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The season two premiere of Queer Eye was on. It was the event of the summer—equivalent to, say, a Super Bowl watch party in more butch, less cultured towns—and everyone was gathered at Tolkien’s house to watch the Fab Five tackle two seriously fashion-deluded twins. Tolkien’s house was a no-brainer: the sectional in his viewing room was nearly big enough to fit all the guys in town, and he always provided hors d’oeuvres and champagne.
Tweek was seated in the middle of the sectional, which was not his preference—and which he’d loudly protested because, unlike as in most instances in his life, he was not afraid of letting everyone know—but Tolkien had insisted the gang sit together, and before he could put himself firmly at the edge of their group, Craig sat next to him and made it clear he wasn’t going to budge.
Tweek hadn’t changed much since the metrosexual phase took over South Park. Not that there wasn’t much to change. It wasn’t like he’d been acting gay before it was trendy or anything. It was just a lot of pressure to put on a facade, which is why he chose not to overdo the metro persona, unlike some people. Some people meaning Clyde, who was so into the metro thing that he didn’t even want to match with his friends. He had to be his own unique shade of the rainbow, Tweek supposed, and frankly, he thought it looked way worse than the outfits Tolkien put together for everyone.
Tolkien had always been good at that kind of thing. He was fashionable and had been hosting for everyone since they were old enough to want alcohol and girls around. He was subdued about it—changing just the tone of his actions rather than the content. He wasn’t being a bro, anymore, when he made sure everyone got home safe or crashed in one of his guest rooms; he was being a mother hen.
Other members of the gang changed a lot, though. Tweek was reminded of that every time a gangly knee brushed up against his own. Ever since a wave of fashion sense and cleanliness hit the men of South Park, Craig had been a straight-up bitch. He was a mean girl in the truest sense—playing nice with Tweek while they were in group settings, complimenting his hair and the bracelets he saved up for like, three paychecks to buy from that one store at the mall they always felt too grubby to go into, and then totally blowing him off any time he wanted to hang out alone like they used to. Tweek gave up on asking months ago, even though he’d had a lot of free time since his schedule at Tweek Bros. changed to part-time so he didn’t have to keep taking night classes.
Craig threaded their fingers together without looking away from the television. The hot pink of Craig’s nails clashed with Tweek’s lime green and it pissed him off. Shit like that got to him. Not the nails, even though that did irritate him, because Craig didn’t even care enough to make sure they coordinated before attaching himself like that. What got to him was the fact that he didn’t even look Tweek’s way, and if he had, it wouldn’t have meant anything. His false smiles never went to his eyes, and even when he did compliment Tweek, it was in that stupid monotone that made Tweek’s paranoia burn furiously.
He couldn’t even be a mean girl right. At least in Mean Girls, Cady Heron thought Regina George liked her for part of the movie. All Craig had was the looks, with a strong, straight nose and a jaw that was soft but defined, and some fading hold on Tweek from a stupid, butch friendship that he hardly identified with anymore—some invisible hook that made Tweek keep hoping that one day Craig would say something nice to him and mean it.
Craig squeezed Tweek’s hand and looked at him out of the corner of his eye. There was that stupid smile again—the one that accompanied indifferent eyes and was so confusing because it was so small that only someone like Tweek, someone who’d known him practically his whole life, would notice it. It made Tweek feel crazy. Sometimes he let himself spiral over things like that, wondering what kind of game Craig was trying to play when no one liked him all that much, anyway, and he was so stoic and subtle that the intricacies of his mind games were lost on everyone but their victim. Regina was cunning and people liked her. Craig did too much and not enough and it was pointless because no one cared, except for Stan and his gang, but no one cared about them, either.
Tweek pulled his hand out of Craig’s grip and shifted his knees to press closer to Tolkien. He couldn’t make a scene even though he felt like he was suffocating. If he did, Craig would text the separate group chat he had with Jason and Tolkien that he probably didn’t know Tweek knew about, and he’d bring up kicking Tweek out of the group again because he made them look bad or something. Craig used to care about Tweek freaking out because he cared about Tweek, but now he only seemed to care if it threatened his image.
It didn’t matter either way. As soon as Craig’s hand was free it was rubbing into Tweek’s thigh, holding him down to the couch. This was probably Tweek’s least favorite of Craig’s new games. It made him feel weird. If he was being honest, a lot of metrosexuality made him feel weird—it just didn’t make sense to him that women would like men who were more feminine than them. Tweek figured that was why men and women liked each other, to begin with: they filled a natural role in each other’s lives. Two feminine energies just didn’t work together, just like two masculine energies wouldn’t. He didn’t see how Craig’s groping was supposed to attract Annie Nelson, who he knew Craig had had eyes on for ages, especially if she wasn’t even around.
