South Park Kink Meme

[south_park_kink_meme]

This is a kink meme for South Park. It's fun and easy!

People comment anonymously with their prompts. Then, others write fic or make art based on the prompts and post their creations in response to the original prompt comment below!


Guidelines:

1. Please do not fight about ships or content in your prompts.

2. Hit "Post a new comment" if you'd like to leave a prompt, and hit "Reply to this" beneath the prompt you'd like to fill if you're filling a prompt

It's traditional to write the fic in the replies, but you can leave external site links too (such AO3 for fic, or privatter for art).

3. Please see this example prompt if you need guidance! Prompts don't have to be elaborate; please just try to give writers/artists enough to work with ^~^


- Here is a list of kinks you may find helpful, and you can search on your own as well

- Got an idea that's SFW or not necessarily centered around kink? Check out the General Prompt Meme!

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- Here are some examples of past South Park Kink Memes on Livejournal if you're curious


Temp Note 7/30/22: I've had to turn on comment screening because of spamming, but prompts have been great otherwise, so keep 'em coming if you got 'em. Comment screening just means I have to hit a button for them to appear. Please see the FAQ post if you have any questions!


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Comments

Re: Craig/Tweek, maid outfit, suit, semi public like in a bathroom or on a balcony

[(Anonymous)]

(1/2)

“Hands off,” Craig says for the upteenth time, trying to light the disgusting scented candles on the gaudiest table he’s seen. It hasn’t been too long since tonight started, and yet he’s replaced punctuation marks with a bunch of derivatives of the same phrase. The owner of the sweaty hands currently seizing handfuls of his thighs doesn’t think to stop, though, at least not until Craig steps on his foot with his sharp heel without mercy.

“You’re no fun, darling,” the man says, trying to hide the pain he’s in, but failing.

Oh, he’s plenty of fun. He puts his feet on the edge of the table to readjust his lacy stockings.

“Oh my god!” A particularly annoying woman’s voice shouts. “We’re eating here!”

“Eat this.” He flips them off. There’s multiple cries of disbelief.

He doesn’t bother engaging any more, takes some menu cards back from the table and walks away like nothing happened.

This place is filled to the brim with rich assholes, all supposedly present for an event raising awareness about, well, now that he thinks about it, he has no awareness of what it is. He doesn’t think they do, either. He hates it here. He’ll make the best of it, though, or the worst, whatever is available at that moment. The french maid outfit is too tight around the waist, the poofy little sleeves barely let him move with his shoulders being too wide for them. His long giraffe legs sprout out from the skirt that’s already extremely short for him, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination.

“Ay!” He hears someone call before he’s roughly grabbed by the ribbon on his back. He turns around to see an overweight man with a face only a mentally unwell mother could love. He takes a card from Craig’s hands, and begins dishing out orders like they’re ice cream flavors.

He’s not listening, but he’s further distracted by the loud whistling directed at him from the other side of the table. He notices the man in a light blue suit with honey blonde hair like a bird’s nest. The way his bony limbs drown in those loose sleeves makes it as clear as day that it doesn’t belong to him. His face is covered in freckles, or sunspots, or whatever, of appropriate dumbness to his expression. He’s literally eye-fucking Craig like he’s something he’s never seen before, but that’s not true, because Craig can tell how this guy’s brain never truly recovered from that middle school porn addiction.

The ogling dumbass then pokes the guy sitting just one chair apart from him, with dark red curls and a sharp face, the most pompous looking one in this particular line-up of assholes. Serious, holier-than-thou, yet another breed of asshole Craig can’t stand. He then whispers something in the redhead’s ear, and whatever his friend said seems to have removed the stick that’s been up on his ass at least for a second, as he smiles and nods at whatever immature comment he just made.

He then notices the man sitting in between the two, with the seaweed green suit, huffing and blushing in discontent. He seems like he loathes being here, or being alive in general, something they possibly have in common. He’s a much lighter tone of blonde than the other one and his wild spiky hair comes off more like something out of his control rather than simple negligence. He doesn’t raise his head from his plate, and keeps compulsively playing with his food, occasionally twitching and yelping.

His skirt is flipped. “Dude, that ass is flatter than the pancake that’s served here, oh my god,” the fatty says, looking at Craig. “That really says something, huh?”

