
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4293042.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      South_Park
  Relationship:
      Craig_Tucker/Tweek_Tweak
  Character:
      Craig_Tucker, Tweek_Tweak
  Additional Tags:
      Underage_Sex, Sexual_Content, Unsafe_Sex, Mildly_Dubious_Consent,
      Demiromantic, Bisexuality, Bisexual_Male_Character, Anal_Sex, Teen_Angst,
      Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Underage_Smoking, Implied/Referenced_Drug_Use
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-07-07 Words: 3726
****** Ballad of The Honeybadger ******
by Edgelord_(lostlikeme)
Summary
     Craig can work with this. Dates and anniversaries and vapid
     sentimentality are the bane of his existence, but this, even Craig
     can do. Even Craig can teach someone how to fuck. Maybe.
Notes
     This took place before the Big Canon, when fanon Craig was all we
     really had.
Craig’s nostrils flare and twin streams of smoke are swept away by the rattling
ceiling fan. The blades spin clockwise; Craig tracks the motion momentarily
before closing his eyes. Silence, save for the steady clink of the metal chain
against the light bulb. Another exhale, and Craig considers the question. Two
more and Craig considers answering. The cigarette becomes just a smear of ash
on his hobbled bedside table by the time he decides to speak.
“It depends on your definition of a lot.”
The sheets shift and Craig doesn’t have to open his eyes to see Tweek’s face,
the way he chews on his bottom lip like a lifesaver.
“Enough for at least, I don’t know--” Tweek sputters. “Maybe--nghn--shit, like,
a week?”
It’s easy to remember that same mouth--with less teeth--crunching a pencil
eraser nervously at the desk across from him. Five year old Craig blinks and
turns away, disinterested. The bed creaks as Craig shifts his weight onto his
forearms. He resists the urge to sigh as he reaches for his backpack. Not much
has changed between them since that first day in Kindergarten.
Except, for maybe, the price tag. “Sixty three, but I’ll cut you even,” Craig
tells him.
“Jesus christ.”
To an outsider, the inside of Craig’s backpack would make him look less like a
drug dealer and more like a fat camp snack smuggler. (What’s the difference?)
The Pringles container houses about a fourth of his marijuana supply at any
given point in time. A decoy can of Pepsi lined with foil is where the dankest
of his kush lives. Pills, Craig keeps in a napkin lined Starbucks cup, just for
irony’s sake. There’s a marble notebook in there too, for good measure. Craig
pops a starburst in his mouth and reaches for his cigarettes.
Craig nudges him and Tweek stops pulling his hair out for just long enough to
stare at Craig’s fingers.
“It’s a fucking starburst,” Craig says. “Eat it.”
After a moment’s hesitation Tweek fumbles with the wrapping. Craig veers his
eyes away so he doesn’t have to watch him tear at the taffy corner by corner,
nibbling like a mouse.
“Craig, I just--shit--I’m sorry,” Tweek says after swallowing. “I don’t have
that kind of money!”
The last sentence comes out like a trainwreck. Craig steels himself for the
pathetic display he knows will follow.
“Do you think, that, uh, maybe you could help me out and--”
Craig rolls his eyes and unfolds another starburst. He and Tweek may be
friends, but--
“No.”
--they aren’t all that close. Craig can’t recall the last time they reconvened
for anything more than an exchange of goods and services. Less of a friendship
and more of a series of illegal transactions.
“Shit, shit. Please! Finals are coming up and--nghn--I need them dude.”
It’s always been like this. Craig sighs. “What am I going to get out of this?”
Tweek struggles to formulate a response. “I could, fuck! I don’t know, maybe,
like--do your chores or something!”
“No.”
Not even Butters is that truly naive, and Craig knows it isn’t for lack of
experience. He’s the only drug dealer in a high school the size of a quarter;
it takes longer for Craig to take a piss than it does for gossip to reach him.
When Bebe Stevens had a nipslip first period, Craig had a picture halfway
through second like the shit happened live on the MTV. He knows Tweek has
fooled around with his fair share of girls, but it doesn’t show, especially not
now.
Tweek swallows and Craig flicks his eyes back to the ceiling. Tweek opens his
mouth to speak but Craig cuts him off.
“Let me fuck you,” he says casually.
It’s been awhile since Craig has had a good fuck, and he knows if he doesn’t
dip his stick soon he’s going to end up on the wrong end up a McCormick
blowjob. It takes a long time for Tweek to reply, long enough that Craig has
almost forgotten the context of the conversation. The ceiling texture blurs
between his eyes as the smoke fogs over. This is only his second cigarette,
right?
“What about--shit! I don’t know! Diseases, and--”
Tweek skips the sexual identity crisis and Craig feels like maybe he should
have been paying more attention. He doubts Tweek has ever been with another
dude, but in South Park it pays to leave room for surprises.
“We can use a condom,” Craig assures him.
There’s a strip of them in Craig’s bedside table, matte black and pre-
lubricated. There might even be a few other colors in there. They’re from the
free clinic, maybe.
“Yeah but--they’re only, like, ninety-nine percent effective and they can pop
and tear and get lost inside you--”
The thought of losing a condom inside his friend is as laughable as it is
implausible. Craig wants to tell him he doesn’t have anything, to imply that he
is somehow safe, but instead he says:
“I’ve never done it without a condom.”
Ultimately, it feels like a confession. It shouldnt. This is definitely just
sex. No strings attached, no feelings allowed, nothing but raging hormones and
skin on skin sex. Tweek rakes his teeth over his bottom lip until it flushes
red. Craig almost doesn’t hear when Tweek speaks.
“I’ve never, uh, needed one, so...” Tweek drops his hand halfway to the drawer.
“Not even with Bebe?”
Tweek’s face spreads scarlet. “No!” he says too quickly. “We never really got
that far…” his voice fades into the fan.
Craig can work with this. Dates and anniversaries and vapid sentimentality are
the bane of his existence, but this, even Craig can do. Even Craig can teach
someone how to fuck. Probably. His own first time was unremarkable. Somewhere
between second base and sophomore year Craig figures he lost it with someone,
somewhere. Behind the bleachers or with Bebe Stevens, maybe.
Their eyes cross paths during a simultaneous glance at Craig’s bedside drawer,
and just like that, they’re going to fuck.
“Okay,” Tweek mutters, fidgeting.
They remove their shirts in unison. Tweek gets the gist, at least. There isn’t
a lot of staring or blushing, just Tweek’s fingers trembling as he folds his
clothes and Craig’s utter nonchalance following languidly behind him. Craig
observes Tweek behind a guarded look and gets an eyefull for his effort: pale
skin stretched taut like canvas over bone. Undressed, Tweek looks hardly
different than he does in the locker room. Craig has watched the scars on his
arms increase with each year, noting the way bruises pile up like layered
blotches of blue and yellow watercolor.
Tweek lurches across the bed to kiss him, fingers tangled at Craig’s shoulders.
His foot snags in the sheet and the sound of fabric tearing fills the room.
Tweek shudders, hands pressed against his ears. It’s the least attractive thing
anyone has ever done to him in his own bed (aside from the time Clyde got
wasted and thought it was a urinal.)
“Shit, shit, I’m sorry dude!”
The klutzy blond thing must really be doing it for him, Craig figures, as he
kisses him. Tweek’s mouth is small, nearly affectionate in its fervor and pink
as a puppy’s nose, chewed up before Craig even bothers using his teeth. Even in
the warmer months, Tweek manages to carry a raw, wind-chapped look to his face:
lips cracked as an impacted windshield.
“Take off your pants,” Craig tells him as he reaches to unzip his own.
Tweek shivers and his eyelashes flutter as he exhales. He probably doesn’t want
to do this, but this doesn’t make Craig a rapist. This is a deal. Fair trade.
If anything, it makes Craig a...broker? Sex-broker isn’t the most arousing
reality to consider, but still Craig considers it and still his erection
remains unfazed.
Maybe it’s wrong to manipulate an addict this way, and maybe Craig should give
a shit and maybe Craig’s dick should give a shit, and maybe they should both
show a modicum of morality, but here he is with an unflagged ship and a
sympathy bucket bone dry. Craig can’t imagine wanting something so much it
destroys him.
“Spread your legs,” Craig orders.
The taste of his skin is fresh on Craig’s tongue, and the way his voice pitches
when he sucks at his neck is unfamiliar and exciting. Without meaning to, Craig
imagines that pale skin marred by a neat row of burns; ash and tobacco scorched
into perfect circles across his wrist. Sweat slides against his skin when their
thighs brush. Craig wants to fuck him now, just like this: entirely sober with
nothing but skill to save him.
Craig’s hand halts around the hem of Tweek’s underwear when he flinches. “I’m
too scared,” Tweek says after a particularly violent spasm.
Unfazed, Craig shrugs off his underwear in a final act of solidarity. It only
seems to escalate the situation. Tweek inches backward on the bed, shaking his
head.
“No way no way no way,” Tweek says quickly. “No way dude, shit. It’s--it’s--”
“Huge?” Craig supplies behind a barely hidden smile.
Tweek huffs, trembling, but doesn’t lose confidence. “No f-fucking way,” he
stutters. “Never--nevermind, I’ll die,” he says resolutely.
There’s something to be said about how Tweek is jacked up enough to think that
Craig will literally kill him with his dick, but Craig is too busy trying to
suck him off through the fabric of his underwear to say anything.
It’s hard to place what specifically about Tweek trips Craig’s trigger. The
blond hair helps (he’s always liked blondes) but Tweek is no Ken doll. His
eyelashes are so light they only exist when the light flickers through the
blinds at just the right angle, and he’s thin enough that his stomach is nearly
concave, profile arched like a bow. Fuck, it can’t be the twitch that does it.
The way he vibrates like a cellphone at worst and trembles like a three pound
chihuahua at best.
“S-stop,” Tweek stutters. “If you keep--I’m gonna--”
Craig pulls his mouth away from the front of Tweek’s underwear, nonplussed. His
own dick is rigid against his thigh. Tweek pants, trying to find his focus.
When Craig settles on top of him, their hips lined together, Tweek dissolves
into fear.
“Craig,” he manages to rasp.
Craig presses down in response, grinding his cock against the wet spot on
Tweek’s underwear. With only a thin layer of cotton between their skin, Craig
can feel the shape of Tweek’s warm prick beneath his own, straining for
friction.
Tweek stutters when Craig’s dick slips between his legs, pressing up against
his balls from behind. Another jolt wrecks him--fear or arousal--it’s hard to
tell.
“Shit, shit! Don’t! I can’t--”
“Shut up,” Craig says, pulling Tweek’s briefs the rest of the way down. “I’m
gonna ride you.”
Somehow, he looks even more vulnerable naked. He shoves his hands between his
legs like his dick is anything Craig hasn’t seen before, and his lips quirk.
Craig traces the hidden parts with his hands: there’s acne on his shoulder
blades and a little curve at the end of his tail bone. Leaning back, he can’t
help but stare at how Tweek is wrapped around himself, knuckles red and
fingernails worse: gnawed to the quick with torn, bloody cuticles and scratches
like violent cross-hatching.
Craig pulls Tweek away by the wrists, slow and steady until he can get a good
look. Tweek’s prick is flushed against his stomach, moving in time with his
shallow breathing. Tightening his fist in the torn sheets, Craig ignores the
way his own cock twitches with renewed interest. He jerks Tweek a few times,
perfunctory, before grinding his ass back down.
“Shit, don’t! I’ve never--I don’t know how to--” Tweek gestures wildly as Craig
hovers above his dick, face impassive as he waits for Tweek to center himself.
“Shut up,” Craig says again. “They’re going to hear you.”
Tweek’s eyes widen; pupils the size of pinheads. Craig doubts his parents will
hear them, if they’re even home at all. He figures they care as much about his
sex life as he does theirs. He quiets Tweek with his free hand anyway, jerking
him faster as he presses two fingers into his mouth.
The fan stutters above them when Tweek gags, knocking dust into streams of
sunlight as Craig shoves his fingers down Tweek’s throat. It’s almost romantic.
Tweek sputters when Craig pulls his hand away to prepare himself.
“Shit, dude--you can’t be serious.”
Craig huffs. This isn’t even the first time today he’s shoved something up his
asshole.
“What did you think we were going to do? Jerk each other off?”
The prospect of anal sex seems to terrify Tweek from either angle. So far,
every position sans missionary has been deemed “hazardous,” and Tweek insists
that even missionary position is “bad for your back.” Tweek sputters when Craig
squeezes their cocks together, but manages to speak even through the slow
stroking. He deserves an award for perseverance, at least.
“I don’t know man, I’ve just like--I’ve never even done it with a girl before
and now, shit, you’re like--all thirsty for my dick and--”
Craig sinks down and Tweek squeaks, covers his mouth, and scrunches his eyes
closed. It isn’t bad at all when he’s well prepared like this, opens himself
slick and slow with an unwavering erection bobbing between his legs. It’s easy
to adjust too, without the rush or desperation. Tweek is still as an iron-
wrought statue below him, frozen in time as the moments pass around them.
“You can breathe without shattering my asshole, you know.”
Tweek struggles to respond, caught between a giggle and a gasp. “You’re not--”
Craig lifts his legs a little and drops back down. It’s a workout in itself.
Tweek’s voice falters. “I'm not wearing a condom,” he says at last.
Craig shrugs and Tweek swears. “Whatever,” Craig figures. Craig is clean and
Tweek is a virgin. It doesn’t even bother Craig that he has to do all the work.
“But shit, what about when I--” Tweek gestures wildly, face red.
Craig tilts his head, makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, and
casts his eyes back to the ceiling.
“Just pull out.”
With Tweek on the bottom, it’s easy to set the pace: fast and slow, brutal and
agonizing. Craig likes to keep Tweek guessing, likes to give himself time to
break and relax the taut muscles in his thighs. For a while, it’s fine that
they’re fucking like this--nearly moderate with Tweek an unhelpful mess below
him. Pausing for a breather, Craig contracts his muscles, pleased by the way
Tweek’s dick jerks inside him in response. Before now, sex and symbiosis were
dichotomous; parallel lines that never touched.
Craig drops his weight, bearing down until Tweek’s pubes brush his ass.
“Fuck,” Tweek says behind the fist he’s stuffed in his mouth.
For a little while, things are fluid. Craig doesn’t think about the cigarette
he’ll smoke after, or the mess he’ll be left with when Tweek leaves, and for a
little while, Craig doesn’t remember that after he blows his load he’ll owe his
supplier $63, and his closest acquaintance a small bottle of pills. Craig
wonders if the semantics really matter, if it makes a difference whether sex is
part of a bartering system, or a romantic one.
The moment Craig paws at his chest Tweek freezes back up. Craig nips at his
throat, but Tweek looks away, squirming. His eyes shift and he moves to chew
his lips again but Craig stops him with a word:
“Don’t.”
Craig seals their mouths, leaving Tweek breathless from the force of the kiss,
biting at chapped lips until he opens up, pliant. Hands back to Tweek’s chest,
Craig sucks on his tongue, swallowing desperation as Tweek writhes beneath him.
“What?” Craig asks flatly. Tweek pushes at his hands, the action inefectual;
marred by his ever present tremor. “You don’t like it?” Craig asks, rubbing his
thumbs across Tweek’s nipples.
“Shit! Nghn--I, I don’t know, man, it’s weird and--” he takes a deep breath.
“It’s not like I’m, uh, a--nghn--a girl.”
“I noticed,” Craig says, undeterred.
The next time Craig reaches for Tweek’s chest it’s expertly timed with a roll
of his hips. Tweek gasps, overstimulated, as Craig leans down to graze his
teeth against his throat. When Tweek moans his adam’s apple bobs and Craig can
feel the vibrations in his mouth. He traces the curve of his ear with his
tongue.
“Still scared?”
Tweek manages a vehement head shake to express his disagreement, and it’s
enough to quell the ruckus in his brain. Almost as good as a cigarette,
probably.
Craig gets down to business after that: playing Tweek’s cock like a bouncehouse
as he casually strokes his own. He’s had enough joyrides and enough of a dick
to know exactly how to make Tweek blow his load. Eyebrows knit, Tweek’s mouth
falls open as he tries to reciprocate. Tweek pivots, hip bones scraping as
their stomachs touch. Craig deflates and drops his weight, rocking back against
the cock inside him until the headboard knocks the wall.
Tweek freezes like a stuck stopwatch, rigid with hypervigilance, eyes trained
on the space where the bed frame meets the wall.
“Come on,” Craig urges him, “Fuck me.”
Craig bears down to prove a point, feeling himself stretch to accommodate the
cock inside him. Tweek barely manages a few ill-timed thrusts of his own, a
futile attempt for more friction. Chest to chest, Craig tightens his thighs for
a better grip, movements shallow and quick, sharpening, piqued. Tweek makes
noises like he’s dying but he likes it.
“Shit dude, fuck, I’m gonna--nghn--if you don’t stopfck--”
This seems to be a major stressor for Tweek, and even with his tongue sucked
into Craig’s mouth he tries to warn him about it. Frustrated, Craig pulls away
to issue another command.
“Just bust already.”
The thought of cum inside him doesn’t exactly appeal to Craig’s more hygienic
sensibilities, but he doesn’t have enough time between now and an orgasm to
muster up a fuck to give. Tweek covers his face and muffles his cry when he
does it, twitching tenfold behind overwhelmed tears as his balls empty and
Craig fills up.
Moments pass in silence save for shallow breathing, but Craig doesn’t pull off,
even when Tweek starts to go soft inside him. Instead Craig picks up speed as
he strokes himself off, tightening his muscles around Tweek until he makes a
startled, strangled noise. Even as a useless, nerve-wracked mess, Tweek turns
him on. It doesn’t take much longer for Craig to reach his limit.
“Give me a hand,” Craig grits through his teeth.
Tweek takes orders well, albeit nervously, so Craig snatches his hand and
brings it to his dick, covering it with his own. It feels better than it
should--the contrast between Tweek’s clammy, feverish palm pressed against the
heated skin of his cock. The first stroke sends a jolt from his heel to the
arch of his spine, and the second has Craig gripping Tweek’s wrist like he’s
going to snap it.
“Did I--”
Craig shakes his head, nudging his hips forward until his cock is sliding
through Tweek’s fist. The sight is beyond pornographic.
“Faster,” Craig wants to say, but he’s lost the words.
Instead, Craig grabs his hand and accelerates the pace, gasping every time
Tweek squeezes a little too hard. His grip is a little awkward, his hand isn’t
moving fast enough, and somehow, in the back of his mind, Craig knows Tweek
isn’t a very good fuck. Fortunately, his orgasm would beg to differ.
Sweat and precum slick the space between his dick and Tweek’s hand, and when
his trembling, cuticle torn fingertips reach the head of his cock, Craig’s
expectations collapse in on themselves like a broken dam. His hips rise a few
inches on autopilot when he comes, spunk shot as well-aimed as a winning game
of darts.
Post-coital afterglow, Craig feels a little nauseous. This isn’t anything like
he said it would be, and it definitely isn’t like fucking. Less like a one
night stand and more like a--whatever the fuck the opposite of a one night
stand is. A relationship, his brain supplies sickly. He steadfastly refuses to
acknowledge it.
Why can’t Craig just fuck him and feed him ritalin and cheerios afterward like
a songbird with clipped wings. Does it have to mean anything more than that?
Smoke spirals like miniature tornadoes above them. Craig wonders if he should
put it out and turn off the fan. With the blackout blinds, his room is cloaked
in the dim glow from the lamp on his desk.
“Hey, uh, dude?” Tweek sounds too at ease, too at home.
Craig doesn’t say anything, doesn’t really have anything to say, so all he
offers in acknowledgement is a sidelong glance. For Tweek, it must be enough.
“Why do you smoke?” he asks, and Craig is so impressed by the fluidity and lack
of stuttering that he genuinely considers it before answering.
“Kills me faster,” he says truthfully.
Tweek doesn’t say anything after that and Craig finds solace in the silence.
Craig stares at the little vial on his bedside table, imagines counting the
pills and handing it to Tweek, full. The world, Craig figures, has as much good
as it does bad, and at the end of the day the two probably cancel each other
out like opposing integers and leave nothing but a flat baseline and a big, fat
zero.
Halfway into a stupor, Tweek’s body jerks, freezes, and relaxes beside him.
Craig turns to face him, watches his chest rise, listens to his breathing
regulate. Even in his sleep, Tweek’s fingers twitch, tickling the hair on
Craig’s arms until he shifts away. Six inches seems like more space when it’s
between them.
Reconsidering, Craig reaches across the space until he can curl his fingers
around Tweek’s, knuckles brushing his palm. Tweek hasn’t slept in Craig’s bed
since the fifth grade when he woke Craig up at three am to check for underpants
gnomes. Somehow, it doesn’t feel that different.
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