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!

- Prompts can be filled any number of times; one fill does not close out the prompt!

- There's a kink meme Twitter account that tweets when prompts are filled and shares updates/news, and a tumblr where you can submit prompts as well

- Also a collection on AO3 if you should choose to post there as well and would like to add it. There is an input box for collections when you upload a new work on AO3, and you just type in: SouthParkKinkMeme_DW, and it'll pop up

- 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!


Please click here for a shortcut to the latest fills and prompts on this post!

There's also an index post with links to all the fills and prompts for easy access!

Comments

Re: craig/tweek outdoor sex, sex with a stranger

[(Anonymous)]

[1/4]

It’s a filthy habit, smoking. I know that. Of course, I know that. I know that with every puff I take I’m putting more tar and mystery chemicals inside my body and moving one step closer to death. There’s no need to remind me of any of that, man. But there’s way worse shit out there, and I’m well aware of all that, too. I try not to dwell on it. In fact, I try not to dwell on most of the horrible shit out there in the world. It’s better for my psyche this way. Or at least I think it is. I try not to dwell on that either. All I know is, when the nicotine buzz hits and swims around in my brain and releases those feel-good chemicals, it makes everything a little more tolerable.

I would never have started smoking for the usual reasons people do. I’m not one hundred percent on it, but my general understanding is that people want a reason to take a break and be social. Or maybe they start as teens and have some misguided idea of what being cool and grown up looks like. I dunno. I actually hated my first one. It tasted horrible and made me cough. Then I was irritated because I’d spent nearly an hour’s worth of my wages on buying a whole damn pack of them and decided it was a sunk cost so I might as well just smoke them all since I’d made the purchase. So I did. In time I kinda started to like the flavor. It was a bit like coffee– an acquired taste, you know. I could piece out the different notes and kinda relish it.

More importantly, I noticed that smoking gave me an excuse to step away from situations. I’d never had a ‘valid’ excuse for solitude before. Before, I’d just want to run away and have no good place to head towards. But now… well, smokers have to be at least 20 feet away from any building. Smelling like a bowling alley all the time is a small price to pay to be able to slink away, calm myself down, and be all alone for a solid ten to fifteen minutes. Between that and the pleasant feelings from the nicotine, it’s all around a pretty good trade-off.

I crave that almost more than the smoke itself. Or, that’s what I tell myself, anyway. It’s probably not true. Actually, it can’t be true. I’m all alone right now, in the quiet of my studio apartment. And moreover, it’s fucking past midnight and it’s probably freezing cold outside. Yet I’m craving a cigarette. There’s definitely something to be said about the fact that they play those ‘quit smoking’ ads this late at night. It’s gotta be some ploy to get more people thinking about cigarettes at this hour to trigger the urge to smoke more and spend more money on tobacco. The really fucked up part is that I’m onto them, and I’m still about to go put on my snow boots and head out for a smoke. Ugh. First, they want our money, next, they’ll want our blood.

Regardless of why I’m doing it, it’s been a couple of hours anyway. Besides, late at night is one of my favorite times to go smoke. I’m alone right now, sure, but pretty much everyone else is in their beds asleep right now. This ensures that I’ll stay unbothered. Plus, I get a little taste of those feel-good chemicals. It’s like free therapy, and I don’t have to think about any of my problems or go through the mortifying process of becoming known by another human being who will then extrapolate that all my issues at their source can trace back to a stressful childhood and a strained relationship with my father. Thanks, Dr. Norris, as if I didn’t already know all that. Instead of that whole ordeal, I just have to make sure to go through my quick checklist. I’ve got my snow boots, a hoodie with another larger hoodie on top, my house keys, my cellphone, a pack of Marlboro 27s, and a cheap, shitty Bic lighter. I’m set to go.

My apartment doesn’t have a balcony or anything like that, so I have to trek down a few flights of stairs and out into the courtyard to the designated smoking area. I’d honestly prefer to go to a less illuminated area, but these corporate fucks in my complex probably have the whole place rigged with security cameras watching us at all hours. They’re probably tracking me right now as I’m walking down to the little area where they quarantine all the filthy smokers. Most of all, though, if they’re watching me I don’t want to get caught breaking the rules I signed on with my lease. I’m a fucking barista, man. I can’t afford to get fined.

My focus is on the ground ahead of me as I walk. There’s no point in spacing out or enjoying the view. There’s not much view to speak of, anyway. It’s the same old trees devoid of leaves and dark, dismal buildings. The path has fortunately been cleared and now the snow neatly trims the concrete in frozen, crystalline blocks. Big chunks of salt crunch beneath my heavy boots and let me know the path should be clear of ice, but I still focus on the pathway. It’s better to be cautious. It’s really fucking cold outside, just like I thought it would be. It hurts to breathe in through my nose, so I avoid it. Each exhale creates a temporary cloud that dissipates just in time for my mouth to create another one. I can tell that when I sit down on that familiar bench by the upright ashtray, the heat of the first drag is going to be the most gratifying. It always is. I’m almost there and my hands give the tattered plastic on my cigarette pack a familiar squeeze of anticipation as I start to pull it and the lighter out from my pocket.

