[9/?]

Craig doesn’t remember crossing the threshold, nor does he remember tossing Tweek onto his damaged bed. Yet there he is, flushed and breathless with damp blonde hair framing his face, gulping down desperate breaths of oxygen while lying on his back. He scrunches up his face. Craig has no memory of locking his arms in place on either side of Tweek’s body. But clearly, he’s done it. He has Tweek thoroughly pinned below him. He’s slotted between Tweek’s legs nicely, though neither of them makes any distinct moves to tangle their bodies again. There’s a hollow space between their torsos. Craig shudders. He’s getting sick of this torment. It’s frustrating, unlike anything he’s experienced before. He wants it but he doesn’t want it. He’s in control but he’s spiraling and feels lost in ungovernable disarray. Craig bites his lip as Tweek gazes up at him, wall-eyed and complacent. It’s clear that the effects of scenting him are still in heavy impact. Fortunately for Craig, he’s still feeling it, too.

He isn’t sure if he regrets it. For the most part, he doesn’t. It’s proven to be the one action he’s taken thus far that has actually managed to quell his reckless behavior. But on the reverse, he’s worried about what it’s done to Tweek. He’s spoken to people who have scented an omega and he’s seen depictions of it in media, so he thought he knew what to expect. Maybe context takes a bigger role than he was initially led to believe. Craig takes a few shaky breaths in through his mouth and puffs them out through his nose. Scenting hasn’t taken away his desires, but rather it’s simply given him the clarity to at least be cognizant of what he’s doing. For Tweek, however, he’s utterly mollified. All the fire and indignation has melted from him and left him as a complacent, obedient puddle.

At least, that’s how Craig feels about it. He can’t think of any other reason he’d be so malleable and willing to go along with being groped and handled. And, to be completely honest, it doesn’t particularly feel good. He thinks of how unfair that must be for him. That in and of itself is a bizarre and uncomfortable concept for Craig. He hardly knows this guy. Yet here he is, hovering above his bare and vulnerable body, and trying to take his feelings into consideration. This is the weirdest rut of his life. Craig frowns. His cock is absolutely aching. He knows he needs to stay true to his internal promise. But it’s hard. It’s so, so hard. His swollen length drags along the cotton sheets and he pushes himself back to stand upright. He clears his throat with an awkward grunt.

“You, uh… you can make your nest here,” he suggests in a very stupid, stiff voice.

“Okay,” Tweek agrees distantly but doesn’t seem like he’s about to go anywhere.

“Only if you want,” Craig tacks on awkwardly.

Tweek blinks a few times as if just waking up from a particularly restful nap. He sits up slowly and braces himself on the heels of his palms. For a very long moment, he stares ahead seemingly looking at nothing. Before Craig can have a chance to figure out what he’s doing, Tweek belts out a strangled yell and his body twitches violently. His head snaps to the side, his eyes blink out of tandem, and his arms flap up and down to alternate between gripping the bed linens and tugging aggressively at his hair.

“Craig!” Tweek yelps. “Ahhargrgh, what am I supposed to do?! I don’t know how to make a nest!!”

“Hey!” Craig winces and puts his hands up defensively. “Tweek! Hey! Okay? Calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” Tweek points an accusing finger at him. “Don’t you dare tell me to calm down, man!”

All these ups and downs are making Craig’s head spin. It’s the most nauseating roller coaster he’s ever endured. He keeps his hands raised as if Tweek is a frightened, cornered animal and he’s showing the poor creature he isn’t a threat.

“Okay,” Craig concedes. “But maybe you could at least give me a warning if you’re gonna flip, dude.”

Tweek produces a series of jittery and frustrated groans. He grunts under his breath and bites his lip, squeezing his legs together and hanging onto the bed sheets like his life depends on it. Craig doesn’t know what to say, so instead, he waits and listens. He closes his eyes to attempt to ground himself again. He’s annoyed. Every attempt to regain his sense of control is countered with a new and enticing way Tweek seems to inadvertently beg for him. Craig knows the grunts aren’t meant to be of a sexual nature. He knows that. He knows that! But even still, his cock bobs a few times with each groan and it twitches and leaks with each shrill, garbled whine. It shouldn’t be so tantalizing, but somehow… it is.

“How the fuck am I supposed to make a nest,” Tweek bemoans and flops backward onto the mattress. “Urhk, I’ve never made a nest before. Why… argh, why is it called a nest?! What am I, a bird?!”

Craig can’t help but chuckle at this. A few guffaws get past him, but then Tweek shoots him a look that could kill. He covers his mouth with his hand and swallows down his laughter.

