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“Did you hear the news about the corduroy pillow?”
Bass sticks to her ribs, shaking her from inside, out. Given the noise, even in the VIP room, it’s amazing that she hears the voice in the first place. Pacifica looks up from her gin.
She can’t see much of the newcomer, some guy who definitely should not have been able to get back into the room, but Tiffany smiles up at him, so it’s probably okay. The kid is lanky and hunches over to better talk to petite Tiffany. His brown hair clings to his neck. There may be a hint of muscle under his just-too-baggy shirt, though it’s hard to tell in the dim. The drink in his hand sloshes as he gestures through the punchline of his joke.
“It was making headlines!”
Poor Tiffany. It’s been a long week for them all, and Tiffany has not been going easy on the Don Julio since they first showed up. From across the room, Pacifica watches her blink and force a laugh. The newcomer echoes her awkward laugh and rubs the back of his neck. He may not realize it, but Pacifica is about to take pity on him.
“Booo!” she calls, “Bad joke!”
Everyone else in the room hears, and turns to look - including the new boy. Pacifica tips back the rest of her drink, letting gazes linger as she finishes and stands. It’s Pacifica’s room, Pacifica’s rules. Most of the time she’s a benevolent ruler. The regular faces in the room, mostly pre-law and a few notable school socialites, run the show most of the time, Pacifica stepping in only when need overcame exhaustion. Like now. If she doesn't act now, the others will tear the poor boy apart. That, ostensibly, is her job.
This close up, the new kid is even sweatier than she thought. Brown hair plasters to his forehead in squiggling strands, hinting at a curl under drier circumstances. There’s a frown teasing at his lips, but the way he squints at her through the dim lends itself more to a look of confusion than anger. With dark eyes, button nose, and a strong jaw that’s working at some word that doesn't come, the newcomer is even handsomer than she thought, too.
“That was pretty bad there, sport,” she says, saving him the trouble, “But you look like the type who comes to a party with a back pocket full of jokes, so why don't you give us another one?”
He crosses his arms over his chest and looks down on her. The frown works its way out in full.
“Is… That supposed to be a compliment or an insult?” he asks.
Pacifica rolls her eyes and puts a hand on her hip. While none of the others are being obvious about it, a small crowd mills around them, circling in interest to hear what she has to say to the new kid. More join the crowd as word gets around that Pacifica is talking to a stranger. Really, he should be thankful she’s giving him a choice: he can either prove himself with another joke, or take the out she’s opened up for him and leave with little hassle.
“Sure,” she says.
It takes him a second, but he gets it. With a huff, he starts. His voice is high. Captivating though, rather than grating.
“You know, I went to the zoo the other day,” he says conversationally, “I was surprised, because the whole time I was there, I only saw one animal: a dog. It was a Shih Tzu.”
Pacifica doesn't want to giggle. She doesn't mean to giggle. But the first one slips out, then the second, until her laughter overtakes her with a delirious sort of force. It was so bad, that it was good.
He looks even better with a smile. In fact, the longer she laughs, the wider his smile grows, until it takes on a satisfied edge. She’d concede that he deserves it, but she still hasn't caught her breath.
“Better?” he asks. Pacifica pulls air into her lungs in heaving gasps just to get enough oxygen to her brain to respond. Smug jerk.
“It was… Okay…” she pants.
“Okay enough for you to let me buy you a drink?”
Oh, that was bold. The suggestion catches her flat-footed and the arch of his eyebrow shows he knows it. Take that back - smug bastard. It was kind of cute.
Her airy “I'll allow it,” would sound more commanding if she hadn't just been hacking up her lungs in laughter. This guy is starting to look way too high for his high horse, and it’s up to Pacifica to remind him who is in charge in the room.
“Hey everyone!” she calls above the noise. A good number of people near them pause and turn.
“Let’s get some shots!”
The little bar in the room fills up as ten or twelve people make a beeline for it, but a space is left open for Pacifica and her new guest. She orders them both tequila, her standard, without asking what he wants. The bartender shakes his head and smiles when the new guy hands him his card. Of course, Pacifica and a few others have already picked up the tab for the night, but their bartender is aware enough to let the new kid pay anyway. She runs a finger around the rim of her shot as he signs his check.
“Thank you, Mr. Pines,” the bartender says, taking the bill and moving to go fill other requests for drinks.