When I look up, shock immediately grips me, and the lighter slips from between my numb fingers, clattering to the ground. It shatters instantly, sending sharp little pieces of ugly, orange plastic flying in multiple directions. The last few drops of butane pool amongst the chunks of rock salt. The whole damn thing is unsalvageable.

There’s a guy sitting on the smoker’s bench.

Why is someone else out here?! It’s the middle of the goddamn night and the temperatures are well below freezing! I’m mentally kicking myself for not noticing there was a whole human being right in front of me before now. But how could I? I wasn’t exactly on the lookout for anyone in particular. My lesson in constant vigilance has been learned anew and reiterated more intensely than ever. I don’t know what to do now?! There wasn’t supposed to be anyone here. And now I don’t have a lighter! Shit! None of this is going to plan.

My legs work on their own and I head towards the bench out of instinct. I don’t know what I’m doing or why I’m doing it. I can’t just turn around and leave. That would be weird. What if this guy thinks I’m a weirdo? Why do I care what some random dude thinks?! Argh, I need to act normal. If I don’t act normal, there’s a chance he’ll try to figure out where I live and maybe he’ll report me to the apartment complex for suspicious activity! I don’t want to end up on some watchlist, oh my god, I can’t handle that kind of stress. I’m just trying to have a cigarette, man! Before I know it, I’m sitting on the bench and fidgeting with my hands. I brought my phone but I’m too nervous to pay attention to it.

He’s on one end of the bench and I’m perched on the opposite side. I can’t bring myself to look at him. I can’t acknowledge him right now, that’s way too much pressure. But, from the corner of my eye, I can see the dim light from his cell phone and his hand periodically rising to his mouth to take another drag from his smoke. The smell of sweet tobacco fills the cold, still air and taunts me. Bitter thoughts of envy and loathing fill my mind. That should be me sitting peacefully with a cigarette, idly scrolling my phone. But it’s not. It’s some random guy living out the small pleasure that should have been mine while I sit here shaking like a little freak in his periphery. A minute or two goes on like this while I struggle to weigh my options here.

“Aren’t you going to smoke?”

His voice breaks the silence abruptly. It’s as dry as the icy air and as deep as the valleys between the mountains. It breaks me from my frantic, internal strife and he startles me for the second time in only the span of 6 or so minutes.

“AGHH!”

The scream escapes me before I can help it. I quickly clamp my hands over my mouth and it feels like the wind got knocked out of me. He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even lurch or flinch at my outburst. Maybe I wasn’t too loud? Maybe it only felt that way? Maybe I’m significantly more jarred than he is? Who’s to say? Certainly not me. I finally venture a glance at him. Even sitting down, I can tell he’s really tall. I’m not exactly short by any means, but I just know if we stood side by side he’d tower over me. He’s wearing a smart, navy blue peacoat that looks much warmer than my own attire. And even though it’s of the same color, the worn-looking hat adorning his head looks a bit out of place with his nice coat. I’m not judging, though. I’m suddenly aware of the fact that I probably look like I’m homeless and impoverished, between my ugly brown, oversized boots and my questionable fashion choice in simply doubling up on tattered sweaters rather than actually wearing something adequate for these weather conditions. His hat covers his entire forehead and has little flaps that cover his ears. It actually obscures most of his features (not that I’m checking him out) but it looks like it’s probably pretty warm and cozy. I wish I had at least brought a scarf if only so I’d have something to hide my own face under. I compose myself to a point of barely being able to actually respond to the question.

“I… I, ngh, broke my lighter,” I manage to stammer out and make a gesture something akin to a point in the direction of my shattered Bic on the concrete.

“Oh,” he replies in that same flat voice.

I’ve got to get out of here. There’s no recovery from this situation. I’ve got to stand up right now, throw caution to the wind, and run across the potentially ice-covered walkway as fast as my legs will take me until I get back to my sad little studio unit. Then I’ve got to convince my parents to open a new branch of their coffee shop somewhere in South America and volunteer to pioneer the entire venture, pack my bags, and get as far away from here as I can possibly manage. …oh god, but what if the whole storefront inevitably gets busted in a drug ring? What if I end up held hostage because of my dad’s terrible foresight? Oh my god, what if I never even make it to South America because the plane crashes in transit? There are so many risks, man! But those are risks I’ll have to be willing to take. My fight or flight instincts are kicking into overdrive and I’ve got to flee this whole thing, right now.

“Here,” he speaks up again, and my head whips to the side with such velocity it makes my neck sore.

