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tiniedemon · 6 months ago

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‘bout it . . . randy marsh / reader / sharon marsh

genre . . . fluff

‘Bout It — JMSN

An autumn breeze had just begun to grace the streets of South Park when you finally began making some leeway with your favorite parents. They weren’t the easiest parents to flirt with – the mom was more preoccupied with making sure her son wasn’t eating paint (again) and the dad was completely oblivious to anything that didn’t involve earth science or marijuana – but they were your favorites.

Sharon Marsh, super mom of two children and an easily distracted husband, walked into your classroom to collect her son. She was dressed in her usual brown sweater and jeans – tight jeans fitted perfectly to her wide hips and thick thighs – with the same tired frown she always wore.

“Long day?” you asked with a small grin. She snorted as she dragged a hand down her face and nodded.

“You could say that,” she mused. “Randy’s gotten a new hyperfixation. It’s been keeping us up all night here lately.”

“That sounds exhausting,” you responded sympathetically. She puffed a laugh through her nostrils.

“It is, but I signed up for this. In sickness and in health, right?”

You rested a hand on her bicep, giving a gentle squeeze as you offered a reassuring smile.

“You seem like you could use a bit of a break,” you said. She glanced down to the hand on her arm with a slight sheepishness to her smile.

“I could, yeah,” she admitted. “But I’ve got a husband and kids to take care of, so that’ll have to wait.”

“Why not find a babysitter?” you asked with a coy smile. “I’m making a bolognese tonight. You and Randy are more than welcome to come over for dinner if you’d like.”

“I’ll talk to Randy about it,” she promised. You nodded, eyes jumping briefly to the gloss on her lips, and stepped back away from her.

“Let me give you my number,” you purred. A lively flush took over her cheeks as you jotted your phone number down on a post-it and handed it to her. She folded it up and slipped it into her purse, eyeing your paint-stained fingers as she did.

“Thank you,” she murmured. Her son, Stanley, hopped up to her side with a suspicious glance in your direction. You stuck your tongue out at him, bring a scoff out of him.

The two of them took their leave, leaving you with only three students left to be picked up from your art room. Kenny, Eric, and Kyle still awaited their parents. Eric and Kyle bickered loudly at their four-seater table — something about Jewish people and ducks — while Kenny contentedly doodled small sketches of himself as a princess on a loose sheet of pink construction paper.

“Will you two shut up already?” you admonished to the bickering duo. Eric snapped his head in your direction with his eyes wide and his mouth dropped open.

“Listen here bitch—” he started, only to be interrupted by you.

“Shut your mouth or I’ll tell your mother you ate clay and ban you from my lessons.” He sputtered angrily. “Do you want that? To be the only kid in South Park not included? All of your little friends will point and laugh at the fat kid who got banned from art lessons for eating clay like a dumbass.”

He snapped his mouth shut, but still raised his middle finger in your direction. He would surely complain to his mother about you later, but that was okay, because you had plenty of ammunition to use against him.

—

Sharon texted an hour later to give a thumbs up on dinner plans.

It rolled around much sooner than you expected. Perhaps your nervous anticipation was forcing the time to fly faster than it normally did. Perhaps you were simply preoccupied with cleaning your home and didn’t notice.

Either way, seven o’clock crept up on you with a startling swiftness and before long, a shy knock sounded at your front door. You stopped by a mirror in the hallway to inspect yourself. You fluffed your hair, fixed your clothes, and swiped on another layer of chapstick. You wanted to look absolutely perfect for them tonight.

Once you were satisfied, you opened up the front door with a flourish and a smile, immediately clocking the extra makeup on Sharon’s face and the nicer button up tucked into Randy’s slacks. It looked as though he’d even shaved for the occasion.

“Hi!” you exclaimed. “Come in! Please, make yourselves at home. Dinner will be done in about fifteen minutes. I’ll open up a bottle of wine in the meantime.”

With that, you led them in, closed the door behind them, and strutted your way into your kitchen. The extra swish to your hips was absolutely intentional, and judging by the thud and sharp hiss that followed, Randy certainly noticed.

