Soundtrack: Tribal Connection – Gogol Bordello
Stan can't handle today. It's impossible. The moment that he had walked through the doors of South Park High School that morning, he felt the vibes that told him he would be having an unbelievably shitty time of it. Lo and behold, he had been correct to predict such a day.
His friends don't see it, not that they ever had. As far as he can tell, Cartman said something stupid and bigoted as usual, Kyle is fuming, and Kenny thinks that the whole situation is hilarious. Stan doesn't understand it. They act like everything is going on as usual, not a single thing different, that Stan is fine, that he always has been. But he isn't. He doesn't even know why he's less fine today than he is on any other day. The world just seems particularly horrible.
"I can't do this today," Stan says suddenly. He stands, slinging his back over his shoulder. And he can't. He really can't do it.
He doesn't even bother throwing out his lunch, just leaves it sitting there on the foam tray. He hopes Kenny will take advantage of the abandoned meal and eat something, for once.
He thinks Kyle might be protesting, Kenny might be asking him what's wrong, Cartman is probably calling him a pussy for not being able to handle today, but it's all white noise to him, like it's all become. His whole life is white noise, insignificant background to another insignificant person.
It's fucking cold outside. They should have had a snow day, but apparently, five inches of snow at six in the morning isn't enough for the school board. Stan swings around to the back of the school, behind the auditorium, where the goth kids usually smoke. They tolerate him – after a few years, they referring to Stan as a conformist, and accepted his presence in their domain. Stan smokes less than he drinks, but he does indulge in the occasional cigarette. He just has to make sure that he smokes little enough that his mother won't be able to smell the cheap cigarettes on him. He thinks sometimes that she might suspect, but doesn't say anything about it because she knows that he's a lost cause. Her failure son.
Instead of finding the goth kids huddled together against the storm, he finds Craig Tucker.
"What the fuck?" Stan lets slip before he can stop the words from coming out of his mouth.
Tucker is weird, always has been. He just let himself become more weird, or more visibly weird, when high school hit. Like, when they turned fourteen, Craig stopped giving a fuck about pretending that he was a normal kid and gave into South Park's crazy-ass influence.
But honestly, what normal kid would sit outside in the snow, wearing little more than jeans and a fucking poncho? Craig has his headphones over his ears and is bobbing his head to the beat as he takes a drag off of his cigarette. When the back door slams behind Stan, Craig lifts his eyes briefly, staring at Stan full in the face. He does not, however, acknowledge Stan. There's no "sup" nod, no half-hearted wave, not even a casual lift of his middle finger.
Stan takes this as a sign that he is neither welcome nor unwelcome, and so he plops down on the wet pavement beside Craig, allowing about a foot of space between them. From the inside pocket of his navy blue jacket, Stan removes his flask. Kenny gave it to him for his birthday for a gag gift years ago – or maybe it wasn't a gag gift. It has the ironic phrase "Get Your Shit Together" on it in thick yellow letters. Stan suspects that Kenny lifted the thing from Urban Outfitters, or someplace like that, where the hipsters go to purchase overpriced hipster-y things. Or, you know, where Kenny goes to steal shit.
Stan swallows some of the cheap whiskey inside. It's nasty, but it does the job. It gets him through the day, and today in particular it will hopefully make school bearable.
"Shouldn't drink during the school day, Marsh."
Stan turns. Craig's headphones are now resting around his neck, and he's staring at the flask. There's not disapproval on his face as there would be on the faces of Stan's friends. In fact, Craig is wearing no expression whatsoever. He's not scolding Stan, he's just stating a fact.
"Have you even gone to class today, asshole?" Stan asks testily, tipping back more crappy whiskey. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and glares at his companion.
Craig rolls his eyes and says, "No point." He offers his half-smoked cigarette to Stan, then. He accepts, taking a short drag, before handing it back.
Stan can't help but be uncomfortable with Craig like this. Craig isn't a talkative guy. To be honest, Stan is surprised that Craig initiated a conversation at all, even if that conversation seems to have died now. Craig is far too okay with sitting with people in silence. Despite how shitty everything is to Stan, he would still rather be talking about something. Anything.