Tweek leaned forward and grabbed a champagne flute. It wasn’t his first of the evening, because he’d been next to Craig the whole time. The hem of Tweek’s crop top brushed against Craig’s forearm, and Craig stuck up his thumb, letting the tip of it drag against Tweek’s tummy as he shifted back into his seat. His thumb was rough against Tweek’s skin, and it made him shiver. Craig was such an asshole.
He was such an asshole and he didn’t appreciate everything Tweek did for him by keeping quiet. He told everyone that as soon as he went metro he quit his job as a mechanic because it was unbecoming and he might wreck his nails, and only Tweek knew it was a lie. Early on, back when they still hung out even when Craig had better things to do, Craig confided in him that he didn’t think the metro thing was going to last. He didn’t want to give up a good job for a fad that lasted a week, so he kept it. It wouldn’t matter, he said, because it wasn’t like any of the guys would be around the mechanic’s shop now that they were afraid of getting dirty.
Tweek had been terrified on his behalf that his secret would get out somehow. Now he fantasized about Craig showing up to the mall with a streak of oil across his cheek. He fantasized about Craig in his dirty jumpsuit, leaning over the hood of a car and sweating, his hair falling into his eyes instead of gelled to the sides like he liked it. Only because he knew Craig wouldn’t want anyone thinking about him like that. If he didn’t want people thinking that, Tweek figured, he’d get a new moisturizer or develop a better hydration routine, because whatever he was doing wasn’t working—Tweek could feel his callouses every time his hands wandered too high.
“You okay, babe?” Craig spoke lowly in his ear. It made him jump.
“Fine,” he said, louder than he wanted to. He finished his flute.
Another thing that Tweek thought about way too much: Craig’s favoritism. It was like Craig knew how easily he got to Tweek, and it made him wonder what the long-con was. He knew that Craig knew only he would pay attention to the fact that everyone else was “girlie” or “sweetie,” but Tweek was “babe.” Tweek was like Craig’s little pet in public. He was always petting his hair and pawing at him like he was a doll, always checking in on him in such a performative way. Sometimes he thought that Craig was waiting for the perfect moment to drop him in front of everyone, so it would hurt more, even though he’d dropped him behind closed doors long ago.
Craig kissed the spot over Tweek’s ear. Instinctively, Tweek reached to wipe the lip gloss residue off before it settled or spread. It always left a residue behind. Craig kissed his hand before he could move it away. It was so weird how he tried to be cute like that. He’d never been cute or playful before.
“You need a minute to breathe, baby?”
He did, but he knew Craig would follow and he didn’t want to deal with the coldness, or how obvious Craig would make it that he was only there for appearances and didn’t want to miss more of the show. Having Craig’s hands off of him for a minute would be nice, though.
“Yeah.”
Craig grabbed his hand again and Tweek didn’t look at the interlocking fingers. He pulled him up from the couch like he was a ragdoll and Tweek thought about how quickly his facade fell apart when it became evident how strong he still was. It seemed obvious to him that Craig was either still working out or had a job that involved hard labor, but it seemed that no one else paid him that close attention.
Tweek got feathers to the face as Craig pushed past the rest of the people sitting on the sectional, flipping his stupid boa over his shoulder in the process. They knew Tolkien’s house like it was their own; they’d been hanging around here long before Tolkien threw any kind of party. Craig led him to the back door.
“Not outside,” Tweek said. “The AQI is really bad today.”
“What?”
Tweek rolled his eyes. Craig would know exactly what he meant if he cared anymore.
“The air quality index. It was at, like, thirty-two this morning.” He calmed down a bit when Craig stopped. “Do you even realize how bad that is for the mountains, man?”
“Literally chill, babe,” Craig said. Tweek knew the kind of lilt he intended when he said things like that—the Valley girl inflection that he couldn’t physically reproduce. “You don’t have to get all aggro and masc with me like that.”
Craig took him upstairs instead, to one of the guest rooms. If he closed his eyes while they went up the spiral stairs, Tweek might have been able to pretend they were back in the good old days, when Craig would get so excited that he’d take Tweek’s hand on their way up to play Call of Duty or something equally as passé. He didn’t, though. It wasn’t that he wanted to feel bad, but he’d spent long enough hoping that things would go back to normal and he was tired of wasting his energy on it. It was better to be realistic about his situation, and the situation was that he was being led up the stairs by someone he hardly knew anymore.
They went into the first guest room in the hall. Craig closed the door. Had anyone else done so, Tweek would have panicked, but he knew that as bitchy as Craig had been recently, he’d never hurt him. Not really.
Tweek sat down on the bed right away, ignoring the way Craig hovered near the door. He took off his jacket—the one part of Tolkien’s ensemble that Tweek thought was unnecessary. At least, if he’d been in charge of putting the outfits together, he would have designed it so the outfit still looked cute with the jacket off. Everyone else in South Park, it seemed, was fine keeping their heavy coats on inside, but Tweek overheated when he got anxious. Now he was just wearing a relatively plain crop top with a garish pair of pants.