You opened up your best bottle of red and split it between three glasses, then toted them into the living room where the two of them had sat themselves stiffly on your sofa. Randy’s head swiveled as he quite obviously investigated your home.

You’d gotten it at a lower price than market due to some graphic elderly death that had occurred in the upstairs bedroom — a bedroom you turned into a guest bedroom, because there was absolutely no way you’d sleep in that room. It was a massive house for just one person to live in and grew quite lonely.

Hopefully after tonight it would be a little less lonely a little more often.

You eased into the spot beside Sharon’s on the middle cushion, legs tilted in until your knees bumped hers. You handed a glass to each of them and swirled the wine around in yours.

“Thank you so much for joining me,” you said gratefully. “I’ve been meaning to ask for a while, but I’ve been a bit preoccupied with art projects and such.”

“Oh, it’s no problem at all,” Sharon said politely. “We’re more than happy to be here. Right, Randy?”

“Oh, totally,” Randy responded, still appraising the decor in your living room. He still had yet to touch his wine. “Did you decorate this place yourself? It’s pretty cool.”

You snorted into your glass. “I did, yeah. My mom used to be an interior decorator. She taught me the ropes, I guess you could say.”

“Oh, really?” Sharon asked, intrigued. “It makes sense you’d have a creative eye yourself, I suppose. Is that your art you’ve displayed here?”

She gestured to a particularly abstract piece created by letting a fling fuck you over a canvas smothered in paint. It turned out quite nice for something so salacious.

“It is, actually,” you preened. Randy eyed that piece for a long moment, head tilted to the side, and took a long sip from his glass. You didn’t miss his grimace. Not a wine drinker, then. Perhaps he liked beer more.

“Is that a tit?” he asked. You chuckled sheepishly, blood rushing to your face.

“If I say yes, will you promise not to tell my boss?” you answered bashfully. Sharon guffawed at it, a sweet pink rising to her cheekbones.

“Oh my!” she exclaimed softly. “You’re not embarrassed to have that laid out in the open for everyone to see? I would be mortified.”

“Actually, Randy’s the first person to ever notice it for what it was,” you admitted. “I’ll admit it’s a little… unsavory if you take the means of production into account, but it turned out innocent enough. It was a nice accent — really drew the room together, in my opinion.”

“Is it your tit?” Randy asked, glancing slyly in your direction. You smirked at him over your glass.

“Depends. Is it nice?”

Sharon choked on her wine, hand flying to cover her mouth. Her face was a bright pink as she stared at you incredulously. You rested a hand on her back with concern.

“Are you okay?” you asked. She nodded furiously as she coughed and sputtered, patting her chest to clear her airway.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” she replied hoarsely. “Just startled.” She paused, eyeing you suspiciously. “Are you coming onto my husband in front of me?”

“That depends. Are you receptive?”

She groaned and swiped a hand through the neatly combed pixie cut atop her head.

“Enough with all the evading questions,” she admonished. “Just answer directly! Are you flirting with my husband?”

“I’m flirting with both of you, Sharon,” you responded. She turned pinker, somehow, and pressed her hand to her forehead. Randy preened on the other side of her, straightening up with newfound confidence.

A lot like an overeager dog, he was.

“You can’t be serious,” she huffed. “You know we’re monogamous, right?”

“I wasn’t sure before, but I am now. If you want me to lay off of it, I will,” you said, a small smile on your lips. “But if this is something you want to pursue, preferably long term, I’d like to make it clear that I am incredibly open to that. I find both of you incredibly attractive and intriguing, and I’d like to learn more about both of you — hopefully in a formal dating environment, but I will gladly accept friendship if you’d rather go that road.”

“I think we’ll need time to think it over,” Sharon said, flustered. Randy grimaced into another sip of wine.

“I won’t. I’m so down,” he said. You snickered into your hand, quirking a brow at Sharon, who fingered the stem of her wine glass with cheeks red as a cherry.