Pacifica knows that name. She knows that name like the tongue knows every edge of a sore tooth. And hasn't she seen that nose before? Hasn't that voice, though deeper than all those years ago, cycled through her memories more times than she can count?
“Pines?” she snaps.
“Wha- yeah?”
“Dipper Pines?”
He turns to face her fully, shot glass poised in his hand. His eyes narrow as he peers intently at her.
“Yeah, that’s me, do-”
“Dipper. Pines?”
“As far as I can tell. Do I kno-ooohmyyygod- Pacifica?”
This is unreal. She’d never thought she’d be looking at her reflection in the face of Dipper Pines, but his slack jaw and raised brows feel like they’re etched on her expression, too. Unlike her, though, he probably wasn’t reeling for the same reason: had she really just thought he was ‘kind of cute’? His stare is a bucket of water on the rising heat of the tequila in her gut.
“Pacifica Northwest,” he breathes.
Forget unreal - this is surreal. With where they stand, on the far side of the bar near the wide entrance off the side of the dance floor, laser light strobes from the stage and sweeps across his face. Dipper lights up in green, then red, then purple, then is drenched in abrupt shadow. The floor no longer feels quite as stable underneath her as it had before. She nods.
His face breaks into a smile.
“No way! I can’t believe it! It’s been, what, seven, eight years?”
His arms spread and he takes a step forward in a gesture meant to turn into a hug, but a moment later, he pulls back. The smile on his face falters.
Maybe the few shots she’d had with Tiffany earlier were hitting her harder than she thought, because Pacifica is just not reacting the way she should be. At the very least, she should be managing a smile. Her lips crinkle into something that resembles the echo of a friendly gesture, but she can’t seem to smooth her brow.
“Nine, I think,” she chokes out.
“Yeah, yeah I guess so,” he says, “Me and Mabel weren’t quite 13 yet.”
Were it not for the deafening music coming from the other side of the club, the pause would be both awkward and silent. As it is, Pacifica can’t seem to keep her gaze fixed on Dipper’s. She watches him from the corner of her eye as he scans the others in the VIP room. She can’t imagine that there’s anyone else in there that he knows - she would have figured out that connection ages ago. Dipper rubs the back of his neck and grimaces.
“So, yeah… good seeing you,” he starts.
The worst part is, he really has gotten handsome.
Pacifica almost fails to smother the urge to cast a startled glance around her - where the hell had that come from? Sure, Pines had outstripped her in the growing department, now towering a good five inches above her, and without a doubt, any objective outsider would agree that puberty had treated him well. His jawline has filled out and sharpened, and even sports a dark dusting of stubble. Dipper Pines, with facial hair. Still, his broad shoulders carry the same gawky boyishness that had followed him around the one summer they’d interacted in Gravity Falls. His fashion sense has improved in minor increments - a concerted effort on Mabel’s part, she’s sure. At least he’d ditched the goofy hat..
It’s impossible not to wonder what he thinks as his eyes abandon the search in the crowd and settle on her. She stands a little straighter. His eyes flick to her face.
“Well, I should, uh, probably get back to Mabel and Jake - uh, my roommate. It was, uh… yeah.”
Pacifica hasn't seen Dipper Pines since he dragged mud through her parents’ favorite carpet pattern, but she’s thought about him plenty. He’d been her first act of rebellion, the first spark of the wildfire that had eventually swelled and raged in the Northwest manor. That fire had burned up all but the shell of pretense between her and her parents (and if maintaining appearances meant spending their money, she’d take it), and more than once, she’d reflected on who she had to thank. It had been so long, now.
“Stay,” she says, abruptness in her voice startling even herself, “Don't waste a perfectly good shot.”
Dipper’s face changes, an expression she can't quite read in the ever-shifting light.
In one sense or another, he’s picking up what she’s putting down. Dipper raises his shot glass and clinks it against hers.
“To the past,” he toasts.
“To the present,” she counters.
The grin he shoots at her packs heat. They tip their heads back, and the night begins in earnest.
…
“So you're pre-law? Of course you are,” Dipper says with a snort.
They may have had one or two more shots at the bar afterwards. Pacifica may or may not be feeling a little warm, crammed into a small space on the long booth next to Dipper as they talk.
“What’s that supposed to mean, Pines?”
He shrugs, but if his smirk is any indication, he’s already got a retort ready.