"It's all shit, you know," Stan says conversationally, waving his flask in a sweeping gesture across the snowy landscape.
Craig remains wordless for a few painful seconds, before asking, "Did you start talking just to complain?"
"It was too quiet," defends Stan, "and it's true, anyway. Everything is shit. All of it. It all fucking sucks. If it didn't, why would you be out here smoking instead of going to class, dickwad?"
Craig lights a second cigarette before talking. He says, "I'm out here because I don't give a shit, not because I think everything sucks."
Stan doesn't know what to say to that, so he takes another drink from his flask. If he keeps drinking to fill the silence, his flask will be quickly empty. Then what'll he do? Maybe Craig will let him bum a cigarette. He doesn't want to sit out in this snowstorm doing nothing, is the problem.
Craig finally replies, "You know, I can think of more useful things you could be doing with your mouth than all your bitching."
To this, Stan rewards Craig with a blank stare, an almost mirror image of Craig's own expression. Stan hesitates before asking, "Did you just proposition me?"
"I dunno, maybe," Craig shrugs.
How can he not care? Craig just told Stan in all seriousness that Stan should give him a blow job. Stan mulls it over in his head. He hasn't actually told anybody – okay, except Kenny – that he's been on edge about his sexuality, not really knowing what it's doing, who he's attracted to, or if he even has enough energy to try and find out.
Craig, on the other hand, might just not care. He doesn't seem the type to be discriminating in his choice of sexual partners based upon what genitals they have.
"Okay," says Stan.
Craig coughs. He actually chokes on his cigarette smoke, hacking and hitting his chest with his fist, letting little puffs of smoke come out with each breath.
Stan can't help but feel smug that he's surprised Craig. It's not an easy feat, to be sure. He may as well continue. Stan tucks his flask back into the inside pocket of his winter coat and zips it up, before scooting across the wet pavement to sit right up against Craig, so close that their thighs touch and the fabric of their jeans rubs together.
Stan closes his fist around the collar of Craig's ugly patterned poncho and pulls him down, engaging in a hard, nasty-tasting kiss. The combination of cigarette smoke and cheap whiskey makes for a disgusting flavor, but he actually doesn't mind. Craig has nice lips, and a lip ring – the latter of which is cold against Stan's mouth. It feels weird, but kind of cool.
Instead of being surprised, however, Craig merely kisses back. He grips Stan with freezing cold hands by the back of his neck and yanks him in closer, pressing his tongue harshly into the inside of Stan's mouth. Something clinks against Stan's teeth as he and Craig twist their tongues together.
Stan pulls back, "Are you allowed to have a tongue ring with your braces?"
"Way to kill the mood," Craig snips back, "C'mon. Let's go to my car." Craig stands and offers Stan a hand.
Craig's car is really ugly. It's the kind of piece of shit you buy from some shady dude for like, three hundred bucks. But really, you have to admire that Craig broke out of his apathy long enough to save up for something. Or maybe he just doesn't spend the money that he makes working at the Shell station just outside of town. Probably that. Because he doesn't care about anything enough to spend his money.
Craig has to manually unlock the thing. It's so old that it doesn't even have automatic locks. He mutters, "Heat takes awhile," before sliding into the driver's seat and turning the contraption on. Stan stands awkwardly outside of it, shuffling his feet. His converse are getting soaked through from the obscene amount of snow on the ground – canvas doesn't exactly work as a worthy shield against wet seeping in.
"Why are you standing there? Get in the back seat or something," commands Craig.
Maybe neither of them have really done something like this before, thinks Stan. Still, he does as he's told, and opens the backdoor, sliding onto the cheap seats. This isn't a very comfortable place to get it on. And it's fucking cold in here. He hopes that Craig's heater starts working soon, because if they have to be any sort of naked, he doesn't want to get hypothermia.
Craig joins him in the back seat with a gruff, "Move over."
Stan awkwardly lies back and says, "So, uh, now what? I guess I could try sucking your dick for a little bit, but I've never tried before and – "
"How about you let me fuck you," Craig says.
"I've never done that before, either," Stan says, a little nervous. He's quite certain that that will hurt.
