Disclaimer: I do not own South Park or its characters, and make no profit from writing this story. South Park & Characters are property of Matt Stone & Trey Parker.

Spooning Leads to Forking: Part 1.5

By DragonSapphire

A/N: Surprise! This is a belated chapter I wrote at the prompting of the wonderful Norikumi when she called me out on the gap between chapters one and two on how Craig and Stan hooked up in the first place. I'll rearrange the chapters to fit this in later, but for now…enjoy! :D

Stan and Craig had unwittingly developed some kind of fixation for each other's mouth - what went into the other's mouth - after that first lunch where they actually spoke directly to each other without the additional ribbing and melodrama of their opposing faction of friends as back up vocals.

Craig discovered Stan would not touch anything soggy and green on his plate. Green, in their school's cafeteria, was synonymous with soggy and wilted, like most anything else was greasy and burned to a charcoal-like consistency. Craig wondered what the hell kind of shit they did to deserve garbage like what was served on their plates being passed off as actual food after Chef died, other than more budget cut backs, even though everything in this school was practically held together by duct tape and spit.

The elusive school dietitian mandated students be provided with at least one serving of vegetables or fruit at lunch in the 'hot' food lunch line. So it wasn't enough that Stanley wouldn't eat his goddamn vegetables, but had to stab the shit out of them with his plastic fork until they were mangled corpses next to his pizza and French fries.

This ridiculous abuse of legumes was how Craig ended up rescuing his little green friends and popping them into his own mouth before Stan, the Barbarian Wielder of Utensils, could murder them at lunch everyday. And Stan...he would just stare at Craig like he couldn't believe he was stealing food off his plate, or that he was actually putting that crap in his mouth. Craig spent most of lunchtime gnawing on his plastic spoon more than his actual food, though, not knowing how Stan could stand putting that greasy, nasty shit in his mouth, unless he had a steel-lined stomach.

Stan would even fight him on his vegetables, like he knew he wasn't going to eat them, but he didn't want Craig taking them either, which was retarded since he was just going to mutilate them and throw them out anyway. Stan would stab at Craig's hand with his fork when he reached over to hijack his vegetables, or slide his tray away when he saw him coming, but that only encouraged Craig to play dirty.

Craig kicked Stan sharply in the shin after the douche had stabbed him pretty hard first with his goddamn fork, causing Stan to jump and curse, leaving his vegetables open for the easy taking.

"Goddamnit Craig! I kind of need that to play!" Stan yelled at him, likely referring to his mad football and running skills on the school's gay ass team – the one area in the entire school where funding wasn't lacking.

"What, with your dick?" Eric Cartman taunted from two seats away without missing a beat.

"No, Fatass!"

"Whatever, fag."

Craig stared and grinned with growing delight at how flustered and offended Stan had gotten then, red up to his hairline and sputtering incoherently at Cartman.

"Don't worry, baby. I'll rub it better," Craig interrupted with a disturbing coo, stretching out his foot to teasingly stroke the toe of his shoe slowly up and down the side of Stan's calf. Stan swung his head around to look at him, shocked and going even redder - if that were even possible - but amazingly didn't yell out or move his foot away.

Craig's foot abruptly stopped caressing Stan's leg and dropped down next to Stan's on the floor, the sides of their sneakers barely touching, but not moving. Stan's head ducked down, but Craig caught a shudder of thick, dark eyelashes when Craig licked his lips nervously, seeing Stan's blue eyes flick upwards and train unnervingly on his mouth.

Craig prodded his foot against Stan's beneath the table tentatively, curiously. A few seconds passed where they could just pass the moment off as nothing. Craig almost second-guessed himself and started to slide his foot away, until a delayed, answering nudge pushed against his shoe, stopping him from shifting back any further.

Craig ducked his own head quickly and felt a warm, tingling heat burst behind his ears and - even more inexplicably - between his legs. The reaction was so sudden and harshly unexpected that Craig jerked his foot back to his own side after all, but he couldn't stop stealing lingering glances at Stan, almost grinning at the subconscious jut of Stan's ridiculously plump bottom lip when Craig moved away.

They both ended up mangling their food to death with their silverware that lunch hour.

Over the following days Craig started playing really dirty now that he knew how much innuendo got to Stan thanks to that fatass Cartman. They always managed to find themselves sitting across from each other at lunch now, which gave Craig ample opportunity to get Stan's panties in a bunch plus steal his vegetables on the side. Craig would nudge his foot against Stan's leg, letting his foot travel up higher and higher, switching his teasing touches to the inside of Stan's leg when he became accustomed to Craig's twisted footsie.

Craig became gradually more daring as his foot made its way even higher than the day before when Stan flinched back and kicked him away. Eventually, their under-the-table game of chicken advanced to the point where Craig even forgot to steal Stan's food, too busy inadvertently molesting him.

He went as far as to toe off one shoe, letting his socked foot trace the strong curve of Stan's calf muscle through the denim of his jeans. Craig stared observantly at Stan's lowered head, his hand in a white-knuckled grip around his fork. Slowly, his foot slid back down Stan's leg, his toe catching beneath the hem of Stan's pant leg and bunching the denim up as he moved his socked foot against Stan's bare leg. Except that Craig must have had a hole in his sock, because they both jumped when he touched him, rattling the table at the unexpected shock of skin to skin contact.

Stan made some kind of loud, strangled noise and got up so fast from the table that he nearly upended the entire damn thing onto Craig and everyone else sitting on his side. Stan's reaction was total win as he ran off and forgot his tray, but Craig didn't gloat because he'd fucked himself up too. He waited until the very last person at his table left for afternoon classes before grabbing up his and Stan's unfinished trays, holding them unsubtly at crotch-level as he quickly dumped the trays off and darted to class, gladly taking a tardy.

Their game took a hiatus the next day, Craig's hands and feet staying on his own side of the table. He could feel Stan's curious stare burning into him, but he couldn't make himself look up or straighten from hunching protectively over his lunch tray, not really eating much of anything. Craig always lost his appetite when he was upset, which was probably why he was so goddamn skinny since he lost his temper fairly often.

Stan, if anything, ate voraciously after the incident, even swallowing up his vegetables without even seeming to realize what he was shoveling into his mouth.

Craig was more surprised that he liked someone, anyone, despite that person being another boy when he didn't even realize he swung that way – or any way, really. Craig generally didn't like people as a well-known fact, especially Stan and his douchebag group of friends, and only tolerated his own friends on occasion. Now he had to deal with the uncomfortable realization that he'd pitched a tent for the high school's football star and his childhood semi-rival. Craig didn't know what to do about how hard he'd gotten after his and Stan's last play, or how awkward and anxious he felt for the rest of the day afterwards.

After three days of stalemate, Stan broke first with a light nudge to Craig's foot, nodding at Craig's untouched plate when Craig looked up at him, startled, but shook his head and lowered it at Stan's silent inquiry.

Stan moved his foot away and Craig sighed, pressing his hands against his face with his elbows propped up on the table. He felt so sick and twisted up inside, tormenting himself by sitting across from Stan day after day, although thankfully the feeling didn't carry with him home, yet. He hadn't degenerated into locking himself in his room and moping, somewhat calmer and actually able to breathe when he wasn't sitting right across from Stan in their afternoon classes together and on the bus.

The tension wasn't as stifling as it was at the lunchroom table, but the want was still there. If Craig was a little more emo, he'd probably paint his nails black and cut himself just to ease some of the pressure.

Craig nearly jumped out of his seat when he felt Stan's foot again, a low startled sound catching in his throat when he realized Stan was shoeless. Stan paused and Craig buried his face further in his hands, breathing harshly and trying not to, but he stiffened and bit back a moan when Stan's foot moved again, higher and higher on the inside of his leg until his toe brushed his knee, before he stopped again.

Craig felt trembling inside, ready to shake apart in an instant at the heat he could feel through their layers of clothing. But he didn't want to stop, only knowing how good this tension felt despite how miserable it made him. Or maybe just because Craig was a masochist.

Craig took a shuddering breath and nodded his head fractionally, spreading his legs apart and shifting his hips forward on the edge of the bench. He heard Stan's breath hitch from across the table, Craig unable to pick up his head and meet Stan's eyes. Craig nearly gave a shattered moan when Stan moved again, not hesitating as he slid his foot up between Craig's knees, the sides of his foot stroking Craig's inner thighs and going further until his heel was tucked snugly against Craig's crotch, the tips of his toes brushing against his belly.

Craig felt as taut as a hot wire, Stan's foot both easing and inflaming the unbelievable pressure between his legs. Stan couldn't possibly miss how hard he was, his cock stiffly curving into the arch of Stan's instep. Craig could look down and see Stan's toes against his lower belly, the edge of the table blocking his lap from an outsider's view, but he still hunched over to shield them further. Craig's hand shot underneath the table when Stan's foot...when it kneaded him, his fingers clutching tightly around Stan's bare ankle.

Stan stilled at the touch, but Craig didn't let him pull away.

Instead, he gripped Stan's ankle tight, pulling him firmly against his dick and belly, and gave a single hard thrust into the bottom of Stan's foot, nearly coming all over himself. One more thrust and he would have, but then Stan was yanking his limb out of Craig's grip, pushing away from the table after awkwardly stuffing his foot back in his shoe and nearly tripping over himself as he made a hasty exit right out of the cafeteria.

Craig didn't care how it looked when he got up from the table just as suddenly, leaving his tray and everything behind as he scrambled up and took off after Stan, shoving his shirt down in front with heated cheeks.

Luckily Stan didn't get too far ahead and Craig saw him slip into the boys' bathroom. Craig felt a rush of vicious pride for getting him that worked up, until he remembered Stan had a nasty habit of throwing up on people when he was agitated a certain way. Craig didn't quite know if Stan was in there jacking off or hurling chunks. Maybe both.

Craig pushed inside, finding the door unblocked and the bathroom empty save for the stall on the very end that was tightly closed. There were no sounds of retching or water running, and Craig jolted when he heard a zipper go down, followed by some shifting and harsh breathing. He was...oh god he was, and over Craig.

Craig had never been so achingly turned on in his life, reaching around and twisting the rusty lock on the door before practically throwing himself into the stall next to Stan's. He heard Stan go deathly still and silent when Craig's stall door banged shut, but Craig gave a frustrated sigh and kicked his foot out beneath the space between their stalls.

A few heavy seconds passed, but he soon felt the nudge of Stan's foot against his own, looking up when he saw fingers wiggling down at him from over the top of the stall. He reached up and spaced his fingers between Stan's, curling them awkwardly together as he basically flattened himself against the graffiti-covered wall.

Craig heard shuffling on the other side, but didn't feel Stan's foot move away, so he knew he had to be arranging his clothes - hopefully not putting them back on. Not wanting to be left behind with this horrible gnawing in his gut, Craig fumbled for his jeans, the sound of his zipper going down unbelievably loud in the echoing space. He shoved his hand down the front of his underwear, fisting his throbbing dick and giving a low, painful moan as he squeezed himself tightly, shuffling and trying impossibly to get closer to Stan. Stan's fingers clenched around his, both of them stretching to reach even though Craig was a little bit taller.

Craig had his cheek against the wall with his eyes closed as he stroked himself desperately, hoping the graffiti didn't rub off on his skin and he'd have to walk around with a reversed 'fuck' on his face or half of someone's phone number.

He heard an encouraging moan on the opposite side and dug his nails into the back of Stan's hand while he thrust shamelessly into his fist, feeling the echoing grip and hearing the same wet slapping of flesh against sweaty palms. They were basically humping the wall trying get at each other, but weren't quite ready to remove that protective barrier yet.

"Fuck!" Craig cried out, hips jerking as he came all over the wall and his hand. There was an answering swear and jolt as one of them banged their knee against the stall, and he shivered as Stan's hand squeezed his tightly and slowly slipped back over to his side.