It takes me a good moment to process, but he’s holding his hand out toward me. There’s a bright red lighter wedged between his thumb and index finger. And of course, I want it so bad. I feel like a starving animal who’s been presented with a morsel of food. I’m already grasping for my half-empty pack of Marlboros again now that I have a glimmer of hope of actually smoking one. All worries are mentally cast aside for the time being, but it’s apparent the aftershocks are still reverberating in my body from the way my hand shakes and trembles as I reach for the gift this kindly stranger has so graciously decided to bestow upon me. I go to grasp it and our fingers brush together. He’s warm. Much too warm for someone who’s been sitting out in the frigid deep freeze of the Rockies. I choke on a surprised gasp and miss the handoff. The lighter fumbles from each of our grips and crashes to the ground.

It breaks at the metal fastening and renders it useless.

It’s not shattered like my own, but the little mechanism that flicks and ignites the damn thing can no longer function. Son of a bitch, I’ve dropped countless lighters over the years and never broken one. Yet here I am, having demolished two in less than a quarter of an hour. This is a personal hell I have no idea how I’ve managed to create. I didn’t sign up for this, man. I just wanted to have a late-night smoke all by myself and instead, I’m stuck in a weird social nightmare where I’ve damaged a stranger’s property and haven’t had a taste of the horrifically addicting substance I crave so badly. I can’t help but dissociate a little tiny bit and wonder what the weather is like in Colombia this time of year.

“Fuck, I am so sorry,” I cough out the words stupidly.

“S’okay,” he shrugs and speaks in a tighter voice after he takes a heavy drag from his own cigarette and then blows the smoke through the corner of his mouth. “Probably my fault that time.”

I should give up now. This guy doesn’t know my name but I’m still entertaining thoughts of changing it, just in case there’s some small chance he’d be able to find out who I am going forward. I have to completely start over. I dig my fingertips into my thighs. My ass is cold from sitting on this frozen bench and my lungs hurt from struggling to breathe in the inhospitable air. What the fuck is wrong with me? The nearly comical twist is that a cigarette would really help calm my nerves right about now. I close my eyes and count to ten under my breath.

“I can light yours with mine,” the guy talks at me again.

I’m struggling to comprehend not only literally what he’s said, but also why he would continue to engage me after I’ve done nothing but be weird and disruptive, and destructive to boot.

Re: craig/tweek outdoor sex, sex with a stranger

[(Anonymous)]

[2/4]

“Huh…?”

“Come on,” he leans back a bit on the bench and gestures for me to give him my cigarettes. “I’ll light it.”

I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience. My mind is paralyzed with anxiety and a mounting sense of doom, but my chemical-addicted body acts of its own volition, and I helplessly watch myself retrieve a singular, manufactured cigarette from the crumpled packaging and pass it to him with my terribly quivering hand. He pulls it gingerly from my grasp and flippantly sticks it between his lips while I gaze on with a slack jaw. He’s shivering a bit, too, but not enough to inhibit him from deftly sticking the cherry-red ember of his cigarette into the unlit end of mine. It only takes a few quick huffs and puffs before a triumphant plume of smoke emanates from between them and the deed is done. Despite the odds, he’s managed to light a smoke for me. He passes it back to me and I greedily draw it to my lips.

It’s a little wet from his tongue. Normally that kind of realization would freak me out. I don’t know this guy. I don’t know where his mouth has been or what he might be carrying. The relief of finally getting what I wanted overpowers that fear, though. I ignore the anxiety outright and take a long, slow, gratifying draw from the cigarette. The heat of the smoke is just as satisfying as I’d hoped it would be. I hold it in until my lungs ache and my head starts to feel like it might float away. The acrid flavor coats my tongue when I finally exhale and a wave of overwhelming yet nauseating relief engulfs me. Fuck, man. I can’t help but let out a jittery little sigh of contentment. I can’t tell if that earned a little chuckle from that guy or if that was just the wind.

Another moment goes by and a new anxious feeling blossoms inside me. Smoking with a companion is usually a social event. I don’t know this guy. I don’t know if he’s now expecting me to engage him in some kind of amicable conversation. It feels sort of like I’m obligated since he helped me out. I don’t know what to say. I’m not good at small talk. I’m not good at any kind of talking! I steal a glance at him. He’s already gone back to intently scrolling on his phone. I don’t know why I feel like I need to impress him, but the urge is there and stressful and even though I’m trying to shoo away the feeling it’s persistent. I end up desperately scrolling through my own phone with my free hand until I land on a stupid picture of a dog that seems innocuous enough that no one would think it’s a weird thing to share with someone else.

“Ha… ha, ha,” I force out the most awkward and insincere laugh I’ve ever mustered and tilt my phone into his line of sight. “Cute dog!”