“Yeah,” slurs the man sitting beside him. He says a bunch of other shit at Craig’s expense, but he’s already too far gone for any of it to be comprehensible. It’s like he’s right out of an intervention program or some sort of alcohol PSA. Everything about this guy screams “peaked in high school before his life took a wrong turn or two and now he’s the bad example mothers use to scare their kids”. Huh, that’s also not too far away from what he is, if he thinks about it. They both ended up here in this awful place, but instead of drinking his life away with a bunch of other assholes, he’s being ordered around and fondled by creeps. At least Craig’s hotter.

“He’s like the opposite of Kahl here: Great ass, but an overall waste of space. Are you guys looking for new people? For compensation? Hey, Kahl, you think they’d hire you?”

Before Craig can reply, the fatty has long fingers wrapped around his thick neck, and “Kahl here” is strangling him, yeah, right in front of their salad. The drunk bastard and the quiet perv are both laughing.

He sighs as he prepares an usual biting remark to warn them for being so fucking loud and dumb, but he’s suddenly interrupted with a loud “STOP IT!” It’s the blondie.

“You guys always do this, you’re always causing a scene, I’m so sick of it, god fucking damn it, I hate it!” He rasps out. Craig gets a better look at his face: Big eyes, dark circles, pale ass skin with his veins visible in bright purple. He wants to say that drugs were definitely involved, somehow, at least at some point in time.

“Oooh, we made the junkie angry!” the fatty says, not being strangled by his “friend” anymore. “I’m so scared, you guys, he’s gonna bite my face off.” The other two douchebags snicker at that, while the redhead prick just rolls his eyes.

“You’d better not fucking say that again, man!” The blondie threatens.

“Don’t engage him,” says “Kahl”, sighing, like he wasn’t trying to fucking murder him in cold blood just mere seconds ago. “Just mind your own business, Tweek.”

What? That’s got to be a fucking joke. It must have been just some stupid nickname. Who the fuck even let these losers in here?

Tweek huffs and looks away, before looking at Craig, for the first time tonight, he guesses. He gives him an apologetic look and an awkward smile. He’s looking directly at Craig, his face, and nowhere else, and Craig suddenly has this urge to punch him, to push him away like he’s some playground bully. He’s all dolled up like he’s the definition of “asking for it”, yet he never fucking asked for this guy’s —Tweek’s— pity, sympathy, understanding, whatever, out of all things. Does he think that he’ll smile and nod and jump in his arms for showing him basic public courtesy? That he’s sooo much better than everyone else around? Too good for this place, too good for Craig. Pretentious fucking asshole. Craig makes hostile eye contact, that is to say, his regular face that’s been commonly labeled as such. Tweek twitches and averts his gaze in panic, just like he expected.

Is he just aggressively heterosexual? Nope. That alone sure doesn’t stop creepy, probably married old men or gross sweaty frat boys from trying to touch him. Most importantly, there’s no way in hell this man is heterosexual in any shape or form- That’d surely be God’s most cruel joke, and if it were true, Craig would instantly drop everything to volunteer for service in the nearest church and waste no time advancing in his pastoral studies. He’s got to get to the bottom- The bottom of this twitchy weirdo, wipe that stupid smile, bring down that pretentious fucking façade.

He walks away. He doesn’t note down the fatty’s orders, and he didn’t plan to, anyway. He’s too pissed off to actually pay attention to his surroundings, blindly tending to other guests for the next twenty minutes or so.

Next, he’s stacking up the dirty plates while some men are having dessert. One of them goes on and on about how good it tastes, Craig doesn’t give a shit, and he continues to lament about not being able to eat the rest. “It’s a shame if it went to waste,” he says, holding out a single Berliner. “Would you like to have a bite, young man?”

Craig bends down, not caring about exposing his ass to whoever is behind him. He ravenously chomps down on it, the whipped cream gets on his nose and the jelly is leaking all over his face. Before he can actually take the bite, the rest of the doughnut is forcefully shoved down into his throat, and there’s a hand holding him from the back of his head, forcing him to almost choke on it. He eventually wrests free of the man’s grasp, coughing and trying to catch his breath. The lower part of his face is now all covered with white vanilla cream filling and pink jelly.

He grabs the man roughly from his tie, wipes his mouth with it without bothering to actually clean himself properly, then wipes the dirty tie on the man’s button down, dragging it all over his chest.

