“Tweek.” A knock on the window and Tweek jolts with a screech.
It’s Kenny. He’s staring, his brow furrowed, and Tweek shrinks under his searching gaze.
“Tweek, you’re really sick—where’s Craig?”
Nowadays Kenny speaks low and gravelly like his childhood superhero persona. It’s not an act—his voice truly got deeper—but it freaks Tweek out. It’s like talking to a different person.
“He just—he had to get something!” Tweek squeaks out.
“What’s he getting? He just left you here?” Kenny sounds—and smells— angry.
Tweek feels compelled to obey and tell him everything, but he knows it’s because of pheromones and Kenny’s tone. He blinks up at him owlishly and tugs at his hair. How would he even explain the situation? He has no idea where Kenny stands on any of this.
“Tweek, you can talk to me. This is serious. Your shirt’s soaked. You probably have a high fever.”
“Augh, I’m fine, man, just please—”
“Get the fuck off my car.”
Tweek groans as Craig’s low rumbling voice makes him tremble in fear, and yet also triggers another gush of slick. Tweek’s losing his mind at how stupid and perverse and self-sabotaging his body is. Not yours—he’s not yours!
“What the fuck is that, Craig—toys? You think toys are gonna cut it at this point?”
“It’s none of your business—what are you even doing here anyway?”
“Smelled someone in distress. Why haven't you at least scented him yet? He's sick,” Kenny says gruffly.
"Can't. He's not my mate."
It's not like Tweek wasn't already painfully aware of that fact, but hearing Craig say it so matter-of-fact like that is a gut punch he didn't need.
“You don't have to be his mate—I scent Kyle all the time, and you know full well who his mate is.”
“I'm not gonna argue this shit with you anymore." Tweek can't follow the subtext here but he knows he's missing something. Maybe Kenny wants Kyle as his mate? "Fuckin’ fighting with me is making it worse. So leave.”
“I’m not leaving until you agree to help him. This is fucking serious, Craig.”
“I am helping.”
“With toys?”
Craig says nothing, and Tweek’s heart sinks. That must be the plan, and Kenny thinks he can’t do it. Is Craig right? Is he physically strong enough? Kenny seems so convinced he’s not. He scoffs at Craig.
“At least clean him up before you drop him off at my place if you’re not gonna be a fucking man and take care of him yourself,” Kenny spits disrespectfully, like Craig is a scuff mark on an otherwise pristine shoe.
The moment is so tense, and Tweek watches with wide eyes from his seat. They’re fighting over him.
And in fact after a few moments of tense silence, Craig suddenly decks Kenny, the impact leaving a horrible cracking sound in its wake. Kenny goes down and Tweek scrambles to unlock the car so he can get out and check on him.
Seconds after leaving the car, though, he groans and his legs wobble, and he has to lean back against the car to hold himself upright. They both smell so strongly of aggression and possessiveness. He doesn’t belong to either of them, but Kenny was implying one of them has to mate him and he’ll do it if Craig doesn’t step up.
Like he’s some little fucktoy to be used and tossed aside. Tweek hates himself for how badly he wants even just that. Ideally from Craig, but he needs this pain to stop no matter what. Craig isn’t his, he’s not Craig’s, Craig has someone. He’s so mad at the thought of Kenny having him, though.
He doesn’t want you but he won’t let Kenny have you— he wants you to die.
He tries to breathe through that panic-inducing thought, tries to push it down with everything else. It’s all bubbling up from his stomach, like he might puke again.
Kenny coughs and manages to get back on his feet. “You fucking smell that, right? You have to help him, Craig. Just be a fucking person for once in your life.”
After Kenny’s hobbled off, Craig takes a minute to slowly breathe, til the harsh musk of his anger subsides. Then he heads straight for Tweek, tucking the sex toys' plastic packaging in the back of his pants.
“Ngh, Craig, why did you do that?”
“Not gonna let Kenny turn you into one of his whores,” Craig spits.