“Nothing, nothing! It just makes sense… being argumentative and always having to have your way just seem like good traits for a lawyer, is all.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment or an insult?” she asks, voice rising in mock offense. The laugh that escapes midway through her words undermines the play.
“Sure,” he says, throwing her words right back. She laughs again.
She’s aware that Mel and some of her other friends watch her from their places further down on the booth, girl code strong. Maybe she should have introduced Dipper to them, to reassure them that she wasn't chatting with some rando, but something about sharing him in this moment strikes a sour note. There’s not much she has from her childhood that fills her with the sort of dizzy glee that seeing Dipper Pines does.
Wow. She really is buzzed. Get it together. Conversation.
“So then what about you? Pursuing a BS in Parapsychology? Cryptozoology?”
Dipper laughs and takes another sip of his beer.
“Okay, first of all, I see where you're going with this question, and I'd like to point out that you're just as big of a nerd as I am for even knowing the names of those fields,” he says. She pouts but lets him continue. “And, secondly, I'm surprised that you, of all people, would think that I hadn’t had enough ghosts and monsters in my life. Nah, I'm studying biology with a minor in journalism.”
There’s a story there: she can see it in the way his eyes fall to the table, where he picks at the coaster under his drink. The club isn't the place for intimate conversation, and this is what it’s becoming. He fidgets and pulls out his phone.
“Biology. Makes sense, I guess, that you’d want to become an even bigger nerd,” she teases.
Dipper relaxes with her joke and slides his phone back in his pocket without even checking it.
“Hey,” he says, nudging her side with an elbow, “I resemble that remark.”
The lull that follows is comfortable: they toy at their drinks and watch each other from the corners of their eyes. Dipper goes up to the bar for another beer - she’s lost count of how many drinks he’s had since he stumbled into the VIP section (‘I was looking for the bathrooms!’ he’d sworn), but his step is still steady as he walks away.
“So who’s that?”
Mel and Keisha are on her in an instant, the two of them somehow squeezing into the space Dipper vacated (and maybe bumping out a few others on the booth in the process). They both look flushed, having just come from the dancefloor, and Keisha seems to have no compunction about pressing her dark forehead to Pacifica’s shoulder, sweat and makeup and all.
“An old friend,” she says. Pacifica reaches across Keisha to swipe a thumb under Mel’s left eye, wiping away the streak of mascara there. “Some guy I knew from Gravity Falls.”
“Looking to score?” Keisha asks. Pacifica snorts and pushes her friend off of her shoulder - she could have at least tried some tact.
“Uh, I’ve known him since we were like, 13.”
“That’s not a no,” Mel pipes in.
The heat on her cheeks is from too much tequila and how tight-packed her friends are against her. She laughs through the blush, but it doesn’t sound quite aloof enough for her tastes. When Mel and Keisha smile, it’s like staring two sharks down the snout.
“So the real question is,” Keisha continues, “Do you want us to keep you from going home with him?”
Pacifica nibbles at her bottom lip and lets her eyes scan the room. Dipper is returning from the bar, beer in hand and sporting a drink for her as well. What a gentleman. He catches her gaze and sends he a smile that goes straight to her stomach. Pacifica’s not one for warm and fuzzies, but she can’t deny the way they spring up now.
Slowly, she shakes her head. Dipper’s brow furrows in a look of confusion, but at her side, both Mel and Keisha squeal.
…
“Dance with me!”
Dipper’s request, shouted over the music a few drinks later, comes about a minute after he’d finished sharing a frankly hilarious story about the time he and Mabel had swapped clothes to avoid a creepy RA freshman year. They’d attracted a bit of a crowd after Dipper came back from the bar and Keisha and Mel refused to go, but Dipper’s eyes hadn’t left hers since he sat down.
“You dance?” she teases, “With those noodle arms?”
“Noodle arms? These arms are perfectly non-noodly, thank you very much!”
He slings an arm around her shoulders and tugs her into a crushing side-embrace. She lets out a squeak of surprised protest and tries to wriggle out of his grasp. Even with the sweat, Dipper smells like citrus and spice, clean and appealing. Her attempts to get away fall short as she breathes him in.
“See?” he says, “All lean muscle, no linguine.”
“You’d spaghetti get your arm off of me, Pines,” she says.