The guy quirks an eyebrow and turns his head to check out my phone. He gives a slow, thoughtful nod and I feel like a child who has been acknowledged out of the polite duty adults have not to discourage children. He huffs a little undefinable sound through his nose and I feel like a total idiot.

“It’s cute,” he agrees in a flat, unreadable voice and I stare at him desperately trying to figure out his reaction. “I like dogs, but I’m more into smaller pets.”

He turns a bit more to face me and for the first time, I actually get a good look at his face. He looks almost regal. But not in a dashingly handsome kind of way. It’s more like there’s a subtly haughty air to him as if he’s looking down on me like I’m some kind of a peasant. He’s probably not doing that on purpose. It’s probably from the way his chin kind of juts out and his gaze seemingly gazes downwards over his sloping nose. He’s not smiling. He’s not really frowning, either, though. It’s sort of a distant, pensive look. I shouldn’t stare but I can’t help it. And I can’t help but notice that even though his lips are in a perpetual, flat line… his eyes have distinctive little crinkles around them. They’re the kind of crinkles that someone notably gets when they’re smiling. Most notably are his eyes. They’re steely and deep and draw me in like a frantic moth fluttering towards a dangerous, open flame. My chest tightens the longer I gaze into them and I’m feeling more squirrely than usual. His eyes twinkle with stars and I’m instantly and pathetically head over heels with my feet up in the cosmic sky. It makes me feel pathetic, but I can’t help that this guy is so strikingly handsome in a really pleasant and unconventional way.

“You have really nice eyes,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

Agghhhh, why did I say that?! Oh god, what is wrong with me? He splutters something and I can see his face turn a splotchy pink. His body language goes tight and he tugs his worn-out hat down a bit over his face. Shit, I hope I didn’t make him mad. Ugh, and he was so nice to me. I always fuck everything up. Why would I fucking say something like that? I should never talk to people. I always screw it up. I mean, it’s true, his eyes are gorgeous. But that doesn’t mean I should just say creepy things like that to strangers.

I have to turn away. I’m suddenly more aware of the fact that my cigarette is coated in a mix of both of our saliva. I feel like a little freak again. I take another long drag from my smoke and my face feels hot. I really wish I’d had the foresight to not dress like a street urchin. But I didn’t and now I’m sitting here with my anxiety at critical capacity all of my own doing and floundering to finish my cigarette. I should finish this and then slink away into the night and look into that paperwork about changing my name.

“Do you mind if I have another one?”

I’ve been so wrapped up in my own head I didn’t even notice whatever it is that he’s doing on his end of the bench, but apparently, he’s already finished his smoke. Why would he ask my permission? They’re his cigs, it’s his life. What would I care?

“Sure, man,” I shrug as nonchalantly as I can manage. “Go for it.”

“Thanks,” he says and retrieves his pack from the pocket of his nice coat. “Do you mind helping me out?”

Oh, that’s right. I broke all our lighters. Jesus Christ, man, I’m a wreck. But there’s no way I have the steadiness or dexterity in the best of times to manage to chain light them, much less now that I’m all nervous and shaking and have numb fingertips.

“Oh, um…okay,” I agree but make absolutely no motions towards actually assisting in any way.

What am I doing? Nothing’s happening but it’s still too much!

“Here,” he shifts closer to me and I freeze up. “Just hold yours still in your mouth and I’ll light mine off it.”

It sounds easy enough, so I obediently follow the instructions. I angle myself to face him and hold as still as I can manage. He starts leaning in, focusing on the growing stem of ash balanced precariously between my shivering lips. I can’t sit still. I can never really sit still, but I’m kind of grateful he probably thinks this is from the cold. Oh god, he’s really, really close to me. He’s close enough that I can tell he prefers menthols. I’m too panicked to feel stressed. It’s almost wrapping back around into an ironic, bizarre sort of zen state. The operative word, of course, is almost. I’m undeniably freaking out inside. He lines his up with mine again and again, but we keep missing the mark. Eventually he huffs out a singular, awkward but apologetic chuckle. I mirror it on reflex. He glances up at me and our eyes lock for a brief, horrific yet serendipitous moment. His expression falters like he’s considering saying something. After a moment of hesitation, he speaks.

“You, um… you have nice eyes, too.”

He’s lying. Why is he lying to me? My eyes are bloodshot and the color of paint water, surrounded by deep purple bags that will never go away like shitty tattoos done by a drunk kitchen wizard. Despite their appearance, I’m so shocked that he’d say something like that and I can feel my bug-like eyes nearly bulging right out of their sockets. He averts his gaze and I’m robbed of my clear view of him. His head dips a bit lower and the heat from his proximity is making my face burn in stark contrast to the chill in the air. Once again, he tries to catch my ember but it’s clear even to me he wasn’t trying too hard that time. His nose brushes against mine and that’s when I have the strangest, most terrible epiphany.