When Craig picks him up bridal-style, Tweek melts into his chest, the strong scent of him making his head swim.
“Not a whore," he manages to mumble through his daze, and Craig sighs, carrying him over the threshold and locking the door behind them. “He was trying to help, man. I—I need help.”
“I’m helping you,” Craig says firmly, holding Tweek tighter as he climbs the stairs.
“Urgh, he said those wouldn’t work, Craig!”
“Kenny doesn’t know everything!” he snarls back.
Tweek flinches and drops his gaze, hormonally compelled to follow the implicit order to shut up and accept what Craig has chosen for him, but it hurts because Kenny’s probably right. If he’s too weak to do this to himself properly, then Craig is just tormenting him with his scent for no reason.
They reach the bathroom and Craig lays Tweek down on the bathmat, turns to fiddle with the knobs, and tells him, quietly, “Get undressed. I’ll get the bath ready.” He clears his throat and asks, “You’ll be okay in there alone, right?”
Tweek would love to be able to say yes, because he’s disgusting, his own stomach acid having soaked through his shirt, slick still oozing from between his legs onto the Tuckers’ bathmat, tears and snot adorning his face.
He wipes those at least and mumbles back, “Agh, I’m dizzy.”
“Alright,” Craig says tightly. Tweek wonders if Kenny’s words are the only reason he doesn’t tell Tweek, “Tough shit.”
He doesn’t add to Craig's burden by telling him he’s struggling to take off his clothes because his hands are so shaky, his muscles so weak. He just keeps fumbling with his shirt buttons. He manages to get them all undone and wiggles his shoulders and arms out of soaked button down. His head swims when he stands to undo the button on his jeans. He’s hard and Craig’s going to see him. He's going to see all of him.
Tweek goes to pull down his boxers and loses his balance. Craig catches him from under his armpits, then scoops him up from under his knees with one arm, the other bracing his mid-back. He carries him over to the bath where the water is running.
He places him in the tub and removes his boxers gently from his feet. Tweek can see his own slick glistening on Craig’s right forearm. He watches Craig rinse it off under the running water, breathing slowly and deliberately. Then he turns to Tweek and tells him, “I’m gonna get you water and a cup to rinse you off with. Okay?”
Tweek nods bleary-eyed. Craig looks over Tweek’s huddled, naked form in the empty tub, then averts his gaze and goes. Tweek shakily reaches for the running faucet with arms outstretched, cupping his hands to collect water in them. He rinses his face with it. The temperature is perfect.
Craig knows exactly what he needs, sometimes. Maybe he knows all the time and chooses to deny Tweek. That must be it, but he doesn’t know why. Because he doesn’t want him, because Tweek doesn’t deserve it, because Tweek hadn’t been good enough. They’re all options. He knows he does want him a little, or at least used to—
Craig comes back in, ice water in a large nalgene with a straw in one hand, plastic cup in the other.
“Just gonna rinse you and then I’ll let you soak,” he says huskily, then he clears his throat and kneels beside the tub.
He fills the cup with the running lukewarm water and pours it down Tweek’s chest, then lathers a wet washcloth with soap and starts washing Tweek’s chest. The scrape of the cheap terrycloth over his nipples feels so good he can barely contain his moans. They come out in long, drawn-out Nnnhs. Craig’s big hand controlling the washcloth drifts lower, but Tweek has his knees pulled up tight, and the dirty soapy water is collecting in his lap.
“Tweek,” Craig says flatly.
“Hrngh, what?”
He knows what. Craig doesn’t even have to say it. He just makes a face like he knows Tweek knows.
Tweek lowers his legs a little. He’s so hard, slick essentially pouring down the drain so long as Craig refrains from filling him up. His whole body quivers at the shame of it. It’s humiliating having Craig see him like this.
“Tweek,” Craig says, soft admonishment evident in his voice, and Tweek extends his legs the rest of the way immediately, not wanting to talk about it, covering his face with his hands because he’s crying for some reason. He feels like he might throw up again, and drops his head back on the bathtub rim. It hurts, bouncing against the ceramic to the rhythm of the sobs that wrack his body.
