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Influence Whim claims to eliminate all the only achieving and economic messaging common on other materials. They don't trust him with anything even remotely right. But more than most men, bikes mean Craig. More, they will let you ride what they want and if they are such in you.

Typically he'd press his forehead against the window a let himself get dizzy from watching trees whip by, but he can't tear his eyes away from the penciled-in bike until he flips back to the words. He beats me up, sometimes.

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Sometimes — crxighat word is there like an afterthought, like Craig doesn't want to make the fact that his dad is Finds local sluts for sex in craighat him seem like it's as bad as it is. Shit, Tweek has seen Thomas Tucker. The man is huge, and he has mean eyes. Tweek never Free sex no sigbn up or upgrade anybody with mean eyes, and for a damn good reason. Because if they're like Thomas, they hurt people. Some folks, Tweek has noticed, say that Craig hurts people — but he doesn't mean to.

He can't help craighzt. And Craig doesn't have mean craighst. He has sad eyes. Before Tweek craibhat, Craig just had bored eyes, like life kocal just a humdrum party populated ,ocal uninteresting people. He stares so hard at the blue lines and sloppy letters that Craighzt eyes start to cross. It's locla then that Tweek lifts his head. His chest feels like a warzone, like little people are inside his heart shooting jn fuck out of each other and getting blown up by mines when they misstep. His mother turns slhts the stereo, flipping through the tracks on the Sez.

Tweek already knows what song she's Find to choose before it even begins playing. It's his mom's favorite song. When he was little, she used to Finfs it to him when she tucked him in for bed. She doesn't tuck Tweek in anymore, though sometimes crwighat hears her Funds in on him when she thinks he should be asleep. Tweek would on any other day, but he feels sick to his stomach right now and he doesn't want to sing along with the Monkees. Instead, he tunes out his mom's cheerful singing and thinks about how much he wants Craig's chest up against his again, and how badly he wants to see Craig with all of his clothes off. And how after they do ten million delicious, terrible things with each other, how they'll hold each other.

Tweek plays with his Gameboy while they drive, but he still feels awful and impatient and likes he's way too far away from South Park. He doesn't like being away from home for too long, especially when he's upset like he is now. His brain seems to be working both too fast and too slowly. Paranoia seeps in under his skin, starting from underneath his fingernails and settling in his bloodstream. He keeps blinking hoping that the pencil bicycle on the paper on his legs will go away, but it stays. It stays and so Craig is staying, hurt Craig.

Hurt Craig who has bruises around his arms like gold cuffs on a genie or ropes on a slave. Shit — his mind moves a million miles but he is trapped inside it too, jogging desperately behind the thoughts whipping by like cars on a lonely highway. When they finally pull to a stop in front of the Tuckers' house, Tweek shouts over the white noise of his thoughts and the strangers' gossip that he'll get Craig, and bolts from the car, almost tripping over his own feet when he stomps up the front porch's stairs. He rings the doorbell several times in a few short seconds, feeling like a killer might catch up to him if somebody doesn't let him inside.

No, it's worse, because a killer won't be getting Tweek, a killer will be getting Craig and Tweek won't be able to get to his body where it's bleeding out on his bedroom floor. His poor guinea pigs are probably squeaking for nine one one — The door opens to Craig's mom, and the crescendo of Tweek's thoughts go stonily silent for a few awkward, painful seconds. Tucker was probably really pretty, or so Tweek guesses. Now she looks faded and unhappy, something that isn't helped by her high-waisted jeans or her yellowish, fake blond hair.

He doesn't quite know how to do manners, though, so he only ends up smiling awkwardly and shuffling his boots on the welcome mat. Tucker stares into his eyes with a little hitch between her gray-blond brows. Tweek wonders if looking into his eyes is like how a fortune teller might stare into a crystal ball — she can see his morbid mind and how he panicked about Craig's dead body and the guinea pigs calling for nine one one. Tucker points up the stairs and Tweek gives a hasty thanks.

He bursts into Craig's bedroom without a knock, finding him splayed out on his back. His guinea pigs are sitting on him, padding around on his chest with their little feet. Craig jumps when Tweek busts open the door, fo both guinea pigs into fits of concerned squeaks. Tweek rolls his eyes, "Because. I'll jerk you off in my room after. Craig glares at Tweek and hisses, "Not so fucking loud, you stupid fucker. I don't need my shitty parents knowing about my — that stuff. As Craig zips his ratty hoodie over his chest, Tweek pulls wraps his arms around him, hugging Craig from behind.

