gettin' the sides all even, makin' sure hair wasn't stickin' all over your bodies."

Dipper tried blocking it out, but the man kept going.

"Never asked for nothin' in return… I'm good like that. A real softy." Teeth chewed his lower lip, rubbing his neck and kicking his foot bashfully. His eyes closed, but at the quiet that followed, opened again. "Well? Don't y'all agree?" he asked. No one said a thing.

Dipper sat very still, hearing the light slide of the man's pant legs; Teeth thought he was different somehow; not like the other men who raped them. Maybe because he was still just Teeth, and to be Teeth meant to be the underdog, and the underdog could never be judged for taking when it could. He didn't just want to take, though. A man who had sex for sex's sake didn't say more than two words with his pants still on. No. Teeth was trying to be liked.

"I used to take care of my momma back in the day, right before she died. Sad, isn't it? It's been a while now, but I still think about her lots and lots." Teeth let out a pitiful sniff, dabbing his eye with the cuff of his sleeve. This time, Dipper's face pulled a weak, unimpressed expression, but with only the light coming from upstairs, probably looked more sympathetic.

Of course, Teeth caught that too. "Go on. Say something," he ordered after a second of pause. He was close enough to give Dipper's cell a little kick for emphasis. A little "Come on. Do something." What he'd been hearing for months now, and feared he'd just keep hearing more and more of, until it was all he ever heard or thought. "Do something. Do something." Even though he did what they asked every day.

This time, he did nothing.

There was a slow, grim shift in Teeth's features. He tapped his foot three, four, five times. A minute drew on, and even someone like him had to know a minute was too long a pause. It wasn't until he tried making eye contact with Dipper, who made such an effort not to return it, his body practically twisted in half, that Teeth gave up.

Someone like Teeth liked things to feel special; it meant he, by proxy, was also somewhat special. Candle-lit dinners and white table cloths and lobsters boiled to hell with a bottle of imported wine at his side. That kind of special. They were only teenagers, though. No top button unbuttoned, or gel in their hair. Teeth wasn't getting more than a glance out of them. Not in a lifetime.

After a moment, he finally scoffed. "Alright, fine. Let's not beat around the bush," was his bitter, done-with reply. His zipper came down, button undone, and there it was, proud and small as a thumb's up.

If an electric pulse were to shoot through Dipper's spine, he'd yelp in pain. If, an hour after, it were to shock him again, he'd yelp, and then remember the one before, and fear another one was on its way. And, if (as assumed) another shock did come, exactly an hour after the last, he'd yelp again, but with the confidence that he was being shocked intentionally, and on a schedule.

He'd brace when the clock ticked down, his fingers practically digging holes in his thighs and palms, and yelp like he always did when it finally came. He'd hate it. But, if it always came, and he always knew when, would the reaction stay the same? Maybe the pain, maybe the brace, but the sensation. The surprise. It washes away.

Like that, Dipper felt fear when Teeth drew himself out of his jeans, and then a washing over of routine. Something dead. His terror, his apprehension, his dread, was undertoned in a weepy, numb sensation.

"I've been lonely these last few months; you boys have each other, but me? Who do I have? When was the last time someone really wanted me? I'm all alone," Teeth mourned, dick in hand, circling the room casually. Almost indifferently.

He went over to the old fold-out chair in the corner, trying to kick the legs apart with just the one hand holding it up, but that took too much strain, and he was far too drunk to remember freeing up his other hand just meant letting go of his dick. As far as he could remember, so much as laying a finger off it would have the thing come undone.

"I should get a little credit for holding off this long." Teeth abandoned the chair, leaning it back against the wall. The stoppers gave out and it clanged to the floor.

Dipper… he was a smart boy. Adaptable. Perceptive. The first to realize Teeth's shifted demeanor, and first to discern exactly why it was different. When the man moved, and if he weren't already looking the boy's way, Dipper followed like a hawk. As quickly as his nerves turned on edge, the potential outcome of what this might mean for him began rotating itself.

Sex was a transactional process, as Dipper understood it. $500 for virginity. $200 for regulars.

But, take a guy like Teeth, who never had sex (at least not with those boys), and probably didn't have enough to pay for it. What would happen if he realized he didn't have to pay? What if he realized it didn't matter whether he was really spineless, or people thought he was ugly, or no one wanted him, because there were still boys in his basement?

If Teeth started, after months of having done nothing (only because he knew he was spineless, and knew no one wanted him), he would realize there was no need for wooing, no need for small-talk, and he'd get in the habit of trying again and again, until he completely forgot those factors had held him back in the first place. The only thing that tethered him away was self-loathing, and the only thing to dissolve it was practice.

