Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The living room at Token’s house was a chaotic mess, like a tornado had hit a liquor store and a Hot Topic at the same time. Empty beer cans littered the coffee table, half-eaten pizza slices were strewn across the couch, and Cartman was loudly arguing with Kyle over whether pineapple on pizza was a crime against humanity. The air smelled like cheap vodka, teenage regret, and Clyde’s Axe body spray, which he’d clearly bathed in.

Token, ever the gracious host, was trying to keep things from spiraling into complete anarchy. “Guys, can we not break my mom’s vase? She’ll ground me until I’m 30,” he said, snatching a ceramic heirloom from Butters, who was using it as a makeshift maraca.

“Relax, rich boy,” Craig Tucker drawled from his spot on the couch, one leg slung over the armrest, flipping his middle finger lazily at no one in particular. His black hat was tilted slightly, and his expression screamed I’m here because I have nothing better to do. “If it breaks, just buy a new one. You’ve got, like, a gold-plated toilet or some shit.”

“Fuck you, Craig,” Token shot back, but there was no heat in it. Craig just smirked, sipping his beer like he was auditioning for the role of World’s Most Apathetic Asshole.

Tweek Tweak, sitting cross-legged on the floor, was vibrating with nervous energy, clutching a Red Bull that was probably his third of the night. “GAH! What if the vase is CURSED? What if it’s got, like, ancient spirits or—or DEMONS?!” he yelped, eyes darting around like he expected a ghost to pop out of the wallpaper.

“Tweek, chill,” Clyde said, tossing a pretzel at him. “The only demon here is Cartman’s breath after those garlic wings.”

“AY! Screw you, Clyde!” Cartman snapped, shoving another slice of pizza in his face. “I’m a goddamn national treasure.”

The group had been playing Truth or Dare for the last hour, and it was getting progressively dumber—and weirder. Jimmy had already confessed to prank-calling Principal Victoria pretending to be a Russian spy, Clyde had dared Tweek to chug a shot of hot sauce (which ended in tears and a lot of milk), and Kyle had been forced to text Bebe a heart emoji, which he was still sulking about.

“Alright, alright,” Kenny said, his parka muffling his voice as he leaned forward, eyes glinting with mischief. “Craig, your turn. Truth or dare?”

Craig rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out of his head. “Dare,” he said flatly, like he was daring them to bore him.

Kenny grinned, exchanging a look with Clyde, who was already giggling like an idiot. “Okay, Craig,” Kenny said, pausing for dramatic effect. “I dare you to walk over to Stan, rub his head, and say ‘good boy’ like he’s your favorite dog.”

The room erupted. Cartman choked on his pizza, Kyle snorted so hard he spilled his drink, and Butters clapped his hands like he was at a circus. Stan, who’d been quietly nursing a beer and trying to avoid attention, froze, his face turning the color of a tomato.

“What the fuck?” Stan sputtered, pushing his black beanie back. “Why me? Pick someone else!”

“Nope, it’s you, Marsh,” Clyde said, cackling. “C’mon, Craig, make it good.”

Craig didn’t even blink. He just sighed, like this was the dumbest thing he’d ever been asked to do—which, in South Park, was saying something. “Fine,” he muttered, standing up and cracking his knuckles. “Let’s get this over with.”

Stan backed up on the couch, holding his hands up like he was warding off a vampire. “Dude, don’t you dare—Craig, I swear to God—”

Craig ignored him, sauntering over with the energy of someone who’d rather be literally anywhere else. He stopped in front of Stan, stared down at him with his signature deadpan expression, and reached out to ruffle Stan’s hair like he was petting a particularly annoying golden retriever. “Good boy,” Craig said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, each word sounding like he was reading off a script he didn’t believe in.

The room lost it. Token doubled over laughing, Tweek shrieked something about “WEIRD VIBES,” and Cartman was pounding the table, wheezing, “OH MY GOD, STAN, YOU’RE HIS BITCH NOW!”

Stan, meanwhile, was having a crisis. His face was bright red, his eyes wide, and he was gripping the couch cushions so hard his knuckles were white. Nobody noticed—or at least, nobody mentioned—that Stan’s jeans were suddenly looking… uncomfortably tight. He shifted awkwardly, pulling his hoodie down like it was a shield. “Fuck you guys,” he mumbled, voice cracking. “This is so stupid.”

Craig, oblivious as ever, just shrugged and flopped back onto the couch. “There. Done. Can we move on, or are you all gonna keep jerking off to this?”