Craig shakily waded up handfuls of brittle, abrasive toilet paper and cleaned his mess, flushing the evidence away before collecting himself and sheepishly climbing out of his stall. His actions had been presumably copied in the next stall over, he and Stan meeting up and the sinks and washing their hands. They avoided looking at each other's red faces and their own guilty reflections in the mirrors.

Stan twisted the dripping faucet handle and dried his hands off with a paper towel, crumpling and tossing the soggy brown paper into the overflowing waste basket with a perfect shot. Freaking show off. Craig's hands remained dripping at his sides, clenching up when Stan took uncertain, shuffling footsteps towards the door.

"Stan?" Craig asked, his voice not sounding like his own. Stan's name came out strained and broken, but also anxiously hopeful.

Craig had never been in this situation before, and didn't know what came next, especially when both of them were supposedly straight. He didn't know if Stan would just ball him up and throw him away like trash now too, both of them having crossed lines and his heterosexual jock image more important than weird pale angry Craig and this sudden homo phase they were going through.

Craig didn't know if there could be something more than a phase.

Stan turned and approached him, reaching out with his fingertips sliding against Craig's cheek, but Craig flinched away like he'd expected Stan to hit him instead. Craig wasn't a pussy and started his own fair share of fights, but anything negative from Stan at that point was guaranteed to hurt too much when Craig was feeling still so stupidly vulnerable and attracted to him, even moreso after they'd come together.

Stan's dark eyebrows furrowed, looking hurt himself at the way Craig had recoiled from his touch, but they were both too afraid to speak and air this thing between them. Craig's look crushed him, blue eyes so fucking big and dark against his pale skin, hair a mess and all over the place beneath his stupid lopsided chullo hat. They were quickly approaching some unwritten time limit where, if a course of action wasn't taken soon, the moment would be lost for good, and they would probably never be able to speak or look at each other again.

So Stan surprised the hell out of them both when he jumped at Craig without any warning, arms clamping around his waist as Craig faltered backwards and banged his hip against the edge of the sink.

"Goddamnit Marsh!" Craig yelped, pinned between Stan and the tilting sink ledge, getting the back of his shirt all wet. Stan didn't seem to notice or care, his eyes intense and focused as he curved his hand - thankfully just washed - against Craig's jaw and moved his face towards Craig's with alarming intent.

"W-Whoa!" Craig slapped his hand against Stan's chest and shoved back enough to stop him before he slathered his mouth over Craig's. Stan was too strong to be completely removed...but Craig wasn't necessarily trying to push him off, just slow him down a bit.

"What?" Stan asked, uncertain and annoyed as his chest tensed underneath Craig's hand.

"Give a guy some fucking warning first, christ," Craig grumbled, but he was looking hungrily at Stan's mouth, sort of in awe that his soft-looking lips wanted to attach themselves to his own.

And he wanted it. Craig wanted to kiss him so bad he could practically feel the soft sponginess of Stan's bottom lip gripped between his fucked up teeth, and taste the hot flickering wetness of Stan's tongue sweeping into his mouth. Craig shifted and his hips slotted against Stan's, both of them unable to hide or deny how much they were turned on again.

Craig's mouth ghosted over Stan's cheek in not quite a kiss, and trembled softly against his ear with his careful, slow breaths.

"I don't want my…my first kiss to be in here, okay?" Craig murmured, flushing with the admittance, and feeling like such a girl. He just didn't want the impression of his first kiss with Stan, his first kiss with anybody, being tempered with cracked moldy tile, sticky floors, and stale piss.

"So surprise me, stud." Craig grinned tentatively, his hand now resting against Stan's chest, not pushing anymore.

"Yeah," Stan agreed, his voice amazingly husky.

He rocked his hips once against Craig's, a threat and promise before he peeled himself away, Craig's wet handprint pressed right into the center of his chest. He threw Craig a heated look before he unlocked the door and stiffly marched himself out of the bathroom, letting the door swing shut behind him.

Craig stared after him for a long moment, half slumped over the sink, and stunned. He picked himself up seconds later and ran at the door, turning the lock, and didn't even make it into a stall as he unzipped his jeans and desperately jacked himself off until he came for the second time in that nasty ass bathroom.