“You fucking little-!”

“Thanks for the meal,” he says before leaving. He can hear the man yelling about his suit. He looks back at the dirty pile of plates he left there and snorts, until he bumps into someone. It’s Clyde. He’s wearing an ugly green sweater with suspenders and the most awful tie he’s ever seen, so awful that he’s glad to be walking around wrapped in frills and ribbons instead, actually.

Clyde beholds the environmental storytelling presented before him, including Craig’s ruined face, stained apron, and angry people at the back yelling at him.

“Dude. Craig!” Be decent, for at least once in your life. This is a charity event, goddamnit. Table 24’s been only here for five minutes and we’re already getting complaints— it’s no use if people just fucking leave.”

“I’m sure you don’t even last that long, and the last time I checked, your girlfriend was still around,” he replies, matter of factly. Clyde scoffs at that, bumping back into Craig to walk away and get back to whatever he’s been busy with, which, considering Craig, must be a lot.

Out of curiosity, he glances back at the losers’ table. Still loud, still obnoxious. Blondie’s the only one with a coffee mug instead of a glass. Still a weirdo. For no reason in particular, he grabs the coffee pot nearby and puts it on a server tray to carry along with a sugar dispenser, a pitcher filled with milk and whatnot before he makes his way back to their table.

Tweek is startled when his mug is refilled. Craig notices the satisfaction he gains from just getting reactions out of this freak. “Thank you!” He says, blissfully ignorant and sickeningly cheerful, with a smile so bright that Craig wants to carve his own eyes out.

“Uh, do you need…” Tweek attempts to address him, having noticed the state of his face. It’s like he’s terrified of coming across as rude, of the slightest possible mistake in intonation that could occur, even when Craig does nothing but to continue staring blankly at him. “Augh—There’s napkins here,” is all he manages to say. Craig already knows that. He makes no visible attempt at getting any napkins from the table, just watching him while Tweek is busy absolutely not knowing what to do until he suddenly jolts in place like he’s had an idea. He has to struggle a bit to before he eventually manages to take something out of his pocket: A handkerchief that has the words “Tweek Tweak” —apparently that really is his fucking name— embroidered on it in fancy letters, just beside some boring logo that says Tweek Bros. or something. He’s handing it to him, looking directly into his eyes again.

Alright, that fucking does it.

He turns away from Tweek without saying anything, and furiously starts collecting random shit on the table to place them on his server tray; the bottle of olive oil, the empty bowl of salad, one of the losers’ unfinished glass of red wine —“Hey!”—-, before he roughly turns to face Tweek again. By complete accident and absolutely for no other reason, the tray collides with Tweek’s mug mid-air, emptying both the coffee and literally everything else Craig was carrying before, on top of both himself on Tweek.

“Fuck! Oh shit, oh man, I’m so— I’m so sorry!” He cries out. Wait, what? “I really didn’t mean to- fuck, fuck!” He’s hyperventilating now. What?

The rest of the assholes are all hollering in laughter while Tweek is panicking over the mess Craig made. He almost feels bad for the guy. “Are you okay,” he mumbles.

“Yeah, I just- I want out, for a bit, just need to get some fresh air. I need, augh, I need some air,” he babbles.

“Let’s go to the bathroom and get you cleaned up.”


“Augh, I need air—”

“It has a window nearby, c’mon, there’s a nice view,” he pleads. Tweek isn’t in a condition to argue, Craig leaves with the tray on his left hand and an overwhelmed Tweek wrapped around his other arm, completely unaware of the weird looks his companions are giving the two.

There indeed is a window, and Craig watches Tweek while he’s watching the stars for a while, still holding onto him. It’s beautiful— the stars, he means, Tweek just happens to be there at the right time and his face is illuminated in all the right ways.

“Just breathe, slowly, in and out,” he instructs Tweek. He doesn’t actually know what he’s talking about, but he’s hoping that it helps. For some reason. He’s starting to have difficulty with all the “some reasons” that keep piling up. They’re all testing him, and so is the way Tweek simply obeys him without question, and not to mention the consequent vision he has of having the same rhythmic, deep breathing right behind his ear, and the way he’s practically dying to find out how it’d feel like to be used by him. It’s all too much, he doesn’t want to indulge in whatever this is any longer. “You need to clean up,” he says. With that, Tweek follows him into the bathroom.