“Dude,” Clyde said, wiping tears from his eyes, “that was art. Stan, you okay over there? You look like you just saw Jesus.”

“I’m fine,” Stan snapped, but his voice was too high, and he was avoiding eye contact with everyone. He chugged the rest of his beer in one go, trying to act normal, but his brain was clearly short-circuiting. The way Craig’s hand had felt in his hair, the lazy confidence in his voice—good boy—it was burned into his skull, and Stan was not okay. He was, in fact, dangerously close to needing a change of pants.

The game continued, but Stan was distracted, stealing glances at Craig, who was back to ignoring everyone and scrolling on his phone. Every time Stan thought about that stupid dare, his stomach did a weird flip, and he hated himself for it. What the hell is wrong with me? he thought, chugging another beer to drown the feeling.

Later, as the party wound down and people started passing out or heading home, Stan found himself lingering near Craig, who was grabbing his jacket by the door. “Hey, uh,” Stan started, scratching the back of his neck, “that was… weird, right? The dare?”

Craig looked at him, one eyebrow raised, his face as unreadable as ever. “I don’t know, man. You seemed pretty into it,” he said, his tone so dry it could’ve started a forest fire.

Stan’s face went nuclear. “W-What? No! Shut up, dude!” he stammered, but Craig was already walking out the door, flipping him off over his shoulder.

“Whatever, Marsh,” Craig called back. “You know where to find me if you want another pat.”

Stan stood there, mortified, as the door slammed shut. He was screwed. Absolutely, completely screwed. And the worst part? He was already wondering when he could get Craig to do it again.

Chapter Text

It had been three days since Token’s party, and Stan Marsh was losing his goddamn mind. He couldn’t stop thinking about it—that stupid, sarcastic “good boy” from Craig Tucker, the way his hand had ruffled Stan’s hair like he was some obedient labradoodle. It was humiliating. It was ridiculous. And worst of all, it was addictive. Stan wanted it again. No, he needed it again, like a junkie chasing their first high.

He was sitting in his room, sprawled on his bed, staring at the ceiling with his beanie pulled low over his eyes. His phone buzzed with a text from Kyle—something about meeting up at Tweak Bros. Coffee—but Stan ignored it. He couldn’t focus on anything. Every time he closed his eyes, he heard Craig’s bored, gravelly voice and felt that lazy pat on his head. It was like Craig had accidentally unlocked some weird, shameful kink Stan didn’t even know he had.

“Fuck my life,” Stan muttered, dragging his hands down his face. He’d tried to recreate the moment himself, standing in front of the bathroom mirror and ruffling his own hair while mumbling “good boy.” It didn’t work. It just made him feel like an idiot. He’d even—God help him—asked his parents to try it, which was a mistake of apocalyptic proportions.

Flashback: The Marsh Family Dinner Debacle

It was the night after the party, and Stan was desperate. He’d barely touched his meatloaf, pushing it around his plate while Randy and Sharon exchanged worried glances.

“Stan, honey, you okay?” Sharon asked, reaching over to feel his forehead. “You’ve been quiet all day.”

“Yeah, Stan, what’s up?” Randy chimed in, already halfway through his third beer. “You look like you just found out Santa’s not real. Again.”

Stan swallowed, his face burning. He couldn’t believe he was doing this. “Uh… can you, like… pat my head? And, um… say ‘good boy’?” he mumbled, barely audible.

Sharon blinked. Randy froze, his beer halfway to his mouth. “What the fuck did you just say?” Randy asked, like Stan had asked him to join a cult.

“I—I don’t know! Just… try it, okay?” Stan said, his voice cracking. “It’s… for a thing.”

Sharon, ever the supportive mom, shrugged and leaned over, giving Stan’s hair a gentle pat. “Good boy,” she said, her tone warm but confused.

Nothing. Stan felt nothing. It was like being petted by a well-meaning but clueless aunt. He slumped in his chair, defeated.

Randy, meanwhile, was losing it. “Sharon, what the hell? Are we raising a dog now? Stan, you into some weird furry shit or what?” He grabbed Stan’s head and ruffled his hair so hard it hurt, yelling, “Who’s a good boy? Huh? WHO’S A GOOD BOY?”

“Dad, STOP!” Stan shoved him off, mortified. “Forget it! I’m going to my room!”

As he stormed upstairs, Randy called after him, “If you start barking, I’m calling animal control!”