Life was already Hell where Dipper sat, but if Teeth got over himself enough to realize he was in control, it would be worse.

"I mean, I take such good care of you boys. I take such good care of you… come on. I deserve this. Just this once." Teeth was by no means a graceful fellow when he tripped over his feet, stumbling against Dipper's cage. His weight shifted the thing sideways, four inches off course and left a bald spot on the floor where dust didn't collect.

It was brutal enough to send Dipper flat on his shoulder; the one he'd relocated nearly six times now. Pain shot down his arm and through the plate of his shoulder blade, and Dipper cried out from it like he always did, first with a gasp, then a dry sob. Teeth made a shushing sound, smoothing his hands over the top of Dipper's cage.

"There, there. It's okay."

But it's not okay, Dipper wanted to shout. It wasn't okay at all. If he were anywhere else, he wouldn't have to endure it; he wouldn't have to force himself to care that what had happened to him multiple times was about to happen again, and he was helpless to prevent it. If he were anywhere else, he wouldn't feel like the strings were starting to come undone again, and he had to scramble to keep them tied up, nice and snug, even though what he really wanted to do was watch and see those strings snap off. If he were anywhere else, he wouldn't be there, and that was a luxury he'd never dreamt to appreciate before.

He'd be sure to appreciate it later.

Teeth must have been really drunk, Dipper thought, because the upstairs door was still wide open, hallway lights on and bright. That had been the first thought. Teeth must have been really drunk, because it took him nearly a minute to fish out the cage's remote control lock, and he was hardly holding it steady. That had been the second. By then, Dipper was sliding up just a little bit against the bars. Still not looking at Teeth, but feeling his eyes everywhere except the face, which was where he was most vulnerable; anyone with half a brain could see the slight elevation in his mood.

Teeth was going for him. Teeth was going for him. There wasn't a single other man in that room to monitor them. Not a single door in his way, aside from the one right in front of him, and once that was unlocked...

Dipper's gaze flicked over at Kaleb, who was already sick with the look on his face, brows pressed up, frowning as hard as humanly possible. He shook his head at Dipper, hard. So hard, each one ringing out "don't, don't, don't." Dipper wouldn't listen, though. For a moment, the fog lifted, the strings were perfectly tied, and he felt the full fear and revised dread of his situation, raised at a sudden turn of events.

Teeth pressed a button. The cage popped open.

"Come on out. Don't be scared; I won't bite, little guy." Teeth breathed, running a thumb over the head of his penis. His other hand went out to Dipper; not grabbing, but offering him to take hold. The smile on his face was drenched in sweat.

Dipper's eyes flicked down at those five fingers. The head in Teeth's other hand. The stretched skin across his face, illuminated by a long staircase leading up and out. The man's body leaned further in, imploring him to grab on, so he could draw him out, see the full curve of his spine, the line of his chest; Teeth stumbled hard enough to lose hold of himself, steadied against the entrance.

That was when Dipper let loose.

"Hey- Hey!" Teeth fell back as the boy, no more than a blur, zipped past him, like a wild, feral beast. Nothing but skin and bones by the looks of it, but feeling more alive, and as though the world itself was suddenly separating to make space for him.

The room was so much larger. He was so much smaller. Dipper gasped at it, not realizing just how tight his legs had been; how wound and cramped. His feet drummed against the floor; it was like glass after six months of hardly standing, the bones of his body set and stiff, but that only pushed him on.

He took three steps before his legs gave out. Dipper was entirely too malnourished. Still, he scrambled using his arms, and at the first step, hoisted himself by the knees. His head was spinning, light with a rush of blood pumping through him, but he kept his eyes open. One step. Two steps. Three-.

There was that same shiver up his spine, a cry in his voice when his arm gave out at the fourth step, and Teeth's hand wrapped around his ankle.

"No no no no no no no no!" he bawled, feeling the light cask from upstairs. Seeing it, in his grasp, beyond a high mountain of steps; knowing freedom was there. He could reach it if he tried.

Dipper kicked out a boney leg at Teeth, who's eyes were still rolling in their sockets at the spin of his fall. "Let go of me! Let-!" Teeth stumbled up onto his feet before yanking Dipper down, his head knocking, the bare skin of his back raw at the scrapes it left.

You can't just feed a cat kibble all it's life; not outdoor cats. It knows it wants mice. It knows it wants little birds. The taste of kibble is ground and dry, processed like garbage. In the same light, Dipper knew freedom, knew the taste, and had tasted it again after almost forgetting it. He was practically wild after that; all his domestication, gone. Teeth must have caught on to the fact.