Dipper doesn’t, of course, instead angling his body towards hers and wrapping his other arm around her. There’s a chorus of ‘Ooooooh’-s that come up from the group sitting around them, spearheaded by Mel, but Pacifica doesn’t let it phase her.
“That was the worst pun I’ve ever heard,” he says.
There’s not much in the way of space between them now that he has both arms circling her shoulders. Their knees touch, and Pacifica places a hand on his to brace herself as she leans in to not have to shout over the noise of the club.
“You’re the worst,” she says with a smirk.
“Excuse you, I think that’s my line.”
Pacifica blinks, unsure when they’d gotten close enough for her nose to brush his. He’s not pulling away, but neither is she.
“I’m not sure what my arms have to do with dancing, anyway,” Dipper continues. When his lips quirk up into a smile, she feels in on her own skin. “But I bet we can figure out something for them to do.”
His hands come to her shoulders then trail down her arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake. It can’t be possible, in the heat of the club, for her to shiver, but damned if it doesn’t happen.
“Yeah?” Pacifica asks, mind a sudden, roaring blank.
“Yeah.”
“That’s dumb.”
“Whatever you say.”
She’s not sure what’s louder, the heavy bass coming in over the loudspeakers or the thud of her heart, but it’s a close call. Mel and Keisha are bound to give her hell for this tomorrow, but that’s a problem for future Pacifica. Present Pacifica is staring down a pair of warm brown eyes and contemplating two parted lips.
“DIPPER! DIIIIPPPPPPPEEEEEERRRR!”
They jolt apart, knocking into the people next to them. In unison they turn towards the voice. A patch of pink pulls through the crowd, dragging a dark-haired boy behind. Pacifica hears Dipper curse under his breath; a moment later he waves the pair over.
For looking nothing like she did all those summers ago, Mabel looks exactly the same. Sure, she’s as tall as Dipper, if not a smidge taller, and she’s cut and dyed her hair into a short, pink, pixie, but her smile is just as bright and enthusiastic as when they were kids. Mabel rocks a lime green romper and more glow necklaces than Pacifica has ever seen, even in a club. She trots up in time with the music.
“Dipper, Jake and I have been looking all- Pacifica!?!”
Mabel drops the hand of the boy behind her and lifts Pacifica up into a mighty hug. The moment Mabel lets her go, she’s rocking back and forth on her heels, adding a bounce in for good measure every few seconds. She’s the embodiment of excitement, and it’s impossible to not catch Mabel’s contagious delight.
“Pacifica! Paaaaccciiiiffffiiiicaaaa! You look so good! It’s been forever when did you cut your hair how long have you been at PSU what are you studying do you like this club I love your dress where did you get it I can’t believe you-”
The train of Mabel’s word vomit to a screeching halt with the need to breathe; Pacifica’s too bowled over to respond at first. Mabel gives her another tight squeeze before releasing her.
“It’s good to see you too, Mabel!” Pacifica says. It’s too loud to hear what Mabel says next, but it lacks no excitement, to be sure. She gestures to the slight, dark-haired boy trailing her, and through a series of lip reading and gestures, Pacifica gathers that the boy is the roommate - Jake - that Dipper had mentioned earlier. Greetings completed, Mabel is off to the bar like a rocket, Jake still in tow. From Pacifica’s angle, it looks like Mabel is ready to drag the boy straight into her bed.
Dipper leans in so that he can be heard. Like that, Pacifica’s body snaps back to the heat, to the moment interrupted.
“We should bail before Mabel gets back,” he says, “Or she’s going to be like that all night.”
She won’t read intent in the look he gives her, but she’ll let herself feel her own.
“You mentioned something about dancing?”
He nods, enthusiastic. Willing all of her nerve into her fingers, Pacifica takes Dipper’s hand. They wind through the clusters of people in the VIP room, then trail along the outskirts of the massive crowd that has gathered in the main part of the club. People stumble and jostle and sway in and out of their way, but Dipper squeezes her fingers tight and follows her even closer.
On the list of things Pacifica hates, pushing past sweaty strangers is second or third from the top. Dipper’s chest knocks against her back as she comes to an abrupt stop at the edge of the dancefloor. The bodies before her move as an asynchronous whole, rising and falling to the same beat, yet each turning and bending in their own way. She takes a deep breath and steels herself. Turning, she looks up at Dipper and smiles.