Craig pours a few cups of water down Tweek’s chest, washing all traces the soapy water down the drain. Tweek spaces out, trying to leave his body, until he notices the water level rising around him.
“Tweek,” Craig says, “it’s okay. You’re okay,” and Tweek cries harder because he most certainly is not okay; he is on the verge of puking again, all over himself in the Tuckers’ bathtub.
“C’mere,” Craig murmurs, pulling him up by the back of his head and leaning in to press his lips to his neck. Tweek realizes what’s happening only moments before—Craig is scenting him, just like Kenny said to do.
It feels so right, Craig sucking on that sensitive gland—Tweek keens, loud and desperate, fingers curling into Craig’s hair to hold his head there. But Craig is stronger, and he pulls back after a few moments, teeth scraping the gland as he withdraws, panting.
Craig stares at him intently, the icy gray-blue of his eyes barely visible around his blown pupils. Tweek stares back into them, then at Craig’s parted lips, and before he can even think, Craig’s mouth is on his, hungrily sucking, and Tweek kisses back automatically, an empty vessel waiting to be filled up with his love.
Every nerve in Tweek’s body is on fire, his nipples hardening into tight little buds near-painfully, hard cock straining against his stomach, his slick filling up the tub as Craig licks into his mouth in deliberate strokes. Tweek moans into Craig's back, sucking on his tongue, running his fingers through his thick hair, pulling him in closer.
They kiss like they’re speaking a language they invented together. I want, I want, I want, Tweek’s kisses say. Craig’s say, I know.
As long as they’re kissing, Craig is his. Tweek wants it to last forever, but he runs out of breath too soon and has to part with a gasp, dropping his head on the back rim of the tub again.
With Tweek's chest heaving and heart pounding, Craig braces a hand at his mid-back and kisses down the side of his neck. Tweek shivers and cries out when Craig stops to trace his sensitive gland with his tongue, then he kisses his way down Tweek’s chest til he reaches a nipple. When he sucks it into his mouth, Tweek's whole body attempts to jerk him away from the stimulation but Craig hold him firm in his grip.
The sounds Craig's pulling from Tweek's chest should embarrass Tweek but it feels too good for him to care. Every rough suck shoots straight to his dick, and the electrical pleasure shoots through to his fingers and toes. He'd never known his nipples were this sensitive. What's more, Craig chose this—Craig is sucking and biting his left nipple of his own accord. He dips a hand between Tweek's legs, not touching him, but the movement of the water against Tweek's slippery wet, needy hole stimulates him, and he whines at the tease of it all.
Craig shushes him and brings that hand back up to paint his right nipple with slick-saturated water. He leans in to suck that one too, drinking up Tweek's slick and groaning as if hungry for more. Tweek feels like he could come from the visual alone and certainly from the stimulation of his nipples if Craig keeps this up. He's already leaking pre-cum, and his hole body pulses in time with his cock. As Craig torments the left one between his thumb and finger, he grazes the right with his teeth between torturously slow, teasing sucks.
“Craig,” Tweek breathes out involuntarily, the name pouring out of his mouth like honey.
Somehow this breaks the spell. Craig remembers who he is and what he's supposed to be doing here. His hands jerk away from Tweek's body and he forces himself to unlatch from his nipple; Tweek whines at the loss. It's obvious Craig's been affected by all this—his eyes are glassy, pupils black like he's on something, he's panting heavily. A blush adorns his large roman nose, his ears, his high cheekbones. He's so beautiful and he's not Tweek's.
“I gotta—gonna go get stuff for. Nest,” he sputters out.
Then he pulls the bath stopper, and all but bolts out of the room, leaving Tweek with a throbbing hard-on, slick pouring out of his ass, and overstimulated, saliva-slicked nipples that sting from the cold air.