He spent only a moment trying to wrangle the boy how he wanted. When that didn't work, he hit him hard enough for his body to go limp.

Just like that, Dipper was back in his cage, the pressure behind his eyes springing up a fiery headache. He shook, leaning up from his sprawled position to wrap a hand over either bar; yank. Not a thing. Again, yank. Yank-yank-yank-yank-yank, until he found that he couldn't breathe, couldn't speak, his head banging against the bars when he thrashed around.

I was so close.

I was so-.

I was so-.

In the nose. out the mouth. in the nose. out the mouth. in the mouth in the mouth the nose out the mouth the nose the mouth in the out the nose nose mouth the out the out the out the out the out out out out the mouth in the nose-.

"Now, don't make this difficult for me; it hurts to have to do it this way. I just want you to appreciate me a little more, that's all. Don't look at me like that. Don't make that face." Teeth tried to sooth him with baby talk, but Dipper was hysterical now, and It agitated the man to no end.

Get a hold of your damn self, Teeth wanted to shout. Don't you know what's about to happen to me? Don't you know how much I need this?

When Dipper wouldn't calm down, and every effort Teeth made was shot to pieces, he finally gave up. "Aw, forget it," Teeth spat, banging the top-side of his cage for good measure. The boy flinched, but did little else in terms of stopping. It wasn't until he caught a glance of Teeth's hand, sliding out again with the remote control lock, that he regained any semblance of composure.

The two other cages popped open, making Teeth feel stupid for having not tried this first; Kaleb and Darwin were far more behaved. "Come on out you two. You two'll be good," he assured. Or rather, threatened.

The boys crawled out slowly, far too shaken to meet the man's eyes.

"Put on a show, I don't care. Be sexy," was Teeth's flippant demand. He was sour as could be, the dick in his hand shrunken half its size, a twitch in his eye every time Dipper's sobbing hitched to pieces; a scratched record. The boy grew quiet at last, at the sight of his friends drawing closer to one another, just as the man instructed them, and slid their hands over each other's chests, uncertain and strange.

Teeth hummed. "Yeah. Like that." His hand started to move.

Dipper felt it again. The strings straining; snapping. With each one, he felt himself getting lighter and lighter, as though his feet had been anchors. The sight of Darwin with his arm thrown around Kaleb, Kaleb kissing the other, had him feeling sick. Very sick.

That's your friend. Don't do that to your friend.

Dipper's mouth shut with a slow pull, weak in his jaw, feeling the throb of his forehead, the hot spot Teeth had hit him, and a wooze of confusion when they touched.

Just like those men.

Don't do that to your friend, he wilted. Don't do that. Dipper lowered his gaze, the slightest of breaths capable of cracking his ribs wide open.

"It's because you wouldn't be good; can't you tell they don't wanna do that? It's because you wouldn' be good," Teeth slurred, taking his hand off himself. Dipper was open enough to hear those words, and instead of being shot down for what they were (malarkey, the whole thing), his brain soaked it up; held it. It was like his immune system failing; he couldn't stand to fight off the illness. When he looked up at the man, half his strings were undone, and he was floating up by one foot, held down by the other.

Teeth watched Dipper's head tilt up, eyes red with tears, lip trembling. There was a question on them that the man didn't bother addressing. He grabbed ahold of himself again, edging closer and closer, until his thighs banged against the bars.

"Are you gonna be good, now?" he asked. Another string came undone. Teeth looked hesitantly up at the two boys in front of him before returning his attention back to Dipper, who just looked so glossy and thin, the tears down his cheeks lined in light. The boy seemed subdued enough. He decided to take the leap. "Alright. Open."

Teeth fed it through the bars of Dipper's cage. The boy only looked at it though, as though he'd never seen one before, or had no idea what he was expected to do with it. Teeth gave his cage a strong, hard kick.

"Don't pretend you're too good for this. I see you do it all the time. You know what to do." So many strings undone now, Dipper was practically holding on by his toes. There was empty, silent fuzz at the back of his brain, coursing, rubbing, scraping fibers with the nails. He felt lucid. The familiar sensation he'd been fighting off for months, rinsing over his shoulders until he was entirely coated. Pain shot through the back of his throat when he opened his mouth.

I'm never leaving this place.

Teeth pushed in. "That's it." His head fell back. "Ugh, God I'm wasted. Keep doing that."