Back to the Present

Stan groaned at the memory, rolling over to bury his face in his pillow. His parents were a bust. It wasn’t the same. It had to be Craig—his bored, sarcastic drawl, his don’t-give-a-shit attitude, the way he made Stan feel like a dumbass without even trying. But how the hell was he supposed to ask Craig to do it again? Just walk up and say, “Hey, dude, can you pet me like I’m your favorite spaniel?” Yeah, that’d go over great. Especially if Cartman caught wind of it. Cartman would never let him live it down. He’d probably start a podcast just to roast Stan for the rest of eternity.

Stan grabbed his phone and opened his messages, scrolling to Craig’s contact. He typed out a text, deleted it, typed another, deleted that too. “Goddammit,” he muttered. He couldn’t just ask. Craig would either laugh in his face or flip him off—probably both. And if anyone else found out, Stan’s social life would be over. Kyle would try to stage an intervention, Kenny would make creepy innuendos, and Cartman… Jesus, Cartman would probably show up with a dog collar and a megaphone.

He needed a plan. Something subtle. Maybe he could trick Craig into doing it again, like… bump into him at the arcade and “accidentally” bring up the dare? Or hang out with the group and hope someone else suggested another stupid game? But Craig wasn’t exactly the “spontaneous head-patting” type. He barely tolerated people on a good day.

Stan’s phone buzzed again, this time with a group chat notification. It was Clyde, posting a meme in the “South Park Shitshow” group chat, followed by Token asking if anyone wanted to hit up Starks Pond later. Craig hadn’t replied, but that wasn’t unusual—he probably had the chat muted because “group texts are for losers.”

Stan stared at the chat, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. This was his chance. He could show up, act casual, maybe find a way to get Craig alone and… what? Beg for a pat like a pathetic puppy? He cringed just thinking about it. But the alternative was sitting in his room, spiraling, and he was already halfway to crazy town.

“Fuck it,” Stan said, grabbing his jacket and shoving his beanie on. He’d figure it out. He had to. Because if he didn’t get Craig to say “good boy” again soon, he was pretty sure he’d lose what was left of his sanity.

At Starks Pond

The pond was half-frozen, the air biting, and the usual crew was there, screwing around like always. Token was tossing rocks to skip across the ice, Clyde was trying to impress Bebe by doing a terrible cartwheel, and Tweek was pacing, muttering about frostbite and “HYPOTHERMIC GHOSTS.” Kyle was lecturing Kenny about something, probably global warming, while Kenny just nodded and snuck sips from a flask. Cartman was nowhere in sight, thank God—probably off scamming kindergartners or eating an entire bucket of KFC.

Craig was there, leaning against a tree, hands in his pockets, looking like he’d rather be in a coma. His hat was pulled low, and he was ignoring everyone, occasionally flicking a pebble into the pond with zero enthusiasm.

Stan’s heart did a weird lurch, and he immediately hated himself for it. Get it together, Marsh, he thought, shoving his hands in his hoodie. He wandered over, trying to look nonchalant, like he wasn’t internally screaming.

“Yo,” Stan said, stopping a few feet from Craig. Real smooth. Nailed it.

Craig glanced at him, his expression as blank as a whiteboard. “What’s up, Marsh?” he said, his voice flat, like he was already bored with the conversation.

“Uh… nothing. Just, y’know, chilling,” Stan said, kicking at the dirt. Chilling? Who says that? Kill me now. He scrambled for something to say, anything to keep Craig’s attention. “So, uh, that party at Token’s was pretty dumb, huh?”

Craig raised an eyebrow, barely. “Yeah. Bunch of idiots playing baby games. Why?”

Stan’s mouth went dry. This was his shot, and he was blowing it. “I dunno, just… thinking about that dare. Kinda fucked up, right?” He laughed, but it came out sounding like a dying hyena.

Craig stared at him, unblinking, like he was trying to figure out if Stan was high. “You’re still thinking about that?” he said, his tone dripping with why are you like this? “It was a dare, dude. I don’t even remember it.”

Stan’s stomach dropped. Craig didn’t remember? How could he not remember? It was all Stan could think about! “Oh. Yeah. Totally,” he said, forcing a grin. “Just… random thought.”

Craig shrugged, turning back to the pond. “Whatever, man.”

Stan stood there, feeling like the world’s biggest loser. He wanted to scream, “Please, just pat my head again, I’m begging you!” but instead, he just nodