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The air in my room feels thick, charged, like the moment before a storm hits South Park and buries us all in snow. Craig’s sprawled out on my bed, his dark hair a mess from my fingers, his lips red and swollen from how hard we’ve been going at it. My hands are everywhere—his neck, his chest, sliding under his shirt to feel the warm skin of his stomach. He’s kissing me back just as fierce, all teeth and tongue, no hesitation, like he’s trying to crawl inside me. It’s hot. Too hot. My head’s spinning, and I’m so fucking hard it hurts, jeans tight as hell.
“Fuck, Craig,” I mumble against his mouth, my voice rough. He just grunts, low and impatient, tugging at my shirt like it personally offends him. I pull back just enough to yank it over my head, tossing it somewhere—probably on top of my old Xbox. His hands are on me immediately, nails scraping down my back, and I swear I see stars. I’m back on him in a second, shoving his shirt up, my lips finding his collarbone, biting just hard enough to make him hiss.
“Stan, c’mon,” he mutters, voice all gravelly, and it’s doing things to me. Things that make my brain short-circuit. I fumble with the button of his jeans, my hands shaky from how bad I want this. Want him. Craig’s not helping, just arching up into me, making these little noises that are gonna kill me. The zipper finally gives, and I tug his jeans down his hips, ready to lose my damn mind.
And then—what the fuck. I freeze, staring down at his boxers. Bright blue, covered in cartoon spaceships, guinea pigs, and what looks like little laser beams. It’s like something a fucking kindergartner would wear. Custom-made, probably, knowing Craig’s weird-ass obsession with guinea pigs. My brain screeches to a halt, and I can feel my boner just… deflate. Like a sad balloon at one of Butters’ lame birthday parties.
“Craig,” I say, voice flat, sitting back on my heels. “What the hell are those?”
He props himself up on his elbows, looking down like he’s just now noticing what he’s wearing. “What?” he says, all defensive, but there’s a flush creeping up his neck. “They’re my boxers, dude. What’s your problem?”
“My problem?” I gesture at the goddamn guinea pig parade on his crotch. “You’re wearing kid underwear, man. With fucking spaceships and rodents. I can’t—how am I supposed to stay in the mood with that staring at me?”
Craig rolls his eyes, but he’s turning redder, which is almost funny because Craig Tucker doesn’t blush. Ever. “They’re comfortable, asshole,” he snaps, sitting up fully now, tugging his jeans back up like he’s ready to storm out. “And they’re custom. Took me three weeks to get these made. You got a problem with my guinea pigs, Marsh?”
I groan, dragging a hand through my hair. “It’s not the guinea pigs, it’s—dude, we’re eighteen. You’re supposed to wear, like, normal boxers. Black. Gray. Something that doesn’t look like it belongs in a toy store.”
He flips me off, because of course he does. “Fuck you, Stan. Not all of us jerk off to boring-ass Calvin Klein ads like you probably do.”
I snort, but I’m still half-limp and annoyed about it. “Whatever, man. You killed the vibe. I was this close to—” I stop, because I don’t even know what I was close to. All I know is those boxers are a crime against horny teenagers everywhere.
Craig smirks, leaning back on his hands, all smug now. “You’re just mad you can’t handle the Tucker charm.”
“Charm?” I scoff, grabbing my shirt off the floor. “You’re lucky I didn’t laugh my ass off the second I saw those.”
He narrows his eyes, but there’s a glint in them, like he’s about to say something to piss me off even more. Before he can, there’s a loud bang on my bedroom door, and I nearly jump out of my skin.
“Yo, Stan! You in there?” It’s Cartman’s voice, because of course it is. That asshole has the worst timing in the universe. “We’re all downstairs, dude. Kyle’s being a little bitch about the pizza toppings again, and Kenny’s trying to convince Butters to chug a Monster. You coming or what?”
I glance at Craig, who’s already pulling his shirt back down, looking way too amused for someone who just tanked our makeout session with his toddler underwear. “We’re not done talking about this,” I mutter, pointing at him.
He just flips me off again, standing up and adjusting his jeans. “Whatever, Stan. You’re buying me new boxers then, you whiny fuck.”
I roll my eyes but can’t help the grin tugging at my lips. He’s an idiot. My idiot. But those boxers? Yeah, they gotta go.
“Stan!” Cartman yells again, pounding on the door. “Stop jerking off and get down here!”
Craig snickers, and I groan, shoving past him to open the door before Cartman breaks it down. This is gonna be a long night.