Re: Tweek/Craig, ABO, overstimulation
“Tweek.” A knock on the window and Tweek jolts with a screech.
It’s Kenny. He’s staring, his brow furrowed, and Tweek shrinks under his searching gaze.
“Tweek, you’re really sick—where’s Craig?”
Nowadays Kenny speaks low and gravelly like his childhood superhero persona. It’s not an act—his voice truly got deeper—but it freaks Tweek out. It’s like talking to a different person.
“He just—he had to get something!” Tweek squeaks out.
“What’s he getting? He just left you here?” Kenny sounds—and smells— angry.
Tweek feels compelled to obey and tell him everything, but he knows it’s because of pheromones and Kenny’s tone. He blinks up at him owlishly and tugs at his hair. How would he even explain the situation? He has no idea where Kenny stands on any of this.
“Tweek, you can talk to me. This is serious. Your shirt’s soaked. You probably have a high fever.”
“Augh, I’m fine, man, just please—”
“Get the fuck off my car.”
Tweek groans as Craig’s low rumbling voice makes him tremble in fear, and yet also triggers another gush of slick. Tweek’s losing his mind at how stupid and perverse and self-sabotaging his body is. Not yours—he’s not yours!
“What the fuck is that, Craig—toys? You think toys are gonna cut it at this point?”
“It’s none of your business—what are you even doing here anyway?”
“Smelled someone in distress. Why haven't you at least scented him yet? He's sick,” Kenny says gruffly.
"Can't. He's not my mate."
It's not like Tweek wasn't already painfully aware of that fact, but hearing Craig say it so matter-of-fact like that is a gut punch he didn't need.
“You don't have to be his mate—I scent Kyle all the time, and you know full well who his mate is.”
“I'm not gonna argue this shit with you anymore." Tweek can't follow the subtext here but he knows he's missing something. Maybe Kenny wants Kyle as his mate? "Fuckin’ fighting with me is making it worse. So leave.”
“I’m not leaving until you agree to help him. This is fucking serious, Craig.”
“I am helping.”
“With toys?”
Craig says nothing, and Tweek’s heart sinks. That must be the plan, and Kenny thinks he can’t do it. Is Craig right? Is he physically strong enough? Kenny seems so convinced he’s not. He scoffs at Craig.
“At least clean him up before you drop him off at my place if you’re not gonna be a fucking man and take care of him yourself,” Kenny spits disrespectfully, like Craig is a scuff mark on an otherwise pristine shoe.
The moment is so tense, and Tweek watches with wide eyes from his seat. They’re fighting over him.
And in fact after a few moments of tense silence, Craig suddenly decks Kenny, the impact leaving a horrible cracking sound in its wake. Kenny goes down and Tweek scrambles to unlock the car so he can get out and check on him.
Seconds after leaving the car, though, he groans and his legs wobble, and he has to lean back against the car to hold himself upright. They both smell so strongly of aggression and possessiveness. He doesn’t belong to either of them, but Kenny was implying one of them has to mate him and he’ll do it if Craig doesn’t step up.
Like he’s some little fucktoy to be used and tossed aside. Tweek hates himself for how badly he wants even just that. Ideally from Craig, but he needs this pain to stop no matter what. Craig isn’t his, he’s not Craig’s, Craig has someone. He’s so mad at the thought of Kenny having him, though.
He doesn’t want you but he won’t let Kenny have you— he wants you to die.
He tries to breathe through that panic-inducing thought, tries to push it down with everything else. It’s all bubbling up from his stomach, like he might puke again.
Kenny coughs and manages to get back on his feet. “You fucking smell that, right? You have to help him, Craig. Just be a fucking person for once in your life.”
After Kenny’s hobbled off, Craig takes a minute to slowly breathe, til the harsh musk of his anger subsides. Then he heads straight for Tweek, tucking the sex toys' plastic packaging in the back of his pants.
“Ngh, Craig, why did you do that?”
“Not gonna let Kenny turn you into one of his whores,” Craig spits.