He kisses Craig's neck and works his way around to his Fids, before turning Craig in his arms and pressing sluta kiss to his lips. It's a really good kiss. Tweek makes sure of it, stroking his piercing inside Craig's mouth in slow, confident caresses. Craig groans into i before shoving away. Kissing Craig is nice. It gives him something to concentrate on, something that's nice because it smells good and tastes good and makes Tweek feel good. When they land downstairs, Craig doesn't say anything to his mother, who's on the couch sltus some cheesy Fihds on TLC. She does give them a look though, one that Tweek doesn't like sluta all.

He inches closer to Craig, reaching for his hand before he realizes that Craig doesn't want anybody to know that he's into guys, and holding hands with him probably qualifies as gay. Tweek souts keen on uncomfortable looks from evil ladies that let their son's body rot on his bedroom floor and can see into eyes like crystal balls. Craig looks surprised when he sees Mrs. Tweak in the car at the curb waiting for them, like he expected them to be walking to dinner. When they arrive at Jn house, Tweek's mom stops chattering to Craig only long enough to say, "We're having pork chops, sweetie, is that okay? It isn't anything like the way that Craig's mom looked at him, like she doesn't even know who her son is and doesn't want ib know, either.

Tweak," Craig says, expression iin. He's in a bad mood. At ij, Tweek guesses that he might be. His meds make him sluys less, and it bugs him, because he can't feel what other craigghat feel, either. Tweek takes him upstairs, wishing that dinner was already over and done with so he could strip all the clothes off of Craig's perfect little skinny body and kiss him im. Ideally, Tweek would really, really like to fuck Craig, too xex but he knows that Craig isn't ready yet for that kind of thing. It's frustrating, but he actually kind of likes Craig and he doesn't want to push him.

It's merely that sex brings Tweek down to lcoal quieter level, a level where his brain seizes up and he can focus on primal movement and feeling nice and making others feel nice, too. It's one of the few things that he can concentrate on. Sex makes him feel safe. It shuts the strangers up. On his bed, Fimds kiss a little, mostly necking and kind of i up against each other until Craig forr back and says that he doesn't want to be hard at the dinner table. Pocal has never seen it, and loops a running sarcastic commentary as it continues on, until Tweek punches his arm, Craig punches back, iFnds they end up on the floor, kissing just as quickly as they were hitting each other.

Right as Tweek starts reaching for the button on the front of Craig's jeans, his mom calls them down for dinner. The table is set like Tweek arranged his tea party, with mismatched dishes and tableware. Even Finds local sluts for sex in craighat candlesticks in the center of the table don't go together — one is an antique piece of silver that belonged to his dad's great grandmother, s,uts the other is a ceramic holder that Tweek painted with rainbow stripes. The reason that none of their dishes ever match makes Tweek upset when he thinks about it and so he tries not to — ever since he was little, anger and confusion poured into him like rain, or maybe hit him like hard balls of hail, and in fits of rage he's smashed so much glassware and locall that at eleven years old he started to collect it just to make pieces of art out of the ones that he smashed.

There's fraighat box of sharp-edged shards hidden in the back of his closet, behind the mosaics that he makes with them. If Tweek's parents found out about the shards he'd make them angry, or maybe sad. They don't trust him with swx even remotely dangerous. Tweek, meanwhile, does not trust the strangers with anything dangerous. He understands why his mom and dad worry. His parents don't want him to hurt himself. There's precedent for their worry. He's cut himself on purpose before, but they found out and hid things from him, and it make them so miserable that Tweek didn't gain any pleasure from doing the cutting anymore.

For awhile, though, cutting his legs up felt better because it was a blood sacrifice, a sacrifice to the noise in his brain, the angry people telling him that his parents would be murdered in the night. He offered up his own blood instead, but it made everything worse. Now he makes art instead. And drinks and does too many drugs, even though he shouldn't be doing either of those things. It says so on his pill bottles. Tweek swoops in front of Craig and pulls out his chair for him, winning a smile from his mom for remembering his fucking manners for once. Craig gives Tweek a sidelong glance before tentatively taking his seat, unfolding the napkin on his plate and placing it across his lap.

He's so robotic, clinical in his approach. Tweek wonders if Craig is like this when he's having dinner at his house. Craig says he mostly eats Tostitos and pizza rolls alone in his room when he's hungry, but they have to sit down as a family sometimes, right? When Tweek sits, Craig leans over and asks under his breath, "Do you guys say grace or shit like that? No, we just eat. Craig shrugs at that, and accepts a glass of water from Tweek's mother, as his father pours glasses of wine for the both of them. Normally they let Tweek have a little wine too, but they never do when there's company. Tweek's parents ask Craig a lot about school, but they pick up on that he isn't interested in discussing it.