“Have you been working out?”
Tweek wished he felt comfortable snapping at Craig in the comfort of privacy. He’d ask him what he cared, and be real snarky about it, too, but then Craig would post something vague on Twitter about fake friends and everyone would pity him and Tweek would be the Villain of the Week.
“No.”
“Your arms look really toned.”
“No one’s around, dude.” He couldn’t help but tug at his hair. It was both satisfying and frustrating to do so when it was styled like this—he felt messing up the perfectly straightened and pomade-slathered locks reflected his emotional state, but the pomade made his hands sticky and then he had to fix it before he was seen again.
“What do you mean?”
Tweek gave him a hard look. Of course, Craig would make him come out and say it. He wanted the evidence, something to quote next time Tweek pissed him off and he needed to throw him under the bus.
“Like,” Tweek groaned. It was hard enough to get words out even when he wasn’t trying to speak in riddles. “Like, you don’t have to be so nice to me.”
“What, you think I’m only nice because people are watching?”
Tweek hated when Craig played stupid. It was the only time he was good at acting.
“I didn’t say that.” He tugged at his shirt but self-corrected right away, pulling at the duvet cover instead. If he stretched out the collar of his shirt, he’d be too sloppy to be a part of the group. “I just mean, like.” He bit his lip. He wanted to growl and thrash around. He wanted to be straightforward. “I don’t know. You don’t usually say those things when people aren’t around.”
Craig leaned up against the wall. He was thinking over a response, Tweek could tell. He hated how comfortable he looked, even in the face of confrontation. He was all legs and arms and it should have looked awkward, but Tolkien was good at what he did, and the taper of Craig’s jeans worked with the length, slim-fitting without being skinny. While he was at it, he hated those idiotic sunglasses Craig had taken to wearing. He didn’t even really understand how Craig saw out of those things, and even though they looked good in a moronic way, it made it hard to tell what he was thinking in moments like this.
“I drank like, a bottle of Shiraz before I came here.”
Maybe even without the sunglasses that response would have been hard to predict.
“Okay?”
“I’m like, tipsy and stuff.” Craig’s feelings were hard to ascertain through his voice alone, but he didn’t sound as assertive as usual. “So that’s probably why I’m acting like this.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets.
“Why did you drink a whole bottle of wine before coming here?” Tweek was confused. “Didn’t you drive here? Jesus, what were you thinking?”
Craig pushed himself off the wall and sat next to Tweek as if to comfort him.
“Clyde and I walked.” He cleared his throat, and the gruff noise was the most masculine thing Tweek had heard all day. “You know me,” he said. “I can’t watch that stuff with a clear head.”
So it was this again. Craig had decided he wanted Tweek as his little piggy bank, his little secret keeper. It was another test—to see if Tweek was still hooked on him enough not to snitch. To see if he was loyal to the queen bee. Tweek stayed quiet. He didn’t want the secrets.
“You’re so cold with me now,” Craig said. He leaned over and pressed his face into the crook of Tweek’s neck. “It’s like you don’t like me anymore.”
The feeling of Craig’s breath on his skin was pushing Tweek over the edge. In a brief moment of clarity, he wondered how much it would matter if Craig called him a two-faced bitch online later.
“What the fuck are you talking about, man?”
“You’re always pulling away and stuff.” Craig’s eyelashes fluttered against Tweek’s neck. It would have felt nice if it were someone else, Tweek thought. “When I touch you.”
Tweek already regretted his hostility, but he wasn’t going to back down. “No shit,” he said. “You’re always doing that shit in public and then,” he twitched, inadvertently pushing Craig’s face closer to him. “Then acting like I’m dogshit when we’re alone.”
“I’m sorry,” Craig said. He pressed his closed lips to his jugular. They were soft and made Tweek shiver. “You’re not dogshit.”
It was then that Tweek realized how close Craig had gotten. He had one arm snaked around Tweek’s back, and the other was on his thigh again. It felt comforting, rather than constricting. Tweek decided he liked that thing Craig said about alcohol—this felt good because he’d had so much champagne downstairs, not because he’d been craving Craig’s comfort for months. Of course not.
“You mean it?” Tweek was trying to sound skeptical, but as the words came out of his mouth he heard how they dripped with sincerity. “You’re not playing a game right now?”
Craig hummed against his throat. He didn’t pull away as he spoke, and Tweek felt a pleasant tickle with each syllable. “Not a game.”
“How do I know?”
Tweek suddenly remembered the overbite Craig had when they were kids, the one that his braces couldn’t fully correct. He remembered this because Craig was letting his teeth graze against him as he spoke.
“Tell me how to prove it to you and I will.”
Tweek felt his chest palpitating, and were it not for the accompanying flutter coming from his core, he might have been able to convince himself he was panicking. He wasn’t. He hadn’t felt so calm in months.
“Touch me.”
Craig had been running his lips and teeth up and down the length of Tweek’s neck, and he paused.
“Really?” he asked.
“Um,” Tweek wasn’t so calm anymore. “I drank a lot of champagne.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I’m like, drunk right now.”
“Oh, sure,” Craig said. He pressed his nose behind Tweek’s ear and breathed in. “I’m drunk, too. You smell good.”
Tweek nodded. “You too,” he said. He felt breathless even though he was sitting still.
“Thanks,” he said. “It’s CK One.”
God, Craig was so stupid.
“Are you going to prove it, or what?”
His fingers were trembling. He couldn’t help it—he felt like all the energy he’d been storing up each time Craig ignored him was coming out now. He grabbed ahold of Craig’s forearm, right over his lap, where his hand had stilled at the crossroads of his leg and hip. Craig had been able to wax away all of his arm hair, but it was still muscular, and Tweek felt it tense under his grip.
“Okay,” Craig hummed and nodded into his shoulder. He moved his arm slowly, as if he didn’t want to startle Tweek, and his fingertips ghosted over his midriff. He went back to rubbing his lips over Tweek’s neck, too, leaving open-mouthed kisses along his jugular. “Did you keep the piercings?”
The gang got their nipples pierced together forever ago, back when the trend first started. Tweek was scared when they did it—it was the first time he was glad Jason was with them and not Clyde because if he saw Clyde weep about it he would’ve chickened out—and Craig let him squeeze his hand with white knuckles for long after the piercings were already in. They’d finally fully healed about a month ago.
“Mm, yeah,” Tweek said. Craig sucked on the part of his neck that vibrated when he said it, under his chin, and Tweek felt himself starting to slouch. He wanted to lie back and get comfortable.
Craig slid his rough hand up Tweek’s belly. He was being firm, like he was afraid Tweek might bolt or change his mind if he kept up the feather-light touches from earlier. Tweek didn’t realize being manhandled could feel like this—not like public humiliation but like some minor form of worship.
“You got new jewelry.”
When they healed, Tweek replaced the regular bars with ones that had hearts in pink cubic zirconia instead of silver balls at each end. It wasn’t that he expected anyone to see them. He’d needed a pick-me-up.
Craig was sucking on his earlobe now. He traced over the hearts on each side of Tweek’s nipples and pressed on the nubs in between, and Tweek let himself gasp.
“That’s good?” Craig’s breath was hot. He was speaking with reverence, like they were going to get caught, but Tweek wasn’t afraid of being caught. They were fine.
“Yeah,” he said. He didn’t know why he wasn’t nervous. He thought maybe it just felt too good. “I want you to kiss them.”
Craig sat up and tugged Tweek’s shirt up. Tweek helped him, leaving it bunched up under his armpits. He was a little embarrassed. He hadn’t seen it yet, but he was sure Craig’s chest was perfectly smooth, while he had a patch of downy hair right between his nipples. Craig didn’t seem to care, though—he splayed his hand right over it, keeping Tweek’s shirt in place with his fingertips and feeling his heartbeat through his palm. With his other hand, he was rubbing ellipses around the dimples on Tweek’s lower back.
“Everything about you is so soft,” he said, then he pressed his tongue flat against a nipple.
Tweek plunged his fingers into the short hairs at the back of Craig’s head. He expected it to be hard or oily or somehow indicative of what he’d been convinced was copious amounts of product, but it was soft and smooth. He tugged, just a little—not enough to pull Craig off or make him think that was what he wanted. Craig sucked in earnest, and Tweek felt a bit silly for a moment, as if he was breastfeeding. It only lasted a moment, though. Craig was pressing against the bar under his skin with the tip of his tongue and sucking at the same time, and Tweek could hardly breathe.
“Take these off,” Tweek gasped. Craig’s stupid plastic glasses were digging into his clavicle.
Craig pulled back and tugged at Tweek’s shirt again. “If you take this off,” he said.
Tweek pulled it over his head, and when he could see again, he was struck by eyes he hadn’t seen in months.
“Hi there,” he breathed. Even though he’d been practically bare moments ago, he only felt exposed now.
“Hey,” Craig said. “Actually, put the jacket back on.” His eyes were on Tweek’s stomach, watching as it trembled under the scrutiny.
“What? Why?” Tweek scrambled to cover himself. He was anxious all over again, stuttering over his words. “Are you changing your mind?”
“No,” Craig said. His voice was flat, but his eyes trailed up Tweek’s torso now that nothing was on display and he softened. “It’s a good color on you. I just want to see you unravel in Barbie pink.”
Tweek flushed. He fumbled around beside him and put the jacket over his naked torso. “Is that the Shiraz talking?”
Craig didn’t say anything, just smiled—a real one, one that Tweek could see in high definition reaching his eyes—and pushed Tweek onto his back. He gripped him by the hips and dragged him up the bed.
“Wait,” Tweek said.