Pretty blusher, she was. You patted her knee as you drew yourself up to your feet and gestured toward your kitchen.

“I believe dinner should be just about done. Join me?” you said, eyeing her hopefully. She exchanged a glance with her husband, who shrugged and jerked his head toward the kitchen, then nodded at you.

The three of you settled around the dining room table, forming a triangle with Sharon in the center. Her cheeks were still pink, either from the glass of wine you’d refilled or the implications of sharing a dinner with a suitor. You smiled reassuringly at her as you plated up three bowls of steaming bolognese.

“So,” Randy said through a mouthful, breaking the ice, “what exactly do you want from us?”

“A relationship,” you answered simply. “I’m attracted to both of you — extremely attracted — and I’d like to pursue you romantically.”

“So, what, you go on dates with us? Wouldn’t that look weird?” asked Sharon, a furrow to her brow. You shrugged and took a long sip from your glass.

“It's only weird if you make it weird,” you said. “Besides, to anyone else, it’ll just look like a few friends hanging out. We can keep the PDA to a minimum outside the comfort of our homes.”

“I like PDA,” Randy interjected. Sharon rolled her eyes and swatted him on the forearm, going pink at the sight of his salaciously flirty grin. Clearly, the wine was starting to affect him.

“I never would’ve guessed,” you quipped sarcastically. Sharon rolled her eyes.

“This isn’t just some threesome plot, is it?” she asked, squinting her eyes suspiciously. “You’re not just trying to fuck us and then spread gossip?”

“I would never,” you vowed. “I’m genuinely interested in dating the both of you. I’m not just in it for sex, but that would be an added bonus.”

Sharon sighed softly, swirling her second drink in its glass. Her eyebrows were knitted over her eyes, a soft brown like fertile soil. Her cheeks seemed perpetually flushed by this point, pooling with wine-soaked blood.

“You already know my answer,” Randy said with a soft voice, a vulnerability clearly saved for his wife. She glanced up at him through her lashes as she worried her lip between her teeth. You held your breath as you pushed food around your bowl with your fork, anticipation heavy in the air.

At long last, she let out a heavy sigh, seemingly defeated.

“Yes, alright. We can give this a trial run,” she said quietly. You grinned so hard your cheeks hurt.

“I’m going to spoil you rotten,” you vowed. She smiled slightly at you, a bit bashful, red in the face and soft in the eyes.

“I’ll hold you to it,” she said quietly, flirtatiously.

“When do we get to the sex part?” Randy asked. Sharon smacked him in the forearm again.

#south park x reader #sharon marsh x reader #randy marsh x reader #sharon marsh x randy marsh

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tiniedemon · 7 months ago

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UNDER YOUR SPELL . . . marjorine / reader

genre . . . fluff

Under Your Spell — Snow Strippers

Marjorine, beautiful as she was, was frighteningly insecure. Perhaps it had something to do with her upbringing — her parents were, frankly, massive assholes who grounded her frequently for her feelings as a child. Emotional regulation was hard when you were locked in your tower for doing anything aside from smiling and following rules you couldn’t possibly know about until you broke them.

As such, she was a people pleaser until she grew into herself, though she still catered frequently to your needs and neglected her own.

It was a learning process. You were working on it.

All this to say, she tended to do most of her crying in the bathroom of your apartment with the shower running, as though trying to drown herself out. She was quite a loud crier, though, and it was easy to hear her over the spray of water hitting the shower floor.

You leaned against the doorframe, pressing your forehead to the smooth surface of the door, and frowned to yourself.

Marjorine was such a sweet girl at heart — soft and easily hurt — and she cared so fiercely for her friends. Including her friends’ opinions. Meaning that when one of them said something revolving around her, she tended to take it to heart.

You worried your lip between your teeth as you debated knocking. On one hand, she could likely use the comfort, hard as her sobs were. But on the other, you knew she liked to cry things out on her own sometimes. It was hard to gauge what kind of day she was having as far as comfort went.