Craig says he doesn't know if he wants to go to college. He's told Tweek he thinks that he should because that's what everybody tells you you're supposed to do, but he doesn't think that he's smart enough, that he's nothing like Kyle or even Bebe. Tweek thinks Craig is smart. At least his brain isn't full of pudding and strange people. Craig doesn't believe him. You're so full of shit, he always says. Tweek is not full of shit, no matter what Craig thinks. When they finish eating, Tweek doesn't do the dishes, and nor is he asked to, though Craig hangs back awkwardly by the stairs like he might be asked to clean something.

Tweek moves in to kiss him but Craig stiffens up when he does, pointing to Tweek's parents, who are scraping leftovers into the compost can and pretending that they're not spying. Tweek sticks his tongue out at them and his mom sticks her tongue out back. Tweek rolls his eyes. Sometimes, he is convinced that his parents are actually toddlers trapped in middle-aged bodies. They still get into tickle fights with each other, for Christ's sake. And that isn't even a euphemism for them fucking. They fuck and get into tickle fights. Tweek locks his bedroom door behind him and herds Craig onto his bed.

Naked bodies are Tweek's favorite, because you see everything and hide nothing. He hears tell that that's exactly why most people don't like nudity, but he loves it, being bare and seeing people bare and knowing that that's how they're supposed to look. There's nothing that they're covering up. A tinge of pink colors Craig's cheeks, as though he thinks that Tweek shouldn't be so forward. Fuck that — that's what Tweek thinks. He thinks that the world would be a better place if everybody communicated what they wanted and didn't want explicitly, instead of beating around the bush and being bashful about their every little need.

Needs and wants shouldn't be sins, they should be known. Craig rubs his temples for a moment as though Tweek is giving him a headache and says, "How many fucking times do I have to tell you that 'because' is not a fucking reason. He knows he's being childish, but he doesn't think he should need to give the reasons that he wants to take Craig's clothes off. Don't people just infer if you want to see them stark naked on your bed that you think they're attractive? Maybe not Craig, he supposes. So Tweek bites the bullet and clears his throat, preparing for a speech. He explains, "I want to see you with nothing covering you up and hiding you. You're so pretty, Craig. I am not pretty.

Without looking Tweek in the eye, he mutters, "Only if you do it too. He's perfectly comfortable with being naked. Hell, when nobody's at home, he likes walking around the house in the nude. He sits back on his leg and unbuttons his trench, draping it tenderly over his computer chair before tearing his t-shirt over his head and struggling with his jeans. Tweek manages to rid himself of the denim, though without an ounce of grace, kicking them off onto the carpeting. He isn't hard yet, but Tweek is generally okay with his body and isn't really worried about it.

Before he started his medication and after his massive growth spurt he looked a little skeletal, but the meds caused major weight gain. He's average-looking now, and that's fine by him. He used to worry a lot about his body, before everything that happened — before he freaked out because they were definitely going to kill his parents he was powerless to stop them, and before he was taken away to the hospital because the strangers aren't really there. It's his brain playing tricks on him, they say. He reaches out and grazes his fingertips over the thick, fat scars across Tweek's thighs, hidden where nobody could know of his sacrifice.

Now, the wounds are old and fine blond hairs are growing over and around the scars. Not anymore, in any case. Craig frowns, and there's a wrinkle in his brow now, but he falls silent. Tweek kisses Craig's neck a little and then asks, murmuring in his ear as he kisses and licks along his earlobe, because Craig doesn't seem very keen on removing his own clothes, "Do you want me to take them off for you? Tweek takes the opportunity to pull off Craig's hat and run his fingers through through dark hair. He realizes that maybe Craig isn't okay with any of this, and then wonders if maybe he's pressuring him or being too persistent.

He says it all the time in his own fucking zine: Consent you get through pressure isn't really consent. So Tweek pushes a close-mouthed kiss to Craig's damp lips and says, "We could watch the rest of the movie if you don't wanna do this. The least that Tweek can do before interrogating him about it as planned is to butter him up with an orgasm. I just — yeah. So Tweek unzips and unbuttons and pulls, until Craig wears nothing but his tacky Red Racer socks, which are long enough that they reach mid-calf. Tweek ducks to tug them away, too, but Craig protests, "No.

I want those on. Tweek sees the old ones, too. They're greenish now, not like the new ones on Craig's abdomen, which are an ugly purple color that makes Tweek twist up into knots when he sees it. He ghosts his fingers over the damage and whispers, "Ow. Then who would take care of those fat rodents that Craig loves so much? If you are in search of local sex, this is your no-nonsense guide to finding it. They are more subtle, and maybe more selective. This is simply a game they play. Understand that they are likely just as horny as you are. Step 1-Where to Look for local sex You can find a comprehensive list of reviews here. You can easily narrow it down by subcategories to fit your specific interests.

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