“It’s not funny, Craig,” the corners of Tweek’s mouth point downwards sharply.

“It’s a little funny,” Craig mutters, then sighs in relief when he realizes Tweek hadn’t heard that.

“I’m serious. Augh, I don’t know how to do this stuff,” Tweek grumbles and fusses with a stray blanket.

“Well,” Craig averts his gaze so he can try to think without distraction. “What kind of stuff do you know how to do?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Tweek somehow manages to take this as an attack, as though Craig has insinuated he doesn’t know how to do anything at all in the world.

“Nothing,” Craig dismisses the hook and presses on. “Just think about it. Isn’t nesting about being comfortable? So what kind of stuff is comfortable for you? You’ve gotta know how to do something about that.”

Tweek makes a suffocated, strained noise as if he’s got a gun pointed to his head and he’s been asked to explain the Pythagorean theorem in the original ancient Greek. Craig tilts his head slightly, daring to catch a small glimpse of the naked man in his bed. Tweek’s grinding his teeth, gnashing away at nothing but air as he struggles to consider what might bring him a little comfort.

“Hrnnngghhhh…” he vocalizes somewhat thoughtfully. “P…pillows…?”

“Then let’s start with pillows,” Craig affirms him immediately and Tweek’s shoulders instantly relax just enough so that they’re no longer crammed up to his ears. “Uh… They used to be up on the top there… God damn it. Okay, I’ll go get some more pillows.”

Craig uncomfortably shuffles back out of the room. It’s terrible. He shouldn’t feel so out of his element in his own dormitory. There’s garbage and home furnishings strewn about everywhere. The whole place gives off an unsettling vibe that could be best described as half “hotel abandoned after a catastrophic tornado” and half “serial killer dwelling.” He can’t bring himself to draw too much attention to his surroundings. He’s just gotta find some pillows. Craig’s headache starts to return. It’s due in part to the unrelenting and frustrating swell of his stupid, angry cock between his legs. There’s no chance this obscene thing will stop plaguing every aspect of his existence anytime soon. But it’s also in part as a result of the choreographed fight in his mind between resistance and desire. Logic speaks clearly first: he needs to provide (even though it goes against everything he has ever claimed to want), and he needs to retain control (even though that also goes against everything his body tells him he wants). Lust whispers softly in reply: he needs to give (his body is able and willing), and he needs to receive (his unlikely bed partner is able and willing, too).

Craig tries to focus on the task at hand. He needs stuff to make a nest. He needs pillows. A few tattered couch cushions litter the floor and he grabs them. There’s that scratchy homemade blanket his grandmother sent him when he first moved into his dorm. It’s probably not very comfortable, though. Maybe he could wad it up and use it to prop Tweek up? Or use it for… uh, lumbar support? Craig groans. It’s not like he has some sudden understanding of how to do this just because he volunteered to help. He wonders what it might be like to be in Tweek’s position. It can’t be comfortable. The need for something like a nest makes sense. It can’t be easy feeling like a freshly carved piece of meat, dripping wet and constantly drenched in a river of slippery slick. Craig’s heart skips a beat.

There are a few moments of pause where Craig’s mind crashes to a halt and runs rampant with curious thoughts about how that must feel for him. Does it feel good? Does he like the way he gushes and throbs? Craig’s mouth feels dry and his fingers grip the ratty couch cushion. His thighs must be so wet with it. If he squeezed them together, would that mess spread itself in a vulgar smear along his skin and offer a sultry invitation? …Would he do it on purpose? Craig’s eyes go wide and he nearly drops the ugly cushions and the uglier blanket. He needs to get some towels. His heavy legs guide him to the linen closet. Craig couldn’t tell anyone the colors of the fabric in his clutch if his life depended on it– his focus is clearly elsewhere.

When he returns to his bedroom, his eyes hone in directly on Tweek. He’s been fluffing the same pillow for quite a while, it would appear. He fusses and frets with it while bent over the mattress and Craig’s knees lock. It’s nothing particularly lewd by design, but it still has Craig biting the inside of his cheek and white-knuckling his humble home decor. There’s something about the way the muscles on Tweek’s back tense up as he bends and there’s something more to the way his spine arches in almost a feline curve leading down to the fullness just above his thighs that makes Craig want to lunge. But he can’t; or rather, he can… but he won’t. In only an instant, a series of racing desires barrel through his mind. He wants to bend and grip and push and thrust and feel. He wants to feel everything. It’s torture now that he’s had a taste. The only thing keeping him centered is the two-word staccato mantra that beats itself into the thickness of his skull. Protect. Survive. Protect. Survive.

