Mabel is tipsy.
She giggles loudly as they walk out of the club together. At twenty two, they still had varying ideas of what consists of a fun night out. Last time they hit the scene for (super secret, lets drive 30 minutes out of town just to be safe) date night, he got to choose the activities. They had filled up on free chips, and lost horribly at the trivia event Dipper’s favorite college bar held. They had laughed and joked, and Mabel made fun of him for ordering specialty brewed beers that “costs way too much to taste like liquid grass farts” (whatever that meant).
But tonight Mabel had the power, so they went dancing.
Well, Mabel danced. Dipper just sort of bobbed his head to the music, and watched in silent awe as Mabel’s body became one with the beat. But the club was loud and crowded, and left no room for silly conversations or playful banter.
Men, more handsome and better built and way less awkward in this type of environment than Dipper, kept glancing at Mabel. Glancing at Dipper too, and wondering if the two were together, or if they were just friends or possibly related. (The fact that all three op were accurate makes Dipper’s tummy a bit queasy still. But he wasn’t going to let his thoughts linger on the morality of their relationship any more than he already has.) And a few even came over, and Dipper had so sit there like an idiot as Mabel shooed the men away.
It was awful.
He couldnt even drink, because Mabel was knocking back colorful liquor that was decorated with wedges of fruit on the rim. And it’s definitely catching up to her now as they walk through the parking lot. Which is a problem, because a tipsy Mabel is a handsy Mabel.
She plasters herself to his side, snuggling into him in an awkward sidehug and making them wobble. She tucks one hand into his back pocket, squeezing his little bum and giggling in his ear. Her breath is hot and moist on his skin. Her other hand creeps beneath his Fight Fighters graphic tee to caress his less than firm stomach. It makes Dipper grateful for the cover of darkness. His cheeks are on fire.
Once they get to the car, he grabs the water bottle he always keeps in the cup holder and gets her to drink at least half of it. Her rosy cheeks are warm and her dark eyes smolder with heat as she watches him put the key in the ignition. That impish grin of hers makes the red in his cheeks spread up to his ears.
Her hand rests on his thigh and inches dangerously higher as he turns onto the highway to take them home.
“Mabel,” he huffs in an attempt to dissuade her from doing anything more. But her devious hand is hot and familiar. It rubs him through his pants, her hot pink fingernails scraping along the denim seam just to make him gasp and tightly grip the wheel. “Fuck.”
He wish they were anywhere but in a moving vehicle.
Mabel hums along to the radio as she unbuttons his jeans. Her hand snakes into his pants, gripping him tightly, and making him press a little harder on the gas pedal.
Dipper’s breathing turns into shallow rasps. This is risky and stupid, but it feels so good. He can’t even deny that the danger doesn’t heighten the pleasure, making his stomach swoop and his chest tight. But his brain is going haywire with thoughts of crashing and burning. He tries to voice his concerns, to get her to stop, but Mabel’s other hand is yanking his zipper down. His words just come out as a helpless croak because she’s already leaning over the middle console, and taking him into her mouth.
He’s never done this before. Fuck, the whole thing sounds like a death sentence, but he understands the appeal immediately. The power of the car underneath his hands, coupled with the complete power he’s giving over to his sister, is a heady combination.
Dipper desperately wants to take a hand off the steering wheel to run it lovingly over her back and up her neck. To show how much he appreciates what she’s doing by carressing her scalp and weaving his fingers through her tresses. But maintaining control over the car seems like a better idea.
He focuses hard on the road ahead, his heart hammering as he fights with his brain to stay alert.
But then he’s groaning through gritted teeth, garbled enunciations of her name clawing out his throat, as she makes liquid heat spread throughout his veins. He blinks his vision clear, and wonders how they hadn’t just died.
Or maybe he is dead, and this is heaven?
She lets go of him with an obscene pop that echoes in the car. Mabel lifts herself to whisper in his ear, all fake stern as she does an impression of a burly cop. "Pull over, punk. Gonna write ya a proper ticket for reckless driving…with me tongue on your chest.“
He almost laughs with relief.
But her hand is making its way back down to where he’s still hard, sensitive, and glistening wet from her mouth. So his reply is just a desperate whimper as she grips him tightly and possessively. She chuckles darkly in his ear when he actually pulls over on the side of the road. Their seat belts come undone, and he shifts the seat back so she can comfortably climb into his lap.
Date night was always fun.
This little fic shows that Needles is still our Queen of Pinecest! Spicy drabbles are good drabbles 🙂
(W)reckless
Published
non-suspicious 