When Craig picks him up bridal-style, Tweek melts into his chest, the strong scent of him making his head swim.
“Not a whore," he manages to mumble through his daze, and Craig sighs, carrying him over the threshold and locking the door behind them. “He was trying to help, man. I—I need help.”
“I’m helping you,” Craig says firmly, holding Tweek tighter as he climbs the stairs.
“Urgh, he said those wouldn’t work, Craig!”
“Kenny doesn’t know everything!” he snarls back.
Tweek flinches and drops his gaze, hormonally compelled to follow the implicit order to shut up and accept what Craig has chosen for him, but it hurts because Kenny’s probably right. If he’s too weak to do this to himself properly, then Craig is just tormenting him with his scent for no reason.
They reach the bathroom and Craig lays Tweek down on the bathmat, turns to fiddle with the knobs, and tells him, quietly, “Get undressed. I’ll get the bath ready.” He clears his throat and asks, “You’ll be okay in there alone, right?”
Tweek would love to be able to say yes, because he’s disgusting, his own stomach acid having soaked through his shirt, slick still oozing from between his legs onto the Tuckers’ bathmat, tears and snot adorning his face.
He wipes those at least and mumbles back, “Agh, I’m dizzy.”
“Alright,” Craig says tightly. Tweek wonders if Kenny’s words are the only reason he doesn’t tell Tweek, “Tough shit.”
He doesn’t add to Craig's burden by telling him he’s struggling to take off his clothes because his hands are so shaky, his muscles so weak. He just keeps fumbling with his shirt buttons. He manages to get them all undone and wiggles his shoulders and arms out of soaked button down. His head swims when he stands to undo the button on his jeans. He’s hard and Craig’s going to see him. He's going to see all of him.
Tweek goes to pull down his boxers and loses his balance. Craig catches him from under his armpits, then scoops him up from under his knees with one arm, the other bracing his mid-back. He carries him over to the bath where the water is running.
He places him in the tub and removes his boxers gently from his feet. Tweek can see his own slick glistening on Craig’s right forearm. He watches Craig rinse it off under the running water, breathing slowly and deliberately. Then he turns to Tweek and tells him, “I’m gonna get you water and a cup to rinse you off with. Okay?”
Tweek nods bleary-eyed. Craig looks over Tweek’s huddled, naked form in the empty tub, then averts his gaze and goes. Tweek shakily reaches for the running faucet with arms outstretched, cupping his hands to collect water in them. He rinses his face with it. The temperature is perfect.
Craig knows exactly what he needs, sometimes. Maybe he knows all the time and chooses to deny Tweek. That must be it, but he doesn’t know why. Because he doesn’t want him, because Tweek doesn’t deserve it, because Tweek hadn’t been good enough. They’re all options. He knows he does want him a little, or at least used to—
Craig comes back in, ice water in a large nalgene with a straw in one hand, plastic cup in the other.
“Just gonna rinse you and then I’ll let you soak,” he says huskily, then he clears his throat and kneels beside the tub.
He fills the cup with the running lukewarm water and pours it down Tweek’s chest, then lathers a wet washcloth with soap and starts washing Tweek’s chest. The scrape of the cheap terrycloth over his nipples feels so good he can barely contain his moans. They come out in long, drawn-out Nnnhs. Craig’s big hand controlling the washcloth drifts lower, but Tweek has his knees pulled up tight, and the dirty soapy water is collecting in his lap.
“Tweek,” Craig says flatly.
“Hrngh, what?”
He knows what. Craig doesn’t even have to say it. He just makes a face like he knows Tweek knows.
Tweek lowers his legs a little. He’s so hard, slick essentially pouring down the drain so long as Craig refrains from filling him up. His whole body quivers at the shame of it. It’s humiliating having Craig see him like this.