He kicked off his shoes before they touched the sheets. Normally, he’d have taken them off by the front door, but he got to the party later than usual and no one else had taken them off, and the idea of being the only person in just socks was more nerve-wracking than the idea of tracking dirt around Tolkien’s house. Craig turned back to watch as he struggled to push off the second shoe with just his sock. He grabbed Tweek by the ankle and pulled it off for him, then kicked his own onto the floor at the end of the bed.
“All good now?”
Tweek nodded. Craig hoisted him up a few inches off the bed and scooted up until Tweek’s head was over the pillow, then laid him down.
“You’d look good in this, too,” he said, and he pulled the boa from his neck and wrapped it around Tweek’s. “Pretty boy,” he breathed.
Tweek did not want the boa around his neck. He wanted a mouth on it instead. He shrugged the boa off and let it rest behind him.
“I thought you wanted to unravel me,” he said. He felt dirty saying it. He was a good actor, but not when there was truth behind whatever he was saying—that’s when he started overthinking it. “Unless you want to dress me up, I mean,” he backtracked. “Whatever you want.”
Craig licked a slow trail up from the hem of Tweek’s pants to the top of his sternum. “I was getting to it,” he said.
Tweek felt warmth spreading from his core to his skin. The air was cool where Craig’s tongue had been. He clasped his hands behind Craig’s neck. “Take something off,” he said. “Please.”
Craig nodded and pulled back. He slotted himself between Tweek’s legs, resting his elbows on Tweek’s bent knees as he slipped his jacket off, then his shirt. Tweek looked up at him. He was right—it was hairless. Tweek hardly had time to look before Craig’s nipples were making demands of him.
“Bite me?”
Craig’s cheeks flared for a moment and he looked up at the ceiling. “I wanted ‘Fuck off,’ but the closest they had to that was ‘Fuck me,’’ he said. “Obviously that wouldn’t work. This was the closest thing they had in tone.”
“I like it,” Tweek said. “It’s, um.” He took a moment to look for the word. “Sassier.”
Craig leaned over him and the words dangled from his nipples, swaying back and forth in languid motions. Tweek let himself believe it was the champagne that was making it have a lazy, hypnotic effect on him—not the way the gold glinted in the light of the lamp on the nightstand or the way it stood apart from Craig’s tan skin and dusty pink areolae.
“Can I touch them?”
It felt like a breach of the social order, to ask that. Even though what they were doing was far beyond the expectations Craig had set in the preceding months, Tweek touching Craig rather than the other way around seemed out of the question. Craig was a being made for looking at—smooth, even-toned skin and muscles that looked like they were just for show but were used every day, in secret, to haul car parts around; dark hair that probably still would have shone without the product; full, pink lips, whose gloss had rubbed off entirely somewhere between Tweek’s neck and his chest. Touching might have made everything fall apart.
“That’s what they’re there for,” Craig said.
Tweek’s hand hovered over “bite.” He was on the precipice of something, he didn’t know what, but he knew if he took the plunge he wouldn’t be able to control what happened after. Everything up to that point was some degree of acceptable—Craig was always touching Tweek when they hung out with the gang (plus Clyde), always kissing his hair and rubbing his skin and making him feel like an object. A desirable object—one that must have been valuable if Craig wanted it—but an object nonetheless. To take the step from passivity to action was to remove any safety net Tweek still thought he had.
He took the leap. Craig’s pec was heavy in his hand and bigger than his palm, and when he brushed his thumb over the nub of his nipple, Craig kissed him. Tweek was wrong—those lips were not just for looking at, and neither was his skin. As unresponsive to any external stimuli as Craig tended to be, Tweek didn’t expect him to groan against his lips or rub his hands against the planes of his ribs in response, but he did. He squeezed Craig’s pec. It was firm and soft, and Craig chuckled against his lips and flexed it. Tweek gasped, partially from the vibration against his mouth and partially from the realization that this was Craig he was touching—they were both here in the moment, reacting to one another in real-time. It was real.
“You like how that feels?” Craig asked. He kissed the corner of Tweek's mouth, and then his jaw, not waiting for an answer.
“Mhm,” Tweek said. “It's, um, it's good.” He kept his hand cupped there, running his thumb back and forth over Craig’s nipple, and he dug his fingers back into the hair on Craig’s nape, guiding him back to his mouth. The sides of their noses brushed against one another. “Kiss me again?”
Craig pressed their lips together again, cupping Tweek’s jaw. If he wanted to, he could have pressed his thumb into Tweek’s ear without having to move his hand; he could have taken Tweek’s hearing, could have blindfolded him, too. Tweek would have let him. He rested his weight on Tweek, and his stomach was warm against Tweek’s tummy. He felt more than that, but he couldn’t think about it, yet—not when Craig was deepening their kiss, darting his tongue over Tweek’s bottom lip and rubbing his temple like he needed to be soothed. Tweek let his mouth fall open.