The motions were automatic, Dipper thought. Automatic, and not at all real. He was doing it telepathically, or over the phone, or just in his head. His entire body was nothing but a single, pulsing wave-length, every sound in that room drowned out by water clogging his ears. The final string snapped, and he was lifting off the ground.

He wasn't in that cage, but floating above it. Observing his body, connected by the mouth to that man, but not at all himself. Just a vessel of static. Billowy brain, silent breaths, arms and legs phasing through walls. While the body down there worked Teeth over, the body floating up (Dipper, more than he'd ever felt before), watched blankly, indifferently. Suddenly, it wasn't him doing those things. It wasn't him being violated, but a copy of the original. Not at all himself. Someone else. Someone else.

Teeth's head tilted back, eyes shut, mouth agape, his whole being liquid. The body in that cage, the one that was Dipper (but certainly not Dipper), was limp, but consistent. Rhythmic, like a clock, and equal measures lifeless. And Dipper, the Dipper flying high, far, far above, felt nothing. His face tingled, like he could feel every dot of peach fuzz, every living, microscopic creature, but not a blip of care.

He just kept lifting higher and higher, watching their intercourse from a third-person view. From the rafters. The ceiling. And, he told himself, That is not my body. That is not me.

(It was him, though. It was him in every shape. In every form. It was him, and he was in that cage, struggling to convince himself otherwise.)

With every inch he flew, the ceiling just grew taller and taller, farther and farther away, so he could make the people below tiny (practically ants), but never escape them. Teeth made a noise at the back of his throat that pulled Dipper down just a notch. Enough for his body to flinch, and the one in his cage to do something similar. A string re-tied itself. Dipper cut it away.

You're not bringing me back down. I'm not coming down.

Water rushed over him, making him flow along the stream; not caught in it, but molded to it. He watched from his aerial view, and said again, That is not my body. That is not me, just as Teeth's form readied to convulse.

All Dipper could think then was how much he hated that face; that curled up, wound so tight expression he'd seen time and time again, each one only inches from his face. There was something so disgusting. Something horrible about other people's pleasure. Like the decomposed, rotten carcass off the side of the road, eaten by ants, smashed by rocks, turned to moss. One ate the other, after all it's struggling to survive, all for not at the hands of fate. Dipper had only wished (quietly, sticking to the ceiling) to wipe that look off Teeth's face for good. He wanted to see the pleasure stop.

[...]

Teeth felt teeth (Wasn't that a funny phrase?); unpleasant, rubbing raw against the skin of his head, slight but firm, even though he knew the boy could do better.

"Teeth," Teeth said. He looked down at the boy for emphasis, knocking the top-side like a broken television. Dipper did nothing. Teeth said it again, louder this time. "Your teeth," but they stayed right there. And then there was pressure.

"Christ's mercy; ease up, kid!" He practically branded the boy's roof with an outline of his fist, hissing at the feel of back and forth, back and forth, coupled terribly with a little more teeth. His erection suffered the brunt, wilting centimeter by centimeter, jaw clenched in his determination.

No no no I'm not giving this up. This is all I have left to look forward to!

"Hey! Hey, buddy!" he called down at Dipper, all blank eyes and low lids, the tears streaming down his face, over his chin and onto his chest. "Buddy!" he snapped. Dipper's jaw hitched up, just the slightest bit.

Perhaps if Teeth were anyone else, he would've known to pull out then and there. Perhaps if he weren't so desperate to feel pleasure (so pathetic; so embarrassing), afraid of dying before he did, he would have. But he didn't, and soon it wasn't just scraping against him.

All at once, it was clamping down.

Discomfort became unbridled, incomprehensible pain, all at the drop of a hat. From teeth being on the skin, to practically trying to break through it.

Teeth cawed in horror; he could feel it. He could feel it where the dorsal vein was cut off, the urethra crushed, his tissue practically flattened. The skin hadn't broken, but everything inside… It was a mess.

Kaleb and Darwin broke apart at Teeth's shrieks. Their hands flew from one another so quickly; they feared they'd done something wrong, right up into they saw the stagnant body of Dipper Pines, no longer moving, but sitting there, all while Teeth spasmed in panic.

What was he to do? The boy was shielded away from him; safe under the roof of his metal cage, his front teeth gnawing, sliding, until finally the pressure built beyond the skin's capacity, and blood ripped through the wound. Teeth yowled, wanting so badly to pull away. But, pulling away meant pulling against the pressure; it meant ripping the band aid off, and he was far too cowardly to do so.

"JESUS CHRIST, LORD IN HEAVEN!" he bawled, just as the skin in the grip of Dipper's teeth began to split. "WHAT 'RE YOU DOING?! WHAT 'RE YOU DOING?!" Teeth wailed, but the boy was just sitting there, letting the blood slide down his chin, over his knees.