“Tweek,” Craig says, soft admonishment evident in his voice, and Tweek extends his legs the rest of the way immediately, not wanting to talk about it, covering his face with his hands because he’s crying for some reason. He feels like he might throw up again, and drops his head back on the bathtub rim. It hurts, bouncing against the ceramic to the rhythm of the sobs that wrack his body.
Craig pours a few cups of water down Tweek’s chest, washing all traces the soapy water down the drain. Tweek spaces out, trying to leave his body, until he notices the water level rising around him.
“Tweek,” Craig says, “it’s okay. You’re okay,” and Tweek cries harder because he most certainly is not okay; he is on the verge of puking again, all over himself in the Tuckers’ bathtub.
“C’mere,” Craig murmurs, pulling him up by the back of his head and leaning in to press his lips to his neck. Tweek realizes what’s happening only moments before—Craig is scenting him, just like Kenny said to do.
It feels so right, Craig sucking on that sensitive gland—Tweek keens, loud and desperate, fingers curling into Craig’s hair to hold his head there. But Craig is stronger, and he pulls back after a few moments, teeth scraping the gland as he withdraws, panting.
Craig stares at him intently, the icy gray-blue of his eyes barely visible around his blown pupils. Tweek stares back into them, then at Craig’s parted lips, and before he can even think, Craig’s mouth is on his, hungrily sucking, and Tweek kisses back automatically, an empty vessel waiting to be filled up with his love.
Every nerve in Tweek’s body is on fire, his nipples hardening into tight little buds near-painfully, hard cock straining against his stomach, his slick filling up the tub as Craig licks into his mouth in deliberate strokes. Tweek moans into Craig's back, sucking on his tongue, running his fingers through his thick hair, pulling him in closer.
They kiss like they’re speaking a language they invented together. I want, I want, I want, Tweek’s kisses say. Craig’s say, I know.
As long as they’re kissing, Craig is his. Tweek wants it to last forever, but he runs out of breath too soon and has to part with a gasp, dropping his head on the back rim of the tub again.
With Tweek's chest heaving and heart pounding, Craig braces a hand at his mid-back and kisses down the side of his neck. Tweek shivers and cries out when Craig stops to trace his sensitive gland with his tongue, then he kisses his way down Tweek’s chest til he reaches a nipple. When he sucks it into his mouth, Tweek's whole body attempts to jerk him away from the stimulation but Craig hold him firm in his grip.
The sounds Craig's pulling from Tweek's chest should embarrass Tweek but it feels too good for him to care. Every rough suck shoots straight to his dick, and the electrical pleasure shoots through to his fingers and toes. He'd never known his nipples were this sensitive. What's more, Craig chose this—Craig is sucking and biting his left nipple of his own accord. He dips a hand between Tweek's legs, not touching him, but the movement of the water against Tweek's slippery wet, needy hole stimulates him, and he whines at the tease of it all.
Craig shushes him and brings that hand back up to paint his right nipple with slick-saturated water. He leans in to suck that one too, drinking up Tweek's slick and groaning as if hungry for more. Tweek feels like he could come from the visual alone and certainly from the stimulation of his nipples if Craig keeps this up. He's already leaking pre-cum, and his hole body pulses in time with his cock. As Craig torments the left one between his thumb and finger, he grazes the right with his teeth between torturously slow, teasing sucks.
“Craig,” Tweek breathes out involuntarily, the name pouring out of his mouth like honey.
Somehow this breaks the spell. Craig remembers who he is and what he's supposed to be doing here. His hands jerk away from Tweek's body and he forces himself to unlatch from his nipple; Tweek whines at the loss. It's obvious Craig's been affected by all this—his eyes are glassy, pupils black like he's on something, he's panting heavily. A blush adorns his large roman nose, his ears, his high cheekbones. He's so beautiful and he's not Tweek's.
“I gotta—gonna go get stuff for. Nest,” he sputters out.
Then he pulls the bath stopper, and all but bolts out of the room, leaving Tweek with a throbbing hard-on, slick pouring out of his ass, and overstimulated, saliva-slicked nipples that sting from the cold air.