That tickle of contact awakened something in me. I’m realizing just how starved for human contact I’ve been. It was only a whisper of a touch. A ghost of a sensation and then it was gone. But I felt the blood in my veins throb with unmistakeable life and the giddy thrill of visceral humanity swells in my chest. I liked it. I want more. I’m filled with a yearning that I’ve long forgotten and only now that a stranger who paid me a simple compliment has granted me a fleeting touch I feel it ignite anew. My heart is galloping like a frightened gazelle and my breathing has become a series of desperate, choppy gulps for precious oxygen. My body’s acting on its own. I’m not even trying to light up his damn cigarette anymore. He might be, but I can hardly focus on that. In fact, I almost don’t notice when mine falls carelessly from my slack jaw and tumbles unceremoniously to the concrete. Orange sparks dance in my peripheral vision and then they fizzle out. Before I can think or reconsider or even comprehend what I’m doing, my chin seems to organically tip to the side and I smash my mouth into his.

I pull away almost instantly. Oh shit, oh god, oh fuck. What did I do?! Why did I do that? Oh no… Oh no, oh no… He’s definitely going to report me to the apartment complex. Jesus Christ, and they’ll have no choice but to report me to higher authorities! I’m going to be put on a sex offenders list! This is the end. I’m about to have a full blown meltdown. My body aches with the need to scream but everything dies in the back of my throat and all I can do is sit paralyzed with the taste of his lips still fresh on mine. And who am I to genuinely enjoy that feeling? Look at him. With nice outerwear like that, he’s probably got a great job and a wife or a girlfriend at home and I’ve just forced myself on him. Oh god. Am I a homewrecker? I can’t live with the weight of that on my shoulders. What have I done? What have I done?!

“Ahh! I’m so sor-” I finally find enough of my voice to begin yelping out an apology but he swiftly interrupts me.

“Can I do it again?”

Surely I heard that wrong. I gawk at him stunned. He’s unwavering, though. This guy isn’t laughing at me and he isn’t threatening to call the cops. I think he might be serious. He’s flickering his eyes between gazing at his hands and stealing soft glimpses at me. He’s fucking serious. This is unreal.

“Yes,” I blurt out hastily, sincerely, and irrevocably before he can change his mind.

That’s all it takes. We move back into position without hesitation and press our lips together in a sublime mixture of curiosity and greed. It’s mutually shy and cautious, but there’s little hesitation to the act. I’m veritably shocked, though. I mean, who wouldn’t be? I’m kissing a total stranger on a frozen bench in the middle of the night. I’m aware that it’s risky and stupid, but there’s something so inherently genuine behind it all that I can’t help but let myself go. I can’t believe how confused and lost I feel, but despite that I feel secure and somehow desirable. I’m receiving everything I didn’t know I wanted and I still want more. My mouth parts open of its own accord and all my lingering fears and reservations melt away with the soft press of his tongue sliding against my own.

He tastes like an ashtray. There’s a staleness to it but it’s not wholly unpleasant. Besides, it’s not like I can judge– I’m sure I taste far worse. My tongue rolls against his, eager to explore every corner I can claim. He responds in kind and our pace becomes more confident, slowly crescendoing into a blossoming vigor. He wants this. I have no idea why because I’m ill-kempt, spastic, and twitchy. I’m shrill and abrasive and I look like I dressed myself in a church charity donations bin. But even still I can tell he wants this. He’s pushing me into the backrest of the bench with a subtle force that makes my back arch and my neck strain. It’s hard to breathe. Between the harshness of the chill and the heat of his body and his breath on mine, I feel like I’m suffocating. I want to choke on it.

Re: craig/tweek outdoor sex, sex with a stranger

[(Anonymous)]

[3/4]

A newfound sense of unearned power burns deep inside me. Maybe it’s the endorphins. Or maybe I’m just a slut. Regardless, I embrace it and let my hands wander. They crawl up the woolen front of his coat and slip precociously beneath the collar to rest on the nape of his neck. He flinches at the shock of my frigid fingers gripping his warm, bare flesh but it quickly morphs into a low, lusty groan. The guttural sound dances around inside my mouth and I swallow it down hungrily. It encourages me to pull him closer and he responds eagerly. His arms coil themselves around my midsection and he presses into the small of my back. I squeak and moan at his touch and wantonly suck on his lower lip. I think I’m definitely a slut.

I need more. I can’t think. I shouldn’t think. If I put too much thought to this I’ll back out of the whole thing and I’ll run away and hide. So instead of putting conscious thoughts into how stupid and brash this all is, I lean into the sensuality and the feelings. I didn’t know how much I needed something like this until I found myself deep in the throes of it. It feels right to let this complete stranger cling to my body and huff steamy breaths into my open, willing mouth so I embrace it and respond in kind. I let him manhandle me and manipulate my tired body to his whims. I let him kiss me like a reunited lover after far too much time apart. I let him cradle the back of my head like I’m fragile and precious. I let him know without words how badly I want this and how far I’ll go to get it.

