Chapter Text
Condensation trickles down the can of Pitt Cola and puddles on the smiling Mr. Mystery coaster. Nico slides the rim to cover the watchful eye of her boss, flicks cool droplets from her painted fingertips, and watches them splatter across the countertop. They collect in the years of scratches and magnify graffiti stains.
There’s an uncomfortable pang in her bladder. The nagging ache has been there over an hour, siphoning her attention away from transactions and surging when she bends to pick up boxes and dropped change. The discomfort would be nice if she was at home, tucked away in her bedroom with old albums on repeat so her roommate wouldn’t hear all her little gasps and moans.
But she’s at work, in a tight-fitting pair of jeans that are determined to torture her. The waistband presses on her bladder with every wrong move. The seam brushes across her clit as she shifts her weight, floorboards creaking like they’re laughing.
She’s metaphorically shackled to her station — waiting for Wendy to get back from making a phone call with nobody else to turn to.
Stan wandered off ages ago with lopsided plywood, frayed chip brushes and bottles of paint with old pigment crusted to the lid. Soos is hunting down his toolbox to put up a new shelf. Dipper can handle any questions customers ask him about merchandise, he’s got a quick grasp of local lore and trivia, but he clams up whenever he’s the one trapped behind the register. She’d rather not ask him to work through that.
And Mabel? Last time Nico saw her, she was scrawling some message on the backs of postcards and printer paper with hearts in her eyes. She seems to have vanished from this plane of existence in the fifteen-or-so minutes since.
Not that Nico’s been counting.
It’s just that every click of the aging register keyboard, every rattle of the cash drawer, every jingle of the bells above the door — they feel like the seconds ticking down until the moment she inevitably loses control.
Until her knees buckle and she braces her elbows on the counter, hiding her flushed face in her hands in some futile attempt to stifle her sighs of relief and cover her tears.
Until a glistening dark patch spreads across her plump ass and creeps down her soft thighs as her skinny jeans are flooded with hot piss.
Until the sound of her stream drizzling against the hardwood floors drowns out the idle chatter and shuffling feet of the gift shop, and draws all eyes over to the counter to see her shame.
Heat streaks across her face, runs down her neck, pools in her belly.
Another wave of desperation is met with needy tension between her legs.
She squeezes her thighs together.
The seam of her jeans presses snug against her clit, coaxing her mind to friction.
The thought of cricketing her legs together while she twists and writhes behind the counter, bringing herself steadily toward the edge as she tries not to leak — plateauing until she starts helplessly dribbling into her panties and her shame sends her over the edge.
Or maybe sitting on the chair behind her, so the waistband of her jeans digs into her bursting bladder and the seam slips her panties between her slick, sensitive lips. She could position herself on the corner with her legs spread, subtly shift her weight on the sturdy wooden surface until arousal overrides her inhibitions and she cums grinding on the gift shop furniture.
Would that be more mortifying than wetting herself on the clock? Her coworkers catching her rutting against a chair?
Or would her climax be what battered down the floodgates, with her shuddering waves of pleasure swiftly followed with piss sloshing off the chair and splattering against her converse — tourists staring on with wide eyes, the security camera catching it all, her coworkers watching the replay and seeing the look on her face as she soaks her jeans.
Another jolt from her bladder, another sharp breath through her nose.
Just a little longer and Wendy will be back to take over.
Nico rests her elbows on the counter and props her forehead on her palms — something that looks like a headache from the outside, but is a quick way to mask her flushed cheeks and glossy eyes. A good way to look like she isn’t fantasizing about soaking herself with each persistent throb of her bladder.
She knows she’ll be fine. She’s lasted longer on road trips with harsh gravel detours, and pinned against barriers at concerts for hours.
Standing here at the register won’t be how her bladder gives out. But it gives her too many chances to get lost in thought and tease herself with images of soaked jeans and tear-streaked cheeks.
Soos’s toolbox clunks to the ground across the room. The screech of the rickety step stool along the floor keeps her focus on the moment — on the reality that she’s surrounded by people, even if she can’t see them over the racks and aisles. All it would take is one little gasp as she loses control and every eye in the room would be on her.
She can’t help but wonder what it would be like from that side of the counter: the curvy alt girl at the register, ruining her sharp eyeliner with stifled sobs and a quivering lip, slowly pissing her jeans during a transaction. Black fingernails fumbling with a fresh roll of coins as warm spurts soak through the denim and trickle down her thick thighs. Indigo curls bobbing as she squirms and bounces, converse squeaking in the puddle forming at her fidgeting feet. Stammering out to have a great day — one hand giving out a receipt, the other between her legs with her piss gushing through her fingers.