"That doesn't mean you can't," Craig replies, "Don't tell me that you're one of those 'I want my first time to be special' pricks."
Stan never really thought about it that way. Does it need to be special? Not really. At least, he doesn't think so. But unceremoniously offering up your virginity to Craig Tucker in the back of a car during a snowstorm doesn't exactly scream romance. He thinks about how Wendy's always talking about how virginity is a social construct, how so much emphasis need not be put on it, and for some reason, that makes him feel a little more willing.
He asks, "Don't we need lube or something?"
Craig seems to consider this for a moment. He says, "Hang on," and ducks down, searching blindly underneath his front seat, before extracting a plastic baggy. Inside are colorful little packets. Stan has seen those before – Kenny showed them some just like that, tiny packages of flavored lubricant.
Stan's brows crunch together, "Has Kenny been in here?"
"We hotbox together sometimes," Craig shrugs, "Left this in here a few months ago."
"There probably isn't any normal lube in there, is there?" Stan queries.
"Don't be a picky asshole, it's unattractive," Craig says. He fishes around in the plastic baggy and pulls out a pink packet, "Watermelon it is."
"Watermelon is gross, choose something else," Stan complains.
"Get over it," Craig says, "It's not like you'll actually taste it or anything, it's going on my dick."
"Don't you have to use your hand first?" asks Stan, blushing as the words come out of his mouth. He's casually viewed gay porn before, and he's under the impression that there's a lot of foreplay involved in this sort of thing.
Stan can't tell if it's his imagination or not, but his question might have made Craig flush a little. It's barely there, but that's what it must be, right? Sure, it's cold, but that doesn't look like cold-blush, it looks like slightly embarrassed-blush.
"Um…yeah," Craig mumbles.
"Okay," Stan agrees.
"Okay," Craig says back.
There's some weird-ass music playing from Craig's stereo in the background. At least it's something to fill the silence. Stan can barely feel the heat starting to work, but at least he's starting to feel it, now. He shifts uncomfortably, and decides that he'll take his jacket off. Maybe. To get this started. What is he even doing? Oh well, he isn't sure that he cares about what he's doing, anyway.
Stan tosses his coat onto the passenger seat. He's still wearing a long-sleeved thermal, but it's a start. For the undressed part, anyway, which Stan assumes they're doing.
Craig scoots forward so that he hovers above Stan. His hands rest on either side of Stan's head, and his legs box Stan's legs in. Craig ducks in and pulls Stan's mouth into a kiss. It's hesitant at first – from both of them, Stan thinks. But it heats up quickly. Craig isn't bad looking, after all. Sure, he's got braces, but he's got a nice-looking face.
Stan moans quietly and wraps his arms around Craig's back. The guy is like a fucking radiator. Suddenly, Stan isn't concerned about waiting for the heat to come on at all.
Craig bites down on Stan's lower lip, enough that it stings. It feels incredible. Stan groans in appreciation.
Craig seems to like that noise. He reaches down and lifts Stan, rubbing their crotches together. Craig is hard, really hard. Stan is too – even more so, now. He gasps a little when Craig releases his mouth and grinds into Stan again.
Craig's mouth lowers to Stan's neck, where he bites down again, making Stan whimper. He runs his tongue along the bite marks, and then, his freezing hands are underneath Stan's shirt. Stan makes a small noise of surprise at the temperature, and bucks up into Craig.
Stan's hands shake as he reaches up under Craig's ugly poncho, lifting it up over Craig's head and tossing it to the floor of the car. Craig pulls his lips off of Stan's neck and helps with the clothes – he pulls his shirt off. Stan's own joins Craig.
They press their lips together again, chest to naked chest now. Craig's skin is so hot that it feels like it's on fire. Stan runs his hands along Craig's sides, fumbling to find his nipples, which he scrapes his thumbs over. Craig makes his first audible indication that he's enjoying what they're doing. It's a small noise, just a little mmm, but it sets Stan's nerves aflame. He presses his pelvis up against Craig's erection in response.