“I brought some stuff,” Craig announces, hoping his demeanor comes off as sufficiently casual.

Clearly, it’s not casual enough because Tweek immediately lets out a startled scream. Craig’s already starting to get used to that, honestly. Tweek jolts straight upright like a puppeteer just yanked on his marionette strings. If Craig wasn’t so absorbed in his open-mouthed gawking, it would be almost funny. Tweek’s acting like he was caught burying a body rather than fluffing a deflated pillow. None of that matters, though. He’s frozen in place, struck by the realization that despite having been up close and personal with Tweek on multiple occasions within the last hour this is the first time he’s truly had a full view of his entire body. Up until this point, Tweek has been either guarded and curled over himself or pressed so tight to Craig’s own body that much was obscured. Now, ironically, that he’s been startled to attention, Craig can see it all. He wets his lips.

His shoulders are broader than his hips, but not by some significant measurement. He’s slender but wiry rather than frail. His hip bones are sharp and jut out at odd angles as his tight legs tremble. But most noticeable (and Craig feels remarkably stupid for not noticing before) is that his dick is hard. His smooth shaft peaks out from the bed of golden curls at its base and it’s tinged a rosy pink, as though it’s shyly blushing. It’s a strange thought, but Craig thinks it almost looks pretty. Maybe it’s from the extensive time he’s been looking at his own cock, which by now seems grotesque by his standards considering it’s veiny and throbbing and bloated with neglect. He hopes Tweek doesn’t notice him staring.

Tweek, however, does in fact notice his obvious staring. His cheeks stain a splotchy red that spreads like spilled ink down his throat and all along the top of his pale shoulders. His shaky hands move quickly to attempt to cover himself from sight.

“Oh, god, agghhh!” Tweek scrunches his eyes shut. “Shit, I’m sorry, man! Oh, Jesus Christ, this is so embarrassing…”

“I mean…” Craig chuckles sarcastically and gestures between his own legs. “It’s not like I’m judging.”

Tweek tries to stifle a long, shrill groan. He sounds like a dog on a leash that’s just a little bit too tight. Craig steadies his breathing. He focuses on his normal behavior again. It’s such a challenge. The way his mind gurgles with the knowledge of the confirmation that if Tweek’s in that state, surely those former speculations must have some sort of merit. He takes a couple of steps forward before he realizes he’s moving.

“Can we just make the nest?” Tweek pleads in a slurred liaison of words as the thin bones in his neck strain under his exertion.

Craig doesn’t speak. Instead, he acts to demonstrate his endorsement of the idea. It’s only a few strides to the bed, so Craig measures his steps carefully to contain himself. He concentrates. He needs to stay focused. The only thing that matters right now is setting up a nest so Tweek can settle in. in his peripheral, he can somewhat see that Tweek has cautiously resumed his jittery fussing with his shamefully crappy pillows. He carefully smooths the towels on top of his mattress. He can see now that they’re brown, as well as ugly and tattered. He hopes they’re at least a bit absorbent. A shiver runs through his bones at the thought and he tries to squash it down. The couch cushions and grandma's blanket are next. He tosses them haphazardly against the cracked headboard adjacent to the pillows Tweek is busy kneading. In what he hopes is a stealthy motion, he stuffs the itchy crocheted blanket in a crumpled ball behind them. With a quick scan of the room, he snatches up the first blanket he can see off the ground. Craig drapes it high in the air and it flutters down like a collapsing parachute over the rest of his handiwork. He decides that’s probably a nest.

“There,” he stands upright and proclaims, even going so far as to proudly place his hands on his hips.

“There…?” Tweek snaps from his trance and gives Craig a very confused look.

“It’s done,” he nods at the bed.

“Augh, what do you mean, it’s done?” Tweek scrunches up his face, his displeasure made entirely palpable.

“The nest,” Craig clarifies, but now he’s starting to feel less confident.

“Craig, hrngh, that’s not a nest,” Tweek fully frowns. “You just made the bed. But… ngh, you made it worse.”

Craig looks over his workmanship. It’s a completely uninviting amalgamation of scratchy fibers, uneven and mismatched items, and a less than adequate offering of neck support. It’s all squarely framed by the broken headboard that now sits about forty-five degrees off its center. It looks more fit for a stray dog to rest its weary vagabond head than for a desperate omega seeking comfort during heat. Craig’s shoulders fall in defeat. He can totally see how this could be described as a bed, but worse.