The image brings another harsh wave of desperation.
She bobs her foot just long enough to feel the vibrations it sends to her clit, and stops. Starts, stops, starts, stops. Torn between two distinct discomforts: the building arousal and the persistent urgency in her bladder.
At this point, it’s hard for her to believe that relieving one is going to be enough. She can entertain the thought of locking herself in the upstairs bathroom for a few minutes, sitting on the toilet, and idly rubbing her clit as she finally lets go.
Or maybe she could stick it out until the end of her shift and hurry home to her apartment. Then she’ll hobble into the bathtub with steady leaks warming her panties and seeping down her thighs, press her fingers to her eager cunt through the damp denim and —
The hatch door to the roof swings open.
The muffled sounds of Wendy finishing a phone call drift in on the warm summer breeze. It sounds like she’s talking to her dad. A slight hint of annoyance as she tries to say goodbye.
Nico keeps her eyes flitting about the gift shop while Wendy wraps up the call. She admires the shelves of kitschy snowglobes stuffed with crummy plastic cryptids, the lonely rack of knock-off pulp novels that might not even have all their pages, the wall-eyed Mr. Mystery bobbleheads standing in an ever-vigilant line.
Anything to take her focus away from her bursting bladder.
The familiar sound of Wendy’s muddy boots clunking down the ladder herald salvation. Nico’s heart picks up speed at the thought of freedom. Desperation surges with the promise of release.
“Woah, dude, are you okay?” Wendy’s voice wears the hint of a laugh. “I haven’t seen you look like this since Toby Determined took fifteen minutes to pick a mug.”
Nico clears her dry throat, tries to pull herself back into the moment, put on a good face like customer service taught her. “They were identical. He was testing the lip-feel.”
“Did he even buy one?”
“Nope. He claimed they ‘didn’t taste right’ and walked out.”
“Do you think it’s because the paint had more or less lead than he’s used to?”
Nico chortles as she straightens up. “You’re just gonna rule out the cadmium content like that?”
“Isn’t that, like, radioactive? This is Stan’s shady paint we’re talking about. No way it’d be that fancy.”
“So, then… microplastics?”
“He’d call those souvenirs,” Wendy snorts, and slips past Nico to the register. She plucks a pen from its cup, pokes the end under the register, and the corner of a magazine peeks out the other side.
With a swift motion she pulls it free and sends a cascade of loose change clinking to the floor.
Startling. Enough to tense Nico’s muscles, but not enough to make her lose control. She keeps her breath steady and her ankles gently resting against each other.
“Seriously?! Where did those even come from?!” Wendy huffs.
Nico would usually join in complaining about customers being messy, or talk about the Mystery Shack spawning clutter out of the void itself. But this is the opening she’s been waiting for — her chance to slip off and go to the bathroom, or take up some other task where she can hold a little longer and piss whenever she pleases.
Maybe the latter is a bad idea, but the concept is nagging at her: stocking shelves until she’s writhing and whimpering, racing to the bathroom and barely getting her jeans past the curve of her hips before her stream splatters against the porcelain bowl. Maybe she’d feel a rush of warmth bubble through her cunt and not realize until too late that she didn’t get her panties down in time.
“Alright, alright, look alive people!”
Stan’s voice from across the room pulls her from meandering thoughts. He stands in the doorway, near Dipper and Mabel. Her in a shooting star sweater with layered socks and tights under her mini skirt to match the rainbow. Dipper in the same t-shirt and vest combination he’s worn since arrival. Both are clad in their “definitely working” faces.
“I need someone to go hammer up these signs in the spooky part of the forest,” he barks.
“Not it!” Dipper and Mabel shout in perfect unison.
Nico nearly joins them — but she’s tempted by the offer. Going on a walk in the woods would be a fun way to savor her predicament without risking anything . If the desperation ever got too intense, she could step off the path, tug down her jeans, and let a torrent loose into the brush. If she didn’t have time to get to cover she could squat in the walkway and leave a puddle in the middle of the dirt road without any repercussions.
Worst case scenario, there’s a little brook not far from the totem clearing. She could take a convenient tumble to hide the stains on her jeans.
“I—” Nico’s voice catches in her throat, cheeks burning as the room turns to face her. “I could do it?”
“No way,” Stan replies.
She furrows her brow and cocks her head, acutely aware it’s just another way she resembles a confused puppy. Pouting and impatient, waiting to go outside so she can piss in the grass like she’s supposed to and not make a mess of the hardwood floors.
“You need to take a break. We’re violating enough labor laws as is,” he elaborates.
“When did that start mattering to you?”
“When did you start wanting to work?”
“Maybe we should just let her do it,” Dipper pipes up.
“He’s only saying that ‘cause he’s scared.” Mabel elbows him in the ribs, collection of bracelets clacking on her wrist.
“I’m telling you! There’s something weird going on here,” he insists.
“Kid, it’s the ‘Mystery Shack’,” Stan pinches the bridge of his nose. “There’s a whole lot of weird stuff. I glued most of it together myself.”
“Oh? Did you glue this?” Dipper thrusts out his arm, yanks up his sleeve, and reveals a strange array of red welts. “My mosquito bites spell out ‘BEWARE’!”
“That says ‘BEWARB’,” Stan deadpans.
Another sharp pang from Nico’s bladder, and her thighs squeeze together. She can feel the seconds ticking away, relief creeping closer, and standing here isn’t going to keep her dry. Or let her piss through her panties without everyone’s eyes on her.
“Seriously, I can—”
“Look, this whole ‘monsters in the forest’ thing is just urban legend, drummed up by guys like me to sell merch to guys like that.” Stan points across the room to a giddy man, gleaming with sweat and transfixed by the Mr. Mystery bobblehead. “So quit being so paranoid!”
He tosses the signs.
They clatter into Dipper’s gangly arms. His face contorts into several distinct grimaces as he struggles to get them situated.
Stan points halfheartedly in Nico’s direction. “You get your wish. Go make sure he doesn’t get eaten.”
Nico tries to keep a neutral expression but her lips twist into a pout regardless.
When she imagined teasing herself with a woodland stroll, she imagined being alone. Not waddling away from a sorta-coworker to hide behind a tree and pray he can’t hear her stream beating against the ferns and pine needles, or whatever filthy whines and sighs escape as she empties herself.
That’s not even getting into the questions he’d ask: “why didn’t you just go at the shack?”; “Why did you wait so long?”; “Didn’t we walk right past the porta-potties?”
But she doesn’t speak up.
She doesn’t even search for her voice as Dipper gathers the signs and Wendy settles into her seat behind the register.
This isn’t what she planned, but it’s a risk she’s willing to take. One that isn’t that big, when she thinks about it, with consequences no more embarrassing than using a public restroom. People hear her piss in toilets all the time, is going behind a bush that different?
The only difference is the way he could see her ass while she lets go — maybe get a glimpse of her stream between her thighs, notice the way it bubbles and puddles beneath her feet as she leans her head back and exhales those shuddering sounds of pleasure and relief.
“Take care of this, and I’ll let you head out early. We’ll just say you ‘took a break’,” Stan confirms, walking off before giving her any more of a chance to process.
Just leaves the words hanging in the air, and the ache shooting through her hips.
* * *
Regret finds Nico ten minutes down the trail, when the porta-potties have disappeared behind the dense treeline and each step sends a jolt through her bladder. She thought it would take longer to reach this point, but her morning coffee, gas station soda and strange multi-colored Mabel Smoothie Surprise haven’t been much help.
It was easier to ignore when all she had to do was stand there. She could focus on not pissing herself. Keep herself lost in her mind, not plunging her feet into potholes and biting back obscenities at the discomfort shooting through her hips.
She’s forced to experience every second of it — no respite as she hobbles behind Dipper with a stack of plywood signs digging into her arms.
He’s still simmering about Stan. His muttering fills most of the quiet and assures her that he’s oblivious to her situation. Or, if he’s noticed the way she’s stopping to squirm and shuffle, he doesn’t care. There’s a comfort in that. Maybe just the promise that she won’t have to answer any questions.
She can survive by nodding, making vague sounds of approval, grumbling discontentedly when it seems like the right time. All Dipper needs is someone to vent to. She can do that — be a sounding board that sometimes replies — but it’s getting steadily harder.
He’s worried about a sasquatch tearing out of the woods to eat him, she’s worried about trudging back to work with soggy jeans and drenched socks squishing piss between her toes.
Another wave of urgency — sharp and merciless — and she stumbles to a halt with her thighs pinned together.
The seam of her jeans pins her soft cotton panties to her sensitive cunt.
They’re already warm, rubbing damp fabric against her clit with her awkward, desperate squirming.
She’s almost positive it’s not piss. She’d have felt a dribble escape, right? With the discomfort and the distress, she’d have felt that familiar tingle in her urethra, that heat rippling through her lips and seeping into her panties.
No, that’s arousal. Slick, shameful proof that despite the way her chest seizes with dread at the thought of wetting herself, she wants to.
It’s a fantasy that plays back time and time again when her hand is between her thighs and she’s gasping into her pillow. It’s a reality she’s lived just one time, when her roommate was out, and she pissed through an old pair of panties in the bathtub. She came quicker than she wanted to, moans echoing off the tile walls and into the empty apartment next door, left shaking and too sensitive to try and pull another from herself.
She could see herself doing the same here — collapsing against a tree with bark scraping up her spine, pleasure of sweet relief washing away the pain. Her fingers would fumble with her button, tug down her zipper, not to peel the drenched denim from her skin but so she could slip her hand underneath and rub frantic circles on her clit.
But she can’t with Dipper here, where he could stumble across her with her stream pouring through her pants and her fingers swishing across her ruined panties.
She wants to piss herself, just not like this.
The crack of a hammer on a nail snaps her from her filthy daydreams.
Dipper says something about people not believing him and methodically moves onto the next tree. Lost in his own thoughts, unaware how close Nico is to disaster.
She clumsily hooks a sign from her arms around the nail, twine catching, wood scraping against the trunk as it swings into place.
He readies another nail on a sturdy looking trunk and swings the hammer.
A metallic clang resonates through the forest. Pine needles rattle, a flock of birds rustles through the woods and takes to the sky. It echoes in her chest and clenches her belly.
The tension strikes her with a burning rush of desperation and shame.
Her legs twist, her knees lock together, and she pinches her lips into a straight line to try and mask her look of dawning horror.
Dipper raps the hammer against the tree trunk.
It replies with more artificial clangs, hollow and tinny.
Nico takes a deep breath — focuses on the scent of evergreens and soil, the breeze tugging at her hair, anything but the uncertainty catching in her throat and the pressure in her bladder.
“Hey, so uh… What was that about weird stuff?” Her voice wavers.
“Don’t look at me,” he raises his hands in surrender, hammer still held tight. “I was thinking ghosts, maybe aliens, or — or like a really messed up deer?”
“I dunno, this could still be aliens.” A light laugh puffs past her lips, but she isn’t smiling. Not with her attention divided between the swelling urgency and the mystery unfolding in front of her. The sort of thing she’d be playing pretend about on the playground in elementary school, indisputably in front of her with no good explanation.
There’s no way Stan would have shelled out the money for a giant fake tree, right? How hard would that thing be to steal?
She wants to chase this white rabbit, but is this the time? The tree isn’t going to disappear if she puts down the signs, waddles behind a bush and tries to squat down before she accidentally sprays piss all over the back of her jeans.
“I think there’s a door!” Dipper runs his fingers along the surface. He wipes away dust to reveal a gleaming surface, smooth and perfectly barkless.
Nico cobbles together the signs, hesitantly straightens up, pulls her legs apart — and a bubble of something warms her panties.
A tingle runs up her back. A needy throb through her cunt mocks her.
She wants to reach a hand between her legs and check the damage. Under her pants where she could see if her fingers come back slick with arousal or glistening with piss. Or through them, where she can just find out if she’s soaked enough for it to show, and worry about what she might be soaked with later.
But she can’t take her hands off the signs, even if she wanted to start grabbing her crotch in front of Dipper. He probably wouldn’t notice anyway, wrapped up in his curiosity, but if she lost her grip he’d hear the plywood falling to the ground. He might notice the way she’s doubled over and desperate, wide-eyed with her fingers buried between her clenched legs.
“You okay?” He asks. On the outside. Not in the middle of her filthy daydreams.
“Yeah,” Nico replies automatically — startled by the sound of her own voice. “Sorry, I’m just… Trying to figure out what someone puts in a giant metal tree.”
“Oh, we’re finding out.” Dipper says with a giddiness she hasn’t seen on him. His anxiety has been replaced with the enthusiasm she’s caught glimpses of when he started rambling about cryptids and folklore, or dissecting his favorite 80’s cult classics.
But watching that fear dissipate in the face of real mystery and get replaced with a wide grin — she can admit it’s precious.
He runs his fingers along the metal until he finds a groove to follow. After a moment they latch into a hidden divot.
Dipper pries the door open, releasing a plume of dust and tasseled cobwebs.
Nico hobbles over, feeling her jeans push her damp panties into her sensitive cunt with each step. Her bladder protests motion just like it protests standing still, and the waistband of her pants, and laughing and bending. But it’s fine . It can wait five minutes while they investigate whatever the actual fuck is happening.
Inside the tree is a hollow compartment, decorated with overgrown lichen and beetles. In the center is an aged console — something resembling a radio with dials and levers and dust-riddled screens. Antenna stick out at the top, lopsided and rusted.
Dipper reaches out and flicks a switch.
Something whirs behind them.
A startled bleat rips through the quiet as an animal tears into the woods.
Nico jumps.
Her stomach drops, her bladder lurches, and the signs clatter to the ground.
One slams into her toe — makes her yelp, swear, lift her foot on instinct and pull her legs apart.
A spurt of hot piss hisses into her panties. It pools warm around her sensitive clit and leaks along her lips before seeping into the fabric. There’s no way to tell it apart from her arousal. Does it matter either way if there’s wet fabric pressed to her cunt and a glistening stain across her crotch?
Her face burns. Her heart flutters in her chest. It feels like it’s trying to climb out her throat, feels like hummingbird wings Dipper could hear, feels like it wants to disappear into the woods as bad as she does.
Tears prickle her eyes.
As long as Dipper can’t see a damp patch between her thighs, he’s just going to think she’s in pain. Probably. She doesn’t want him assuming she’d cry from dropping some flimsy plywood on her foot but she can make up some excuse about a corner hitting wrong. Improvising something is better than him knowing the truth about the damp cotton panties clinging to her cunt.
The image of the black fabric glistening and taut against her lips, between pale, plush thighs dewy with her little leaks —
It coaxes another trickle out.
Nico slams her legs back together. She clamps whatever muscles she still has control over, rests her tight fists just above her crooked knees as she tries to regain her composure.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Dipper sounds more skeptical than concerned, and she doesn’t blame him.
She’s acting weird, she knows it, and she’s not sure how to tell him she’s about to piss herself. Or, she’s already pissing herself, with her panties growing cold against her warmth and no time to get back to the Shack.
“Yeah, I’m uh — that just,” her throat is dry, her voice cracking. “The goat just startled me.”
“I think it came from back here.” He doesn’t hesitate to go find the source.
She can’t tell if it’s because he believes her or because he doesn’t care.
She doesn’t think she cares.
She just needs to keep her jeans dry until she can get them off. If her panties get ruined in the process that’s fine — she can chuck them into the woods or a trash can or leave them in the parking lot as a mystery for someone else to solve. She just can’t let her coworkers — her friends — see her wet herself.
Nico turns around to check on Dipper.
He’s hunched over by a fallen log, riddled with mushrooms, laced with moss, with a strange rectangular hole on the ground in front of it. Something clearly manmade, and she can admit her curiosity is piqued. Even if there’s only some weird time capsule or remnant of an old Mystery Shack attraction, it’s the sort of thing that will make for a fun story. Or something to weave into a tall tale she can share with tourists.
She straightens up, tugs her jeans above her bursting bladder and squishes her panties between her lips. Another shameful flush runs up her ears and down her neck.
But she’s okay. This is okay.
A deep breath, and she goes to join him, leaving the signs in a heap.
Moisture gathers on her thighs. They’re slick against each other and cling awkwardly to the dry denim.
Nico pauses to try and adjust her jeans again — some futile attempt to relieve the discomfort. She pulls them up further, digs the seam into her swollen clit, and urges the fabric further into her wet, eager cunt. A tingle runs up her back. Her breath snags in her throat with a pitiful little squeak.
By the time she makes it to Dipper, he’s got his hands on the secret: a dusty maroon tome, emblazoned with a golden six-fingered hand. Yellowed pages peek out between the sturdy covers.
He opens it, and on the front page sits an aged looking glass. It hangs from a weathered gold chain that’s tucked between the pages. He pulls it out, thumbs the edge, flips it in his hand — offers it out to Nico.
She shakes her head. “Too rattled. Might drop it.”
It’s a bad excuse, but he nods and tucks the lens away into his vest pocket.
He flips to the first page of the book to reveal frenzied text. Ink, running from the top of the page to the bottom, framed with sketches and doodles. She can’t make out any details from where she’s standing — half lost behind the curve of Dipper’s shoulder, the rest just incomprehensible scribbling.
Dipper glances over his shoulder and pats the grass beside him.
Nico gives a little wave, another shake of her head. Anything to hide the sinking dread that comes with the thought of bending over, sitting down, making these skinny jeans harder to manage in than they are.
“I can barely read this handwriting from here.” He pats the ground again. Twice, firmly, and she really can’t argue. It’s chicken scratch. Mysterious chicken scratch in a mysterious journal in a mysterious hole in the ground.
She’s already damp — what’s another dribble or two for the sake of finding answers? It’s not like Dipper spends a lot of time staring at her ass. He won’t notice a little spot between her legs where she’s started to soak through. And if he does, could he blame her? He’d probably be holding it right now, too. If he wasn’t gifted with the ability to just pull out his dick and piss against a tree without making a deal out of it.
Maybe she should have worn a skirt today.
She sinks to her knees beside him, dewdrops and damp soil cooling her knees through her jeans.
Her waistband digs mercilessly into her bladder.
She shoves her thighs together — twists her lips and sucks in her cheeks to hide her whimper as the seam grinds her wet panties against her clit.
The discomfort is inescapable. Any shift of her hips glides the ruined fabric between her lips. Sitting upright makes the waistband press harder against her and cause that pressure to swell. Slouching and resting on her heels only pins the lukewarm stain to her cunt and sends subtle waves of pleasure that make her clench around air.
Dipper seems more concerned with the book than her bleary-eyed blinks, or the way her shoulders tremble when she exhales. He’s too busy thumbing the worn spine and flicking his eyes across the paper with a giddy smile. If he knows she has to piss, he’s also decided that it’s less important than their find.
So he probably wouldn’t notice if she slipped off to relieve herself, and completely ignore the sound of her stream spattering into the ferns and pine needles, and whatever soft whimpers wind up escaping as the pain turns to stifled pleasure.
But then she might miss something interesting. She can hang in there for something, anything , to break the monotony of customer service, minimum wage, rent and grocery shopping.
“It’s hard to believe it’s been six years since I began studying the strange and wondrous secrets of Gravity Falls, Oregon,” Dipper reads, and Nico is transfixed. She skims the page ahead of his finger, takes in the details of the sketches and the frenzied numbers — codes? — scribbled in the margins.
He flips through the pages. Dust motes flick into the air and she holds her breath. Just in case one catches in her throat or tickles her nose and makes her sneeze. That would be enough to make her lose control — or at least force a humiliating jet of piss through her sodden panties and drench the crotch of her jeans.
“You’re seeing this too, right?” He asks, excitement overshadowing the last of his anxiety.
“Yeah,” Nico exhales. She sounds natural, relaxed, awestruck — not like she’s squatting beside Dipper in a pair of damp panties, on the brink of flooding herself and making the walk back quiet and awkward. Or full of uncomfortable questions about why she wouldn’t just go in the woods, why she didn’t tell him she needed to stop for a second, why she sat there letting it happen instead of yanking her jeans down to do damage control.
Anticipation creeps up her spine and ties a knot in her chest. A pang in her bladder bores the dread deeper with a traitorous wave of pleasure.
Dipper stops at a page with a message scrawled in thick black ink. He clears his throat. “Unfortunately, my suspicions have been confirmed. I’m being watched.”
Soft hair raises along the back of her neck. Goosebumps trail down her arms.
“I must hide this book before he finds it,” he continues, voice dropping as if the trees have ears. “Remember: in Gravity Falls, there’s no one you can trust.”
He snaps the journal shut, eyes drifting to Nico. That knot in her chest has her heart racing — something between excitement and anxiety, the hope that this is some forgotten gimmick Stan never dealt with, and the hope that they’ve found something strange. But if they did and these aren’t just frantic, delirious ramblings?
“No one you can trust,” she repeats, voice cracking, mouth dry.
Dipper swallows hard. He licks his lips, adjusts his hat, eyes the journal —
“HALLO!”
Nico’s heart leaps into her throat.
A pitiful yelp bursts from her lips.
She topples backwards.
Her hand slips on the dewy grass, her back strikes the ground, and her legs land awkwardly in front of her. They’re bent, spread, splayed — giving a clear view of whatever piss and arousal has soaked through the denim.
A rush of cool air mocks the moisture on her thighs.
A rush of warmth follows.
Stabbing pain in her hips give way to tingling waves, shooting up her back and fluttering through her cunt.
An audible hiss, shame sears her cheeks, and the forest canopy blurs with tears.
Heat surges through the front of her panties and trickles down her lips.
“Woah, is she…”
Mabel’s voice taper’s off.
Maybe she thought better of pointing out the obvious, maybe Dipper was polite enough to shush her.
Nico doesn’t care.
She’s wetting herself in front of them whether they’re talking about it or not. Heart slamming against her ribs, lip quivering, piss soaking into the denim under her ass — all because she was startled .
It’s obvious. She can’t pretend it isn't. All she can do is lay on her back on the forest floor with glossy eyes, foggy clouds gliding past a smudged canopy. Closing them would send tears rolling down her temples and clinging to her hair. It would let her friends know exactly how bad that shame is burning, and they can’t.
She wants to be chill, laugh it off, handle this in the sort of way that will make everyone forget about it in a week. Make some sort of quip just so there’s a noise other than her piss pouring into her jeans and the little whimpers she stifles.
She wants to push her thighs together just to hide the dark patch spreading across her crotch. She doesn’t want them to see the way it glistens as her stream runs through denim and trickles into the grass below.
But her legs are trembling and fatigued, like her unsteady hands and ragged breaths.
There’s no way to stem the flow, no fight left to hide her shame or scurry into the woods with steady leaks escaping into ruined panties.
She’s soaking herself helplessly in front of Dipper and Mabel.
Sprawled on her back, panting and shameful, tears smearing beneath her eyes as she squeezes them shut and bites back a sob.
And despite it, arousal flutters through her cunt. It surges as the hot piss bubbles past her clit and gushes through the cotton and patters against the crotch of her jeans. She can hear the sound of it striking the denim before drizzling down into the grass — figures they can probably hear it, too, if her gasps and sniffles aren’t drowning it out.
If she was alone, she’d let all those filthy sighs and moans escape into the woods with desperate pleas as her fingers slipped down her pants. They’d work diligent circles on her clit as a steady drizzle kept her wet and warm.
But that’s not now — not this — where she’s pathetically sprawled on the forest floor, warmth pooling along her ass and spreading outward across her thighs.
“I’m sorry,” Nico whispers, voice breaking.
Dipper clears his throat. She thinks she hears his feet shuffling in twigs and leaves, but it might just be hers as she fights to conceal that shame, pleasure, relief —
“It’s okay,” Dipper says, no more awkward than usual. “Accidents happen, right?”
She chokes on a sob. “ I can’t stop…”
“Pssh, you’re already all wet anyway!” Mabel sounds chipper as ever. Nico can imagine the nonchalant wave that came with it.
“Yeah. There’s not really a point to stopping now, right?” Dipper adds.
And Nico’s not sure if how casual they’re being makes it better or worse.
Maybe she appreciates the way they’re shrugging off the way she’s pissing herself.
But maybe she wants them to remind her how disgusting that is — scold her, give her some reason to feel the shame that’s tangling in her chest with little sobs and whimpers. Maybe she wants them to remind her that it’s wrong, so she regrets it when this moment inevitably plays back in fantasies months from now, when she’s done crying and cringing over it.
Dipper could shame her for not holding it together until they were out of the woods, or ruining the thrill of their find. Mabel could make some lighthearted comment that cuts just a little too deep. They could say something, anything , to make Nico pinch off the stream, shuffle back to the Mystery Shack, and leave . They need to convince her to tuck this memory in the back of her head like it never happened.
But they won’t.
With an audible, trembling exhale, Nico lets go.
Relief washes over her as piss flows through her ruined panties. Her thighs part further just to get caught by the stretching denim of her wet jeans. Her bleary eyes flutter shut and send thick tears trickling down her flushed cheeks.
Warmth floods across her ass, traces the curves of her hips, seeps into the hem of her band tee. Pouring out too quickly, it drizzles into the grass and soil and puddles under her back.
Euphoric sobs push their way past her pursed lips and force them into a dazed smile.
“See?! That probably feels so much better!” Mabel sounds like she’s grinning just as wide. Not like she’s oblivious to the shame searing up her friend’s ears and down her heaving chest — but like she’s just as fascinated by the way she’s unraveling.