“Ready?” She mouths through the music.
Pacifica can’t hear his confirmation, but he slides his other hand to her waist to back it up. They plunge into the crowd. It takes time to get even a few feet in, but Pacifica has learned that the best way to get through the writhing bodies is to dance along, to let the natural motion of the music take them deeper.
They find a rare clear spot. Pacifica releases his hand and spins to face him, but Dipper keeps his hold on her waist. They’re not as close as they were in the booth, but his touch feels more intimate here amidst the swirl and the thump of bodies and bass. His other hand slides to her.
It starts out slow. Pacifica shifts her feet on the sticky club floor and swings her hips in time to the music. Dipper picks up the beat a few moments later. He bounces just a hair off-tempo, hands coming up her waist as she’s starting her way down. It’s about as much as she’d expected: Dipper may not have noodle arms, but she just knew he didn’t have the coordination for dancing. The fact that he’d asked in the first place had blown her mind. Maybe he was drunker than he looked.
The first song is awkward. But by the midway point of the second song, Pacifica starts anticipating how Dipper will move, and Dipper discovers that there’s more to dancing than bending his knees. His hips and shoulders rock back and forth, the image of a convincing club-goer.
She’s not sure who starts it. It could be her, edging in closer with every circle of her hips. It could be him, hands sliding further down her waist. Regardless of whose fault it is, they end up crushed together, chest to chest, hips moving in tandem.
They fit. For all of his height and strange bony limbs, the way Pacifica moves against him is natural, right. It’s impossible for them not to move in sync, as close as they are now. There's a warmth the builds every time her body rolls against his. It starts deep, below her gut, and radiates out. It trembles up her spine and languishes along her shoulders, guiding her hands to his face. The decision - and perhaps the heat - is mutual.
She rises as he falls, their mouths meeting in the middle.
…
From that point on, Pacifica seems incapable of not kissing him. They part only for breath and to stumble off of the dance floor a few songs later. She kisses him hard at the bar in retaliation for the soft, breathy trails he left up and down her neck as she was trying to order.
At some point they must make their way back to the VIP room: Pacifica remembers Mabel’s delighted shriek lighting up her ears, and the chorus of calls to follow are without a doubt Mel and Keisha, but she finds herself occupied a heartbeat later. And damn, if her heart isn't racing - the scrape of stubble from Dipper’s cheek as he presses in close and sucks at the pulse point below her jaw does all kinds of bad things to her blood pressure.
They stop long enough for a round of shots with Mabel, Jake, Mel and some of the others. Pacifica coaxes Dipper back out to the dance floor, but it only proves harder not to keep her hands from going everywhere: neck, shoulders, back, hips, ass. He reciprocates each time.
Lights strobe above them. Everything else strobes, flickering in and out, but Dipper remains a constant: at her neck, at her waist, along her back. They move once more from dancefloor to VIP room, from VIP room to bar, from bar to back hallway, entwined as close as possible on the wall opposite the bathrooms. Someone shouts at them to get a room.
They agree.
Dipper holds her to his chest as she shakes in the cool evening air. They’d made it outside at some point, and are waiting on a cab. Pacifica feels her phone vibrate in her purse. She manages to find it in the deep recesses, and her vision stays straight long enough to respond to Keisha’s inquiries with a few thumbs up emojis and a message that looks vaguely like ‘Ask Mabel or Jake for the address I'll be at’.
It's astounding they don't get booted from the cab. Dipper takes one breath to rattle off his address and then captures his lips with hers. By now they've mastered the motion, and her tongue slips past his with no protest. There’s fire in his touch when he slides his hand from her knee and up her thigh, pushing the hem of her dress up with it. And sure, she’s wearing leggings, and sure, it’s not yet skin on skin, but the sheer daring of his action seems so far flung from the Dipper she knew all those years ago that it yanks a noisy moan from her throat. It must encourage him: a moment later, his other hand slips from her waist and brushes over her breast. She pushes into his touch, and he doesn’t back down.
“That’ll be 13.76,” the cab driver says. A weary sigh follows. He squeezes his eyes shut and rubs at his temple as Dipper and Pacifica part, both scrambling to put together enough cash for the fare.
Dipper stumbles out of the cab, but makes her wait until he can come around to her side and open the door for her. He dips into a deep bow.
“After you, Madam,” he intones in a deep, nasal voice.