Something in me snaps and ignites. Without warning, I find myself flinging one leg forward to attempt to wrap it around whatever part of him I can reach. I want to feel him with as much of myself as I can. This isn’t some well-practiced and choreographed routine, but he responds as though it is. His hand swiftly grips the back of my thigh and he holds me against him. I think I might be floating in a liminal space. It should be scary, but my whole world is so fraught with ever-present anxiety I’m instead filled with a deep sense of nostalgia. I feel known, like this moment is both transpiring currently but also as though it’s something I’ve missed dearly and I’m able to reflect upon it. I don’t even know this guy’s name but I somehow feel like I can recall the way he used to hold me just like this. I’m shivering and I’m trembling and I’m latching onto him with my legs, my fingers, my teeth, and my lips. Before I know it he’s pulling me onto his lap and I’m straddling him on the bench. He holds me to his midsection dearly like I’m an old, beloved guitar that he’ll tune and lull like he’s done for years.

The bench is so cold on my knees. His hands are warm on my thighs and my insides feel pleasantly tight. I’m sitting on his lap with my legs spread wide, contented and gratified. It feels so right. Who’s got daddy issues now, Dr. Norris? The warm yellow tones of the dingy floodlight mingle overhead with the cool luminescence of the pale moon as I loom over him. I’m casting strange shadows over his angular face as he gazes up at me with soft parted lips and my reflection in his eyes. I wonder how I must look to him from down there. His expression is lustful, but I can see the concern written on his features, too. I’m sure I look deranged. I’m unhinged and desperate and greedy. I’ve gone too deep and I don’t even care right now. I can worry about the security footage and my strange behavior later. For now, I just want to be closer. I boldly peel open his handsome navy blue peacoat and rudely expose his torso to the cold air. It’s a little jarring to note that beneath such nice outwear, he’s wearing a ratty old NASA t-shirt. It’s threadbare and there’s little hole beneath the logo. If I wasn’t so swept up in the moment, i’d probably be a little charmed by the disparity between the garments. It makes him feel familiar– like he’s a bit like myself.

I burrow my way into his chest and nuzzle my way up the soft cotton until my chin finds its way to the crook of his neck. His irregular breaths tickle my ear as his hands fumble along my sides. Soon enough, they rest comfortably on my hips and hold me in place. I’m inadvertently twitching again. My body tries to fight against him and resist the command of his grasp, but it’s only because i’m teeming with urgency and greed. My compliance is imminent, though, and he takes control and guides me with ease. He nudges me with his shoulder in gentle invitation to turn my face back to his. I readily obey and resume our sloppy, inelegant mashing of lips and tongues. We’re rolling together now, rocking our hips together in a choppy yet measured cadence.

“Fuck,” he groans into my lips, and it’s the first intelligible sound either of us have made since this began.

I give him a pleased little coo in response. Or at least, that was my intent. In actuality, it comes out as more of a garbled, frantic wheeze. He seems to like it all the same in any case, because he grinds into me forcibly and presses his palm flat against my spine to anchor me in place. He’s undeniably hard. I can feel it through his jeans, slotted between my legs like a perfect fit. It’s like he’s meant to be wedged snugly right between my legs. My mind is swimming, overflowing with that nauseating and addicting slurry of agonizing nerves, selfish desires, and chaotic paranoia. A needling voice tries to crop up in the mix, warning me of the peril that could be lurking here. There’s always the chance that this stranger is a serial killer or something even worse. By some unknown grace, however, I’m able to squash down that fear. A louder voice in my head spurs me on and tells me to just let go. I take the gamble and wriggle in his lap, grinding my hips down against his length.

He responds with a buck, a lurch, and a gasp. I do it again, and he thrusts with greater purpose. Oh god, we’re really doing this, aren’t we? My heart is racing, my blood is pounding, and i can feel the prickly beads of sweat pooling in the small of my back. My cheeks sting with the disorienting mix of the cold air and the flush that’s overheating my skin. I want to touch him. I want to know every inch of this stranger and feel all of his body. His name and his story don’t matter– it feels like I already know him so well. My hands sneak their way inside his coat and I run them along his body above the thin material of his shirt. I count his ribs one by one as I taste him, swallowing down each breath he exhales and taking that small part of him into myself. Our teeth are starting to clack as he bounces me on his lap like I’m a ragdoll. Our sloppy kissing gets so messy we have to pull away. He pushes me upright, and although I’m breathing heavily and my body is desperate for oxygen, I already miss the acrid taste of his tongue against my own.

“Can…can I…?”