Either way she’s right .
The release tingling through Nico’s hips and flooding her eager cunt is blissful. Paired with the way she’s wrecking herself — imagining what she must look like with her flushed skin and ruined makeup, drenched clothes, spread legs, that stream trickling through the denim between them — it’s everything she would dream of behind her bedroom door.
It leaves her yearning for touch despite the way she squirms and whimpers. She savors the sensation of warmth pooling in her panties, the way rivulets spill out the side and run hot along her ass. The force of the stream sends little vibrations through her cunt as it bubbles past her clit and through the taut cotton fabric. Pleasure shoots up her back in shameful waves that escape as little whines and gasps.
“So much better,” Nico pants. The sound of her own ragged voice makes her walls flutter around nothing — makes the stream break as arousal coils tight between her legs.
“How long did you have to go?” Dipper asks.
It sounds entirely earnest, and she can’t help but laugh. The delighted, filthy sounds drown out the way they make a surge of hot urine hiss off the crotch of her jeans. New tears well in her eyes as they open, blotting the evergreens and clouds into watercolor smudges.
“A while,” she admits as it returns to a steady trickle. “Since we were in the gift shop, actually. I just — ah-hah — just procrastinated.”
“Dipper gets that!” Mabel blurts.
There’s a rustle of fabric, followed by her quick, “Ow! It’s true!”
Nico giggles again — blinks away tears and lets them gather in the wispy hairs by her ears, cooling in the afternoon breeze.
“Okay, so sometimes I get too focused on stuff,” Dipper replies, “but I haven’t wet myself yet!”
“Yet!” Mabel snorts
Dipper huffs, Nico smiles, and with the burning humiliation turning to a dreamlike relief, and the ache in her hips faded to a rippling pleasure, this almost feels alright.
The trickle slows to a persistent dribble — a barely-there warmth running through her panties and disappearing in the drenched fabric under her ass. The ground beneath her has absorbed most of the accident, but she’s not sure if it matters when her shirt is soaked up to the waist. The grass and soil slosh beneath her as she sits up, squishing cooling piss back against her cunt.
Gravity pulls stray tears from her eyes and they roll beneath her chin. Her clothes cling to her awkwardly, band-tee bunched in the small of her back.
Mabel exists as a splotch of neon and floral, Dipper as a gangly stretch of orange — both stuck in her peripherals as she looks down at the mess.
The dark patch is still glistening, beginning halfway down her zipper and cupping her aching cunt. It streaks out toward her hips and seeps down her plush thighs. Lifting her legs reveals the rest of the damage: blades of grass clinging to her sodden ass, denim three shades darker than the rest and wrinkled where she’s sat on the soaked fabric.
She rolls over a little to check the stain running up her hips. It crawls toward her belt loops with smears of mud and dried leaves. The strip of skin between her shirt and jeans glistens with piss — grows cold in the open air.
“You can borrow my sweater!” Mabel offers without hesitation.
Nico mulls it over for a moment: wrapping her friend’s turtleneck around her waist to hide the piss stain on her ass and leaving her wet shirt exposed? Or putting it on to cover the wet shirt and strutting around with a perfectly displayed dark patch on her jeans, so everyone knows what a wreck she is?
“I, uh…” Nico bursts into giggles. “I don’t think that’s gonna make a difference at this point.”
Mabel fails to choke down her sheepish chortle. “True…”
Another laugh, and a few more droplets leak out to warm Nico’s piss soaked panties.
“Grunkle Stan’s got a hose in the side yard,” Dipper suggests.
Mabel gasps, plastic bracelets clacking as she slaps at him. “That’s a great idea! Nobody can tell you wet yourself if you’re all wet!”
Nico’s aware that has its own risks: Stan walking out to find her drenched before they’ve started running the water, or making the drive home a more uncomfortable pain than just getting changed into some spare sweatpants, or even just her hair deciding to bleed blue dye all over her face and down her neck.
But she’s already wet. She’s tired, with trembling hands and unsteady breaths, a spacey smile and fluttering heart. Letting her friends help her might be nice . And all the lies and stories she could tell to her roommate on her way to the bathroom, where she’ll peel the ruined clothes from her cold skin and slip the shower head between her legs.
“That sounds good, but if Stan comes out how are we gonna justify that?” She asks
“Leave the explaining to me!” Mabel reaches out a hand. “Let’s go get you some camouflage.”