It’s not particularly ladylike, but a snort comes out as she’s trying to untangle herself from the seat belt. Like him, Pacifica’s exit is unsteady. Dipper catches her by the hand, keeping her from planting in the middle of the parking lot. He guides her from the cab to the apartment building and stops at the steps.
“Staaaaaaiiiiiiiirrrrrsssss?”
Pacifica crosses her arms over her chest and fixes a pout on her lips. Both Dipper and the stairs in front of her wobble in her vision, and she’s more aware than ever of the ache in her feet. High heels had seemed like the obvious choice at the start of the night, before there were any such designs of going home with an old, familiar face.
Dipper looks down at her, smirk in place.
“Sorry, Pacifica, this place isn’t fancy enough to have an elevator.”
“No elevator!?”
She lets out an over-dramatic shriek and collapses against his chest. She covers her forehead with a hand and closes her eyes, mock faint. It’s a relief from the alcohol-induced spinning, and gives her a moment to pull herself back together. Of course she’s had to tackle stairs while drunk before - it’s not like her apartment complex had an elevator, despite what Dipper might think. Pacifica’s not quite ready to do it just yet, though.
“Yup, you heard me right,” Dipper says, “Looks like you’re going to have to get upstairs just like all of us regular folks.”
“The horror!”
They burst into laughter. It doesn’t help her head at all, only making her feel giddier, but each of Dipper’s chuckles seem to reverberate through her with a warm thrum. Pacifica cracks an eye open, enduring the tipsy rush to see the way his whole face crinkles into a smile. He’s just as handsome under the harsh fluorescent lights that line the apartment building as he was cast in the wild strobes of the club. Her giggles fade, ending in a smile that she’d never admit was something like fond.
“Alright, alright, let’s get moving,” he says, tugging her towards the stairs. As much as she misses his chest at her back, his hand around hers is the best consolation she could ask for.
She tries. She really does. Pacifica stares resolutely at the stairs before her and lifts her feet. The first few come easy: her heels find firm footing and she starts thinking she’ll make it after all.
“What floor did you say you were on?” she says.
“Third.”
The ball of her foot makes it to the next stair. Her heel does not.
Her reaction doesn’t come fast enough. Pacifica pitches backwards, then tilts forwards, trying to account for the sudden loss of balance. Arms flail, knees lock then buckle, and the stair ahead of her lurches menacingly close.
Her hands smack the next stair, keeping her from busting her head open, and Dipper’s last-minute arm around her waist keeps a nasty fall from becoming nastier. Her palms smart and her wrists ache and her head spins at the thought of what could have been.
“You okay?” Dipper breathes.
“Yeah,” she manages.
“Alright, up we go.”
Dipper hauls her up by the armpits and keeps a firm hold on her until he’s satisfied that she’s not going to trip or fall again. Embarrassment floods her face in a wave of red. She makes a show of wiping her hands on her dress and readjusting her purse.
“Well then,” Dipper says with a sigh, “I guess there’s nothing else left to do.”
He takes the last few stairs to the landing in two leaps, then reaches out to her. She stares at his hand.
“Come on, Pacifica.”
With tentative steps, she makes it up to the landing. One floor down, two to go. Waiting, Dipper rolls his head and shakes out his shoulders, looking more like he’s preparing for a fight than going up some stairs. She’s about to turn towards the next flight of stairs when Dipper drops into a squat.
“What are you doing?” she asks. She stares down at his back. His shirt sticks to him, dark spots of sweat obvious now that there’s proper lighting.
“Hop on,” he says. Dipper reaches around and waves in the general direction of his back.
“...what?”
“My back,” Dipper says. His looks over his shoulder and gestures with more force.
She blinks, feeling woozy.
“What about it?”
“Get on it.”
Pacifica takes an uncertain step closer. With a sharp sigh, Dipper runs a hand through his hair. She’d laugh at how it sticks up in wild curls, but she gets the feeling she’s supposed to be paying attention.
“You’ve never had a piggy-back ride before, huh?”
With some coaxing, Dipper gets Pacifica to climb onto his back. She wraps her arms carefully around his neck, and he grabs ahold of her legs. As soon as he has a tight hold, Dipper shoots up.
“WHA-” she starts, but the syllable is lost to shock (and a touch of fear) as she tightens her hold.
“Still gotta breathe,” Dipper chokes out.