“Marj?” you called. Her crying hiccuped for a moment, then stilled altogether, and she sniffled quite loudly.

“Yeah?” she uttered miserably. It tugged at a chord in your chest, nearly bringing tears to your own eyes — tears you pushed back. You needed to be strong for Marjorine. You had to be a strong shoulder for her.

“Will you let me hug you?” you asked. She shuffled for a moment, then the bathroom lock clicked unlocked. You pushed it open slowly and peered inside, frowning immediately upon the sight that greeted you.

Her face was flushed, tear tracks mixing with mascara you’d put on for her that morning. Her nose was running and her lipgloss was smudged across her chin. She was curled in on herself, knees to her chest, hair pulled out of the pretty little pigtails you’d helped her with that morning as well.

You sank to your knees and shut the door behind you, shuffling until you were sitting in the same position as her directly beside her. She leaned over and turned the shower off, then curled right back in on herself.

“Wanna talk about it?” You rested your head back against the wall, turned to the side to look at her, and offered up your hand. She took it readily and entwined your fingers as she wiped at her puffy eyes with the other.

“Eric said I was flat,” she muttered in that sweet little Southern accent of hers. Her voice was starting to get more comfortable in a higher register thanks to the vocal training the two of you were paying for. As it turns out, conning people into engaging in cryptocurrency was a lucrative market — lucrative enough to afford a cushy apartment, hormone therapy, voice lessons, and a fancy new Porsche Marjorine bought you for your birthday.

“Eric is also stupid,” you reminded her. She giggled softly, but her smile still wobbled, and her lashes wetted themselves again.

“He said I’d never look like a real girl,” she punched out, her lower lip jutting out in a pout. You poked it with your index finger, then smoothed your thumb over her cheek and squeezed her hand in yours.

“You already do,” you whispered, “because you are one. You understand that, right? You don’t have to look like a ‘real girl’ on the outside to be one as long as you know you’re a girl on the inside. That’s all that matters. You know who you are, Marj.”

She puffed out a sigh, cheeks inflating, and lifted her free hand to twirl a lock of blonde around her finger. “I just want other people to see that too.”

She looked so sad, eyes all downcast and teary, chin shivering and dimpling. You tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and folded your hand under that same quivering chin, coaxing her into looking at you. She couldn’t bite back the soft smile she wore every time she looked at you. It was cute that she couldn’t fight back her care for you.

“I see it,” you assured her, brushing your thumb rhythmically over the apple of her cheek. “Stan does. And Kyle. You know Bebe, Wendy, and Nichole see it too. Hell, Craig and Tweek got you an estrogen cake after you got your first prescription. Kenny started HRT just so you wouldn’t be going through it by yourself.” She grinned softly at the memory.

“All the people closest to you see you as the girl you are, Marj. Eric Cartman is a self-serving, narcissistic, stupid bitch whose only accomplishment in life is convincing his mother not to kick him out when he turned eighteen. Your biggest accomplishment is waking up every single morning, letting me dress you up the way you like, and going out there to set an example for other little girls whose inside doesn’t match their outside.

“You deserve way more than what Eric fucking Cartman can give you, baby. What our friends are doing for you? What I’m doing for you? That's the bare minimum of showing we care. You shouldn’t accept anything less just because he knows how to pull your strings and manipulate you into keeping him around.”

Marjorine mulled over that for a while, letting her head fall fully into your hand, the shuddering of her chest coming to a slow stop.

“You’re right,” she murmured, her eyes fluttering closed. She tilted her head to press a soft kiss to your palm. “I should block him on everything, huh?”

“Only if you want to,” you reassured softly. She wiped at her face one more time before she let go of your hand and pushed herself to her feet. Her long skirt swished against the Hello Kitty socks stretching up her calves as she shuffled to the door and opened it slowly.

“Now that I’m all better,” she murmured shyly, glancing bashfully in your direction. “Wanna go fool around?”

You sprung to your feet so quickly you slipped and hit your head on the counter.

#south park x reader #marjorine stotch x reader

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