(He was there physically, but mentally, all he saw was the roof of his cage, the top-side of his abuser's head, Kaleb and Darwin's bodies huddled in horror.)

Teeth called out for the two to help, of which they almost did. Darwin took all of one half-step in the man's direction, hearing the demand, compelled to obey, only for Kaleb to catch him around the arm. If he'd seen Kaleb's expression, he would have watched the slow, almost hesitant calculation across his features. Already, the blood trickling over Teeth's balls and down his legs was enough to fill a small coffee mug. It was enough for a bowl of cereal, and it was a lot for a person to lose so quickly, so violently.

A pull, and Darwin stepped back.

Teeth's body thrashed around, his hands braced over Dipper's cage, shaking like he wanted to kick out, but couldn't.

This is what you get for showing authority. This is your punishment.

His knees began to shake. He could hear the bone-chilling squelch of his insides pulled in two. The tear of skin, the pop of blood. His eyes shot down at the boy, shock pinched at his balls, coursing throughout the body, a horror he couldn't even describe. He was mutilated. Halved. There were only the shredded lines of skin hanging on for dear life, straining to keep his pelvis and what hid behind Dipper's teeth in-tact. Teeth watched one of the lines separate. His body went cold, eyes rolled up, and he fainted.

Dipper's jaw unclenched, almost automatically, at the drop of his body. Out slid the other half, splattering to the floor in blood and saliva. He didn't move. When Kaleb shook himself out of it enough to confront the body, Dipper didn't notice.

He was still flying high.

Kaleb approached with Darwin in-tow, his breath ragged and mangled at the display. Teeth's eyes were shot-wide as a deer in headlights, frozen in shock. Kaleb was slow to peer over him. He pressed his foot into the side of his body, then stepped away. He called the man's name in a slow, terrified voice, flinching at himself, then releasing at Teeth's stillness. There were few rises to the man's chest, stuttered and uneven and without strength or motive. Blood drenched the space between his legs, the gnarly exposure of shredded tissue and mangled veins stuck to the underside of his stomach.

Kaleb surged back at a meager wheeze; a tremor to Teeth's body, quiet babble and incoherent whimpers of 30k, and then his chest went still. There was silence in the room.

"...He's dead," Kaleb announced in astonishment. Near-doubt, tapping his foot against the man to verify, only to cover his mouth at the lifeless motion of Teeth's body. He smiled, but his lips kept twitching up and down, up and down. They were free. They were free… And yet...

"What do we do now?" asked Darwin. Kaleb blinked. He shook himself out of his daze; the stick of blood over his bear foot left little bead-sized prints. His body turned to the final cage of the three, where Dipper still sat, eyes glazed, his entire front-half drenched in blood from his nose to his knees.

Kaleb was slow to say anything at the sight. He swallowed long, able to taste the iron on the boy's lips, and feel the scrape of drying blood. When he stepped forward, there wasn't a flicker of life behind his friend's eyes. "H-. Hey," Kaleb called out, raising a hand. He kneeled bravely between Dipper and the space his gaze was fixated on, trying to smile, to look exhilarated, but secretly terrified at the eyes he stared into; nothing but TV static and Frederic Chopin.

"Hey, Dipper. Dude, hey. Are you with me?" Dipper's cheek was cold against his palm. It melded so easily. Kaleb persisted. "We can go now. We're-." He stopped, gritting his teeth once more at the blood stained across Dipper's lips. Kaleb shook himself out of it desperately, if only to verify that it was real.

His gaze brimmed with tears. "We can leave."

No life. No movement. Where Dipper sat, the strings were so undone, it was near impossible to re-tie them. He was up in the air, separate from himself, nowhere near coming down, and Kaleb could tell. Dipper was lost in his own mind.

Kaleb stood after a moment, drawing his trembling hand from the boy's face, only to find trails of red under his fingernails. When he spoke, it was broken in half.

"We should… We should go. Before Teeth wakes up," Kaleb said, turning his head. He only said it as play-pretend, though; Teeth wasn't waking up. Never. And, Dipper… He hadn't known the boy. Not really. Their first touch of skin was dotted in blood. Their victory, tainted. Who was he to hold onto the moment?

Kaleb said his goodbyes. Soft, like cradling porcelain eggs. He bent his head once with a quiet "sorry," before grabbing Darwin by the shoulders and guiding themselves out of the basement. He made sure to turn the light on.

Hours after, night fell.

Bill's men arrived the next morning.