“This is-” she starts.
“A lot of fun?”
“No, it’s-”
“Super impressive that I can just lift you like this?”
“Dipper, stop-”
“Going to make you sick?”
He bounces a little, jostling her, and yes, she starts to feel a little queasy. It’s enough to make her let go long enough to smack him on the back of the head.
“You’re an ass,” she snaps.
Dipper starts moving, making his way up the next flight of stairs. They’re halfway up before she realizes she’s not as freaked out anymore.
“You’re really an ass,” she says again, for good measure. He only chuckles.
The way up is slower than it might have been otherwise, but Pacifica can’t deny that it’s almost nice. She rises and falls with each step, the motion almost hypnotic. Her eyes flutter shut - between the alcohol, the gentle rocking, and the scent of sweat and citrus, the door to exhaustion is left wide open.
Pacifica shakes herself a little. They’ve got another flight of stairs, and then they’ll be there. At Dipper’s apartment. Just the two of them. She’s got to keep it together.
His neck is at the perfect level for her to press a kiss to, and so she does. The hitch in his breath hits her in the chest and spurs her on. Her lips press harder just below his ear, tongue darting out to swipe at salt-damp skin.
“Pacifica…”
She hums in response but doesn’t stop, instead sucking at the spot. There’s another hard inhale.
“This is probably dangerous,” Dipper says.
They continue up the stairs. Pacifica refuses to pull away. Her mouth works at his skin, licking and sucking and nibbling, and she feels every shudder she milks from him. The spark of heat that had been growing at the club reignites with force. She gives his earlobe an insistent nip.
Dipper’s hold falters, and for the briefest of seconds she’s falling. He regains his grip on her before she topples off and down the stairs. His nails dig into the inside of each thigh.
He’s panting by the time they reach the third floor, though Pacifica doesn’t think it’s from exertion. She readies herself. She pulls off of his neck with a wet pop and presses her lips to his ear.
“When I thought about riding you earlier,” she whispers, “I didn’t think it would end up like this.”
Dipper flat out drops her. It’s about what she expected, and she’s able to grab him by the shoulders and land semi-steady on the ground. She takes a step back just in time avoid getting smacked by an elbow when he whips around to face her. Dipper’s shoulders jerk up and down with each heaved breath. He looks down at her, eyes dark.
“You’re the worst,” Dipper says.
He cups her cheeks roughly and slams their lips together.
She melts into him, returning the force of his kiss with everything she has. They kiss for a second; they kiss for an eternity, and that’s about how long it takes for Pacifica to realize that Dipper is walking backwards, guiding her to a door without breaking his searing touch.
In any other situation, Pacifica might care whether the door Dipper pins her up against is his or a neighbor’s, but he banishes those thoughts as he returns her earlier favor. He breaks away from her mouth to ravage her jaw and neck. The hands that previously clutched at her thighs now scrape at her back and pull her flush against him. She’s overwhelmed by heat and hardness, and she moans and tugs her hands through his hair, insistent that he knows his want is returned.
“Door,” he mutters against her lips.
“Huh?”
“Door,” he says again, “Behind you, open the door.”
Reluctant to let go of him as she is, Pacifica reaches back and fumbles for the door handle.
“It’s locked, dummy” she says, as should have been obvious to them both.
To hear the expletive that follows out of Dipper does little to cool her off. She slides out of his way as he starts rummaging his pockets for his keys. The picture he paints is one of frantic disarray, hair sticking up at odd angles and eyes wide as he pats himself down. Keys are procured, only for Dipper’s shaking hands to miss the keyhole by a mile.
“Hot Belgian Waffles!” Dipper shouts, kicking the bottom of the door in frustration. He goes back at the keyhole again, misses, and groans.
It’s too much. She double over, laughing in heaving bursts as he continues to struggle with the door. It echoes down the corridor, loud even to her ears. He finally gets the key in.
“Simmer down, Northwest,” he hisses. She looks up, and isn’t sure if she’s ever seen someone so red. “You’ll wake up my neighbors.”
Pacifica drags a breath in, trying to stifle her giggles. When she speaks next, it’s with as straight of a face as she can handle.
“Pines, if they’re not awake already, they will be soon.”
His eyebrows arch high, and he nearly loses his hold on the door knob.
“Is that a threat or a suggestion?”
“It’s a promise.”