He’d never been kissed before, and normally, he would have been preoccupied with figuring out what to do and wondering if Craig could tell it was his first time and running through a list of all the diseases he could get, but this time he just let Craig lead and followed the motions. God, kissing felt good. Craig’s mouth tasted like something he’d never tasted before, something earthy and deep and not altogether good nor bad, and Tweek found himself wanting more of the taste. As soon as he opened his mouth, Craig was coaxing his tongue out with his own, and he let himself feel the back of Craig’s front teeth and the dip in the roof of his mouth behind him. His chest was so warm.
Craig pressed himself into Tweek and he couldn’t avoid it any longer. Craig was hard, or getting there, and it was warm, even through their pants, pressing into the crook of Tweek’s thigh. Tweek chased the friction, tugging on Craig’s scalp, and he hoped that the blood was rushing in Craig’s ears, too, so he didn’t hear the whimpers spilling from one mouth and into another. Possibly the worst thing about being metrosexual, he was quickly learning, was how skinny the pants were—they were only getting tighter, and he didn’t want to disrupt the rhythm Craig was setting up, bucking into his thigh, but the better it felt the more it started to hurt.
He didn’t stop kissing Craig. He didn’t want to. He could feel the whisper of stubble against his chin and cheeks, and more than that he could feel how badly Craig wanted him. The feeling was addictive. He clumsily moved the hand that had been useless up until now, just clutching at the sheets, to his waist, trying to pop off the button or tug at the fabric until it gave.
Craig was the one who pulled away, sitting up between his legs. Tweek assumed he’d be unaffected, or too experienced to let it seem otherwise, but he was breathing heavily and his cheeks were pink. His eyes were lidded and trained on Tweek.
“I’ve been wanting to do that,” he said, breathing deeply but otherwise speaking like they were talking about groceries or something equally as frivolous, “for a long time.”
Tweek threw his head back and undid his belt, button, and zipper. “You can’t just say things like that, man,” he cried. The relief for his dick was immense—it was so hard already after practically nothing—but his chest felt tight all of a sudden and it was hard to breathe.
Craig rubbed his ribs some more, from his waist to just under his armpits and back. “Sorry,” he said.
“I mean, me too,” Tweek said. “I guess. I don’t know.” he shut his eyes tight and tried to control his breathing. He just wanted Craig to shut up and keep touching him. “I’ve never let myself think about it before, I don’t know.”
Craig leaned over him again and pressed light kisses to his eyelids. “God, that wine has me acting so stupid,” he said. “Saying silly shit.”
He squeezed Tweek’s hips and palmed at him through his boxers. Tweek felt like melting. His breath hitched and his hips followed the source of that incredible feeling, lifting from the bed.
“You like that?” Craig whispered this to his eyelids. He was trying to calm Tweek down, that much was clear. He’d always been so good at it—better than all their friends, better than the methods Tweek’s therapists told him to try—and this was a new technique, but it was working.
“Yeah,” Tweek breathed. Craig squeezed his shaft through the fabric. “Feels so good,” he said. It sounded like a toad was lodged in his throat, his voice thick and unfamiliar to him.
Craig undid his own button and shimmied out of his pants until they were bunched at his knees. Tweek heard the zipper and calmed down enough to peek, just to see what was going on down there. Even in the restrictive fabric, Craig’s cock hung heavy. He was wearing boxer briefs, and the fabric clung to him, and Tweek let himself linger on the outline of his dick until he saw something strange.
“What’s that?” he asked. He sat up, and out of necessity, Craig sat back on his calves.
Craig gave him a face that said that’s my dick, idiot , so Tweek reached out and tugged the elastic down. He hardly thought about it until he was face-to-face with Craig’s cock. He’d always figured—not imagined, for the record, but only figured because it just made sense—that Craig would be hairy, but of course he waxed this, too. Tweek couldn’t tell if it was more or less intimidating, with nothing to hide the base, but it didn’t matter, because he was focused primarily on two silver balls embedded under the head.
“When did you get this?” Tweek asked. It wasn’t like they’d been close in the last year or so, but it hurt to think he went and did something without Tweek.
Craig looked down at himself like he wasn’t sure what Tweek was talking about. He grabbed himself and rubbed the shaft just like he’d done to Tweek’s, and when he reached the head he thumbed at the ends of the barbell.
“Oh, yeah,” he said.
He sounded like what he was doing felt incredible. Tweek felt unfairly neglected, but he wanted answers. He kept pumping himself, watching Tweek watch him as he spoke.
“Clyde saw my nipples at the pool like, right after we got them done. He was so jealous that he made me go with him to get something else pierced so we could match. Said the dick pain would bond us as brothers or something, I don’t know.”
“Ugh,” Tweek said, taken out of his trance. “I didn’t need to know that about Clyde.”
“You asked.” Craig nodded toward Tweek’s hands, which were twitching and palming desperately at his boxers. “Wanna feel it?”
Tweek nodded.
“Come here,” Craig said, and he pulled Tweek closer, getting him on his knees.
They were facing one another now, and Craig reached over and pushed Tweek’s boxers down from his hips. Somehow it was still embarrassing to show everything to Craig, even though he’d pulled his out first. Craig grabbed Tweek’s hand and guided it to the base of his cock, and before Tweek could focus on how heavy it felt in his hand or the way he couldn’t wrap his hand around it, Craig was grabbing him, too, lighting up his skin like he had electrodes embedded in his palm.
They stayed like that for a moment, pumping one another and watching the expressions on each other’s faces. Tweek was sure he was giving Craig much more of a show than he was getting, though he wasn’t certain it was a good one. He’d spent so long masturbating as an anxiety reliever that he didn’t tic or twitch, but it was impossible to hide the way everything affected him. When Craig twisted his wrist, Tweek gasped and furrowed his brow and let out a filthy sound; when Tweek cupped Craig’s balls and squeezed, all he got was a tensing of the jaw, lips pressing into a thin line, and half-closed eyes. If it weren’t for the precum beading up at the head of Craig’s cock, Tweek would have worried he wasn’t doing a good job.
After a while, Craig pulled away. His chest was flushed and dewy, and he kissed Tweek furiously, biting at his lips and pulling him by the back of the neck so close it hurt.
“You’re so good,” he said, his teeth clicking against Tweek’s. “Want to see you on my cock.”
Tweek whined into the kiss, desperately grasping at Craig’s back so he could do something, anything to indicate how badly he wanted that. He dug his nails into Craig’s shoulder blades until he bit Tweek’s lower lip, hard, either out of pain or to get Tweek to stop. Tweek couldn’t believe Craig wanted something like that. Wanted to see him like that.
“Craig,” he whined. He couldn’t help how pathetic it sounded coming off his lips. “I’ve never done that before,” he said. He pulled away from Craig’s lips and avoided his eyes. “Like, had anything up there.”
“Okay,” Craig said. He didn’t seem bothered in the least, but Tweek knew it was all about to fall apart. Craig nosed up his neck and bit at his earlobe, and up so close Tweek could hear how erratic his breathing was. “What if you just tasted it, a little bit?”
Tweek swallowed back the dryness that was invading his throat. He didn’t know how much he wanted that until he felt his thighs trembling, threatening to drop him on his ass on the pillows. “Okay,” he said. He scooted back and laid down on his stomach, propping himself up on his elbows until he was, again, at eye level with that piercing.
Tweek was a good actor, the kind who did his research. He wasn’t acting, now, or if he was, it was method—yes, that’s what this was, he was method acting; the pulsing through his abdomen and the tightness in his thighs and the warmth in his chest were all symptoms of his natural empathy as an actor or the way the alcohol was hitting him—but he’d been in this role for months, and he knew how to give a good performance. He looked up at Craig through his lashes, his eyes big and wet. He nibbled on his lip, not compulsively but gently, like he was mulling something over. He gingerly grabbed the base of his cock, like he hadn’t just been tugging on that thing as if his life depended on it. Craig brushed a few strands of hair back from where they fell in his eyes and kept his hand in Tweek’s hair.
It felt so natural to lean down and kiss the tip. Where he wasn’t sure how he looked on the receiving end, he knew that the top of his little blonde head, all straightened and with his lowlights freshly touched up, looked good from Craig’s angle. He wanted to make Craig feel good. He rubbed at the base and cupped Craig’s balls with his other hand, and he swallowed back the fear of choking or making a fool of himself and wrapped his lips around the head.
It was salty right away, but above him, Craig gasped and his fingers twitched in Tweek’s hair, so he kept going. He never had much of a gag reflex, something that he suspected was a symptom of how hard he brushed his teeth (he had to replace his brushes more than once a month on account of how damaged the bristles would get), but it was still hard to get much down. Craig’s cock was thick. His hand came up from the base to meet his lips, and he felt how much he had left if he wanted to get it all in.
“Don’t—” Craig sighed when Tweek curled his tongue around the head and popped off for a moment to lick up some precum— “Don’t pressure yourself,” he said. “God, you’re doing so great. So good,” he said.
Tweek kept going. Craig didn’t moan a lot, so it felt like the room was filling with the sounds of Tweek’s mouth and throat—the wet smacking of his lips, the whining at the back of his throat when he pressed his dick into the bed, the moans he couldn’t hold back when Craig tightened his grip on the roots of his hair and pulled.
“Yeah,” Craig said. “You’re so good— such a pretty boy.” He was speaking in grunts, and Tweek could feel his balls firming up as he massaged them. “Pretty little thing, you’re gonna take it all, huh?”
Tweek nodded, taking more of Craig into his mouth—not quite all of it, but he was feeling proud of himself, for his first time. He felt so dirty, like the slut he’d been playing dress-up as for months, when he realized how painfully hard he was even though he hadn’t touched himself at all. He wanted more of Craig, even though it scared him. He lifted his ass up into the air, not knowing what he wanted Craig to do, just wanting him to know he wanted it.