He rasps out the question and darts his eyes between mine and the spot between our legs as he starts fumbling with his jeans. I nod so hard I feel like one of those corny bobble-head things people sometimes have in their cars. The heat from our bodies has definitely warmed my hands quite a bit, but they’re still so cold. I want to undo his fastenings myself. I want to unwrap him like he’s a special little present just for me. But I can’t because I’m shaking and clumsy and I can barely feel my fingertips. So instead I press my palm flat against his length and impatiently stroke him through the denim. It definitely impedes his progress and slows him down, but the way he bites his lower lip makes me never want to stop. Eventually he unfurls himself, and even though he initially winces from the shock of the frigid temperature, I’m practically drooling at the sight of him.

“Jesus!” I yelp in awe, downright gawking at his dick.

He felt pretty sizeable beneath the clothing, sure, but I wasn’t sure if I was imagining it. I’m not sure how he fit that thing in his briefs. Shit, there’s no way I can handle this! The thought that I can’t is almost more exciting. It twitches a little and his head glistens with visible excitement. I’m burning up from the inside out and I’m sure any minute now I’ll implode. I’ll disintegrate like the ashes of the burning end of a cigarette and I’ll flutter away into nothingness. An embarrassing series of gross sounds and fragmented noises escape past my lips as I try to formulate anything akin to thoughts or words. I want to praise him or compliment him or say anything at all, but I’m tongue-tied and any semblance of coherent language dies in my mouth and spews out as a jumble of grunts and jitters. I’ll let my actions do the talking instead and reach forward to grasp him.

“W-wait,” he hisses through his teeth and stammers the moment I so much as graze my fingers against his bare flesh.

I hear myself whine. I don’t want to wait. But then he reaches forward and takes my hands into his own. We lock eyes and I stare deep into the depths of the unknown. He pulls my hands to his mouth and blows. The heat of his breath and the caress of his palms warms my fingers. I can’t breathe. He’s looking right at me and I can’t turn away. I’m a dysfunctional mess but it’s fortunately masked by my state of temporary paralysis. I feel seen and known and I can’t help but wonder as I look into those stony eyes if I’m capable of love. My chest heaves with staggering effort and my lungs ache with a sharp pain but otherwise I sit completely still on his lap and panic in silence. I think I’ve finally broken and gone completely and irreversibly insane.

“Okay,” he assures me, just above a whisper.

“Okay,” I respond, just below a squeak.

The stranger beneath me places a gossamer kiss to my passably-warm fingertips then guides my hand back down to his cock. I coil easily around the length and savor the low groan it pulls from him. It’s velvety and smooth yet rigid and intimidating. My curious, eager hand gives it a jerky twist. It’s not at all that I’m unpracticed– I’m just not accustomed to something of this size in my own hand. The thoughts attempt to spring forward in my mind again. We could get caught. I could be put on a sex offenders list. This guy could suddenly turn around and kill me. An unpredicted blizzard could roll in out of nowhere and freeze us both over, eventually melt, and reveal two undignified corpses in a severely compromised position. Somehow now that I’m in the midst of freeing myself and engaging in these highly questionable acts, it almost seems funny. A giggly sort of feeling bubbles up in the back of my throat and I have to steady my shoulders from shaking as I hold in the gleeful laughter that threatens to spoil the mood. I can’t help it. I’ve ascended to a new and whorish realm of insanity induced happiness.

I’m throbbing under my clothes. I’m so fucking stiff and desperate for friction, if this guy so much as moves the right way I’ll come in my pants like a desperate little freak. The most twisted part of me hopes he will. I keep up my pace, pumping his shaft and feeling wilder and more exhilarated with the way he whimpers and moans and lets his eyes roll into the back of his head. I can hardly believe I’m doing this to him. His hands are on me and he’s trying to instinctually fuck into my hand but the weight of my body is making it difficult for him. So i move my hand faster, harder. An ugly whining sound pours out of me as I work with more and more effort. He’s grabbing at me from all directions and I’m loving it. Each time he grasps for me, his frantic hands move again. I need him to touch me everywhere. I need him to pull me and bend me and use me.

“Pull it out,” he grunts out the demand, but his voice warbles with desperation.

That was so unfairly sexy I could die on the spot. Before the life can slip away from my body from the sheer overload, I jump to attention and my neglected dick bounces with excitement. For the first time since this guy has laid eyes on me, I’m grateful I’m wearing a hideous pair of ill-fitting sweatpants. It takes less than five seconds to expose myself. My cock is flushed pink and looks almost dainty compared to his even though I’m fully hard and throbbing nearly to a point of pain. Before another wave of clarity can hit me like a sandbag, his voice breaks up my thoughts.

“No underwear?”

“Ack!” I respond simply.

