Hi i'm new to SP so here have a lil Staig action since there's never ever enough content of these two.

10. staring at the other's lips, trying not to kiss them, before giving in

"Ghh, fuhck," Stan groaned, cradling his face as gingerly as he could, the ice pack numbing his hand more than his swelling black eye. It was a good look on him, Craig decided, the two of them sitting across from each other at the Marsh's kitchen table. Neither remembered what the fight had started over, or who had thrown the first blow, both just gritting their teeth and wailing on each other.

Stan had been the one, breathless and beaten, to finally give in, grabbing Craig by the arm and dragging him along to his house. The house reeked faintly of alcohol and cigarette smoke, and a careful look at Stan made it hard to tell if the scent originated from him or the other members of his dysfunctional family.

"Give me," Craig demanded with a grunt, snatching the pack from Stan and applying it to the bruises rapidly coloring on his arms, his jacket and shirt discarded by the door, his white undershirt thankfully still crisp and thankfully spotless. Stan scowled at him but let him have his turn, knowing he'd get it back soon enough. They didn't say anything to each other, didn't need to say anything. Their frustrations had been thoroughly vented on the way here, and anything more would be pointless trivialities. Stan's gaze remained locked on Craig, and he was pretty sure it focused primarily on the blood dripping from his nose. Craig didn't care, since Stan's busted and bleeding lip matched him close enough.

"Fucker," Stan accused him when Craig took a little too long with the ice pack, but didn't say anything else as he pressed it gingerly back to his eye, wincing. Eyeing him, Craig couldn't help but slowly let his gaze trickle downwards, watching the small stream of red slide down Stan's chin, gathering before slipping off in small droplets onto his shirt.

"You're one to talk."

That shut them both up, naturally, like it always did. Stan's tongue kept darting out of his mouth, trying to collect the blood before it truly ruined the collar of his tee. It irked Craig, for whatever reason, watching Stan seethe and keen under his breath, not man enough to just admit that he was hurting. His own tongue swept across his lips, and he assumed it was to lick off his own blood from his nose and absolutely not because he wanted to maybe taste what Stan's was like.

Fuck.

"What?" Stan growled at him but didn't move away, even as Craig leaned into his personal space. They locked gazes, as much as a teen with a black eye could do that. A smirk threatened to curl Craig's mouth up, but he refrained, grabbing Stan's chin and earning another low growl. "Don't make me give you a matching one."

"I don't want one," Craig declined the offer, but somehow it sounded more like he was declining something else, at the very least denying himself something else he wanted. Stan continued to glare, and Craig eventually let go of his chin, taking a glance at the blood on his thumb before smearing it down the front of Stan's shirt.

"Hey, asshole, that doesn't wash ou–" Stan choked on the last word, or rather, choked on the feeling of Craig's tongue suddenly pushing into his open mouth. He winced and tensed up, freezing with his good eye wide open, staring in startled confusion at his rival.

"Huh," Craig hummed when he pulled back, his finger going up to where their blood had mixed together on his lip, gently pressing at the mess. "You taste sweet, Marsh."

He probably deserved the punch that comment got him.

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