Craig leaned forward and, despite the fact that Tweek didn’t have much of a gag reflex, the sudden addition of about three inches down his throat made him sputter around it, his muscles spasming around the length of Craig’s cock. That earned him his first moan. Craig grabbed a handful of Tweek’s ass, which was pretty much an entire cheek since he had big hands and, as round as Tweek’s ass was, it was small. He squeezed and Tweek felt feral, like all he’d ever need were the hands on him and yet like it would never be enough. He hummed on Craig’s cock in hopes it would make him keep going.
“Fuck, Tweek.” Craig’s voice was strained. He was holding back, Tweek could tell. “You’re gonna make me come,” he said, and he pressed a finger up against Tweek’s asshole.
He didn’t push in, and Tweek thanked God for that—he didn’t need another thing to get used to, right now, he just needed to go, go, go—but he rubbed circles into the skin, and suddenly Tweek’s legs were shaking and spreading. Craig tugged harder on his hair, like he was trying to make him pull off, but the tugging felt good and Tweek wanted to be good for Craig, so he resisted and moaned around Craig instead.
Craig tensed up and pulled Tweek forward until his nose was brushing up against Craig’s skin. He was gripping Tweek’s ass, digging his nails into the cheek, and Tweek couldn’t help but play it up for him, moaning like a whore as Craig unloaded into his mouth.
“Yeah, that’s a good boy,” Craig grunted, holding him down as he rode out his orgasm. Tweek swallowed desperately, breathing out of his nose without rhythm, and the fingers in his hair and the loosening grip on his ass cheek held him off from a panic attack. He was with Craig. He was making Craig feel good. He was good. He was safe.
Craig let go of Tweek’s hair and started lazily massaging the spot on his scalp where he’d been pulling. Tweek pulled himself off of his cock and sucked in deep, frantic breaths.
“Wow,” Tweek said once he could breathe again. “That tasted so bad.”
Craig pushed him onto his back. He was breathing easy, relaxed, and if he were anyone else he might have smiled, some kind of goofy grin. “Let me find out for myself, huh?”
Tweek was already worked up enough that when Craig pressed a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss to the side of his cock, he practically keened, digging his hands into the pillow above him. He knew better than to mess up Craig’s hair—somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew how long it had taken him to get it ready for the party. Craig kept kissing and tugging at him like that, sucking the tip into his mouth and pressing his tongue flat against it and rubbing harsh circles into his ass, spreading his cheeks and kneading the skin and doing everything but press against his asshole again.
“Please,” Tweek cried. He spread his legs and arched his back and reached out for Craig, but he didn’t want him to stop using either of his hands. He settled for grabbing his shoulder and squeezing. “Please, do it again. That—” he was too embarrassed to say it— “that thing you did, earlier.”
Craig hummed against the underside of his cock, where he was running his open mouth up and down, letting his lips and tongue do all of the work that Tweek’s throat was doing earlier. He spread Tweek’s cheeks again and pressed his thumb against his asshole, and this time he pushed—not enough to press inside, but enough for Tweek to feel the pressure, both against it and building inside him.
Craig took the tip into his mouth again and hummed some more, and Tweek was sure he knew he was close because he was thrashing about above him, crying out and whimpering and begging, and when he came Craig kept sucking and rubbing until he was done. Then he pulled off and for the first time in the night, even as hazy as he was, Tweek could see from his face how he was feeling.
Craig swallowed around his grimace and stuck his tongue out like a child proving he’d swallowed his pills. “Ew,” he said.
“I told you,” Tweek said. He was out of breath, struggling with his words.
Craig wiped his mouth on his forearm and gently prodded Tweek until he scooted over to the side. He laid down on his back and pulled Tweek to his side. Even though the heat in his stomach had dissipated, Tweek felt a warmth all over. He was nervous that Craig wasn’t feeling the same thing—that the heat and the warmth left him at the same time—but he wrapped an arm around his waist and laid his head against his chest, anyway. “Bite” was pressing into his cheekbone, and it surely didn’t feel great for Craig, either, but he was tired and warm and the contraction and expansion of Craig’s chest more than made up for it.
There was still some lingering fear, deep in the back of Tweek’s skull, that this was just another way for Craig to get leverage over him, another step toward complete ownership, but with each slowing, rhythmic thump against the shell of his ear, it faded.
“So, what now?” Tweek asked. He brushed the hair that stuck to his forehead and temples out of his face. He wanted to run his fingers over Craig’s wrist and arm, so he did.
“Um,” Craig started. He brushed Tweek’s hair with his fingers and used his foot to bring Tweek’s leg up over his. He wrapped an arm around Tweek’s back and rubbed his bicep in slow strokes. “I think they’re playing reruns of season one downstairs.”