I couldn’t say anything else if I tried. And besides, I don’t have to explain myself to him. Who would wear underwear with sweatpants, anyway? What am I, a weirdo? He’s the fucking weirdo, man. He’s the weird guy who’s got his dick hard for a twitchy little creep. I can’t hang on to that glimmer of resentment, though, because before I know it he’s got one hand firmly wrapped around my shaft and the other has reached up to cup the back of my head. He ushers me forward until our foreheads meet and our arms brush against each other. Our hands each work in unsynchronized paces, but our task is the same. The familiar yet foreign feel of another cock on my hand is driving me just as wild as the feeling of another person stroking me with purpose.

“Shit,” he hisses sharply. “I’m not gonna last…”

My stomach rolls over itself. I’m drenched in sweat and I feel so pathetic yet so powerful.

“Me neither,” I croak.

Re: craig/tweek outdoor sex, sex with a stranger

[(Anonymous)]

[4/4]

True to his word, only another moment goes by before his body clenches and I’m pulling a deep moan from him. I’m lightheaded and galvanized to finish him right. I dip my chin to the right angle and kiss him again, sloppy and wet and I hope he knows how unforgivably turned on I am by this. A few breathy whines make their way from my mouth into his and my hand starts to feel hot and wet. Maybe it’s rude, but the slick sensation of coating cum all over his shaft is so disgusting and so hot it sends me over the edge, too. My limbs vibrate uncontrollably and some terrible outburst comes out of my mouth all on its own, but I can’t bring myself to care. He pulls me back into another kiss, slower and more sensual. Or maybe it’s not? Maybe i’m just operating on a different frequency in this moment.

Soon enough I’ve collapsed in a heap on his lap. He pulls my tired body flush to his and we both gasp and wheeze for air like we’re a pair of athletes who just finished a marathon. But we’re not. We’re a couple of strangers locked in an intimate moment in the relentless chill of the night. I am both too hot and too cold all at once and I’m trembling uncontrollably, but he holds me still until we both feel capable of peeling apart. He’s ginger with me and helps me swing my leg back to my own side of the bench. I feel incredibly small. And I’m covered in a jizz splatter. I really am a slut, man. I don’t know if I can live with the added stress of being a slut. A beat passes before either of us speaks again.

“Ha,” he lets out a dry laugh. “I could really go for a cigarette right about now.”

I impulsively fumble around and attempt to locate my forgotten pack of smokes in an anxious attempt to be helpful, but then the realization hits me. Oh, right. The lighters… Shit, I broke all the fucking lighters. Oh god, how did all this happen? Why did this happen? A pit forms inside my stomach and starts growing into a voracious swell of panic. I’m gonna freak out, man. What the fuck. What the fuck?!

“Aghh!” I wail in distress. “I’m so sorry, I-”

“It’s okay,” he cuts me off. “I was kidding.”

“...oh.”

I don’t know what to do now. I’m aching from too much time spent in a strenuous position. Should I stay? Should I leave? I have no idea, this is too much! I should definitely check my phone. I brace myself, half-heartedly expecting there to be a slew of aggressive messages from the landlord informing me that he’s been up all night watching the security cameras and now I’m going to be evicted. Oh god… what if he sells the video and I somehow get tangled up in an amateur pornography fiasco? Can he do that?! I unlock the phone to find no messages. I’m relieved. I guess.

“Hey, uh…” the guy starts and then hesitates.

I whip my head around to face him. He’s looking away from me. It’s probably good that he didn’t just see me come close to sustaining a self-induced spinal injury.

“Ngh, yeah…?”

“Can I, uh… can I see that for a minute?”

He turns to face me but he’s still averting his eyes. I sorta get it, though. I’d be ashamed to fool around with me, too. He gestures towards my phone. Why does he want to see my phone?! I don’t know why I do it, but I hand it to him. He snatches it from my hand and messes around with it for a moment with a very serious look written on his features. I’m breathing in short, ragged huffs. Before I can have a full meltdown over my own stupidity for handing it over, he passes it back. It’s open to my contacts. He added himself in my phone…?

“Craig…” I read the name out loud slowly, like it’s a foreign word.

The guy’s name is Craig. My heart skips a beat and I feel like I’m floating. His name is Craig and he added himself to my phone. It doesn’t feel real.

“You should text me the next time you’re coming out for a smoke,” he speaks in a stilted sort of way, like he’s awkwardly and cautiously chosen what to say and how to say it.

All I can do is blink a few times in disbelief.

“Only if you want to!” Craig tacks on hastily and looks remarkably flustered. “I…I should head home.”

I stare at him vacantly, at a complete loss. Is he serious? Is he fucking with me? I watch him in a trance-like state as fixes his clothing just enough to be decent and then he turns and walks away in the opposite direction. And then he’s gone. I’m alone. I’m freezing cold, it’s extremely late at night, and I’m filthy. And yet… I feel like I could do just about anything. My legs start walking on their own. I’m light on my feet but I still watch my ugly boots trod over the salted pavement. When I get back to my lonely studio apartment, I’m going to text him. Maybe I’ll meet him in the morning. I’ll bring extra lighters next time.