That seems to work in his favor. Craig grunts a small noise of pleasure and lets his hand drift down to the front of Stan's pants. He rubs Stan through the denim, not really gentle about it. Stan likes that. He doesn't think that this is going to be a lovey-dovey experience, but he's counting on it feeling good. It feels fucking fantastic now, with Craig's fingers feeling around the contours of Stan's dick through his jeans, rubbing up and down clumsily.
Stan thrusts up into Craig's hand, panting heavily. He leans upward and nips at Craig's shoulder.
"Fuck," mutters Craig, "Okay. Hold on."
There's a lot of scrabbling with zippers and buttons, and the lack of space makes kicking off wet jeans an interesting feat, one that they accomplish with a great deal of effort.
Craig looks pretty damned good naked, Stan decides. He's skinny, but not without a little meat on his bones. He's not as pale as Stan is. Must have some Italian in his blood or something. Stan can tell from the protrusion in Craig's briefs that he's pretty well-endowed, but not enough that it's a terrifying prospect to have that cock pounding into him. He's actually a little…anticipant, despite the knowledge that this will probably hurt like fucking hell.
Craig's cold fingers hook underneath the elastic waistband of Stan's briefs, pulling them down in a swift movement. He applies a sloppy kiss to Stan's lips, a short one, before moving his mouth down, dragging his tongue over Stan's nipples and the center of his chest. Craig pauses when he comes to Stan's erection, where it's lying against Stan's stomach flushed pink. After a moment, he experimentally licks across the tip.
"Jesus Christ," Stan breathes, trying not to force himself all the way up into Craig's mouth, as tempting as that is. It's just that it feels so fucking good. Fortunately, Craig's mind is on approximately the same track. He runs his tongue down the shaft, his movement not exactly sure, but confident enough that he knows what'll make another guy feel good. He takes Stan into his mouth, about halfway. He's not sure that Craig can fit the entire length of it…if it's his first time doing this, which Stan thinks it might be, even if Craig is not as willing to admit is as Stan is.
Stan loses it a little, bucking up into the damp heat of Craig's mouth. He makes a muffled noise of surprise in response, pulling his mouth away.
Stan makes a sound of protest, hooking his legs around the small of Craig's back, urging him forward.
"Eager, Marsh?" Craig breathes out.
"Shut up, you are too," Stan grinds back.
"Mm," Craig says, in what must be agreement. Craig pulls himself up onto his knees and shuffles behind them, returning with the pink packet of watermelon lubricant. He tears it open using his teeth and squeezes some onto his fingers. He looks over Stan, up and down, and orders, "I think you're supposed to spread your legs."
"Oh, uh, yeah, I think so too," Stan returns. He shifts and spreads himself out wider, as much as he can in the small space of the back seat of the car.
Craig takes a moment, running his dry hand over Stan's ass, before he parts the cheeks and pokes forward.
"Ah, fuck," expresses Stan, as one thick finger pushes into him. It feels weird. It doesn't hurt, exactly, it's more that it feels foreign, and Craig's hands are fucking freezing, still.
Craig doesn't bother asking if Stan is okay, which is a little rude, but he doesn't quite care. Craig's finger starts to stop feeling foreign and like it doesn't belong there. It's starting to feel kind of…awesome. As Craig pulls out and delves back in, Stan makes a noise of appreciation and grinds his ass up against Craig's hand.
Craig doesn't make a snarky comment about Stan's eagerness, this time. He pulls back slightly, and when he prods back inside Stan, the thickness has doubled. This time, it stings. He feels like he's being stretched, which, Stan supposes, is exactly what this foreplay is supposed to do. It hurts when Craig takes up the previous thrusting motion, and he whines out a soft, "Ow, God."
"Suck it up," Craig says, but he slows his pace, anyway.
It's when Craig slides in a third finger that it really hurts. Stan's nails sink into Craig's shoulders on either side, but Craig doesn't seem to mind. He keeps up his motion without pausing, before he seems to have deemed Stan ready, and he withdraws.
Stan thought that he might want Craig to stop, but now that he has, Stan feels empty, and he wants the fingers back. He's about to complain when he watches Craig kick off his own briefs, freeing his erection.
That is going to be inside him.
It's a bit daunting, but okay.
Craig freezes for a second, and then says, voice hard, "If you want me to stop, you gotta tell me."
Stan blushes. He shakes his head, "No. Fuck no. Keep going."
Craig replies to this with nothing more than a serious nod. He dribbles the rest of the lube along his length and uses his hand to spread it all around in a thorough coating. He positions himself at Stan's entrance, and without ceremony, he plunges in.
"Fuck!" shouts Stan, much louder than he intended. It does hurt. It hurts a fucking lot. He feels invaded, and when Craig moves back to thrust again, he snaps, "Dude, hang the fuck on!"
"What?" Craig manages in a strangled voice.
"I am trying to get used to the feeling of a cock in my ass, thank you," Stan snarls.
"Okay, Jesus. You don't have to be so whiny about it," Craig returns.
They descend into silence, nothing more than the sound of a fiddle in Craig's weird music and their heavy breathing to remind them where they are.
Stan gradually lifts his hips, coiling his legs around Craig's torso, and positioning his hands back on Craig's shoulders for leverage. He says, "Okay. But don't be an asshole."
"Yeah, fine," Craig says flatly, but he draws himself back, and shoves forward again more gently this time.
It still hurts, but less so. With each pullback and thrust forward, Stan becomes used to the feeling. It starts to feel good, even. He hears himself making sounds that he didn't know he knew how to make. After a few more soft thrusts, Craig takes Stan's moans as a sign that he can be rougher again. He pushes in deeper with grunt, and as he does, he hits something inside Stan that makes him want to come already.
"Oh my God," Stan gasps, "What the hell was that?"
"Your prostate, you moron," Craig responds, his voice heavy with pleasure and weighted with his desperate attempts to stay in control of himself. He goes on, "I dunno if I can find it again, you're gonna have to do some work, here, too."
Stan glowers at Craig, but lifts his hips up, leveraging his body until he finds the spot again. He and Craig begin meeting each other's thrusts, until Craig is deeper inside him than Stan thought possible. It feels so good, he doesn't know how it can possibly feel any better, until Craig moves his hand from where it rests beside Stan's head, and grasps Stan's dick, pumping up and down without a pattern.
Stan can't take it anymore. Sure, he's jerked himself off plenty of times, but this is nothing like that. This is fucking awesome. He comes fast and hard, mostly over Craig's hand, but he gets some on himself too.
Craig seems to take that as a cue. He buries his head in the crook of Stan's neck and bites down, almost like he's holding Stan there, as he bucks forward inside Stan three, four, five more times, until he pulls out and comes onto the seat.
After a second, Craig pulls his teeth out of Stan's skin. In the afterglow, he is barely more affectionate, but he still presses a kiss to the deep bite mark, where he broke skin, and Stan's bleeding a little.
"Got come all over me," Craig mutters. He wipes his hand on Stan's stomach.
"Hey! What the fuck?" Stan asks, giving Craig a push backward.
"I'm just giving it back, man," Craig defends, "See, I didn't get any on you." He points out the place on the back seat where he let himself go, a neat little spot between Stan's legs. Jesus. Even this guy's come is neat. How the fuck does he even do that?
Stan rolls his eyes and murmurs, "You're an asshole."
"And you're a whiny little bitch, but I'm not complaining," Craig shoots back. He pulls up his briefs and rifles through the pile of clothing on the floor, looking for the pair of jeans that belongs to him.
Stan doesn't bother dignifying that with a response. Instead, he starts his own clothing search.
When they're all dressed, Craig turns off the car and they walk back toward the school. Craig offers a cigarette, which Stan takes, and they retreat to the spot where this all began. This time, the goth kids are there, and all four of them give Craig and Stan a similar speculative look, until Craig is driven to lift his middle finger.
As soon as they've smoked down to the butt, Stan casts the end of his cigarette into the snow. He's walking a little weird, he realizes. So does Craig. He asks, not actually sounding overly concerned, "Alright?"
"Fine," sighs Stan.
They walk down the hallway, maybe a little closer than they would usually walk. Stan doesn't exactly like Craig, but they've got to have something. People have to have some sort of chemistry to be able to get it up, right?
"We should do that again," Craig mentions absently.
Stan finds himself nodding, "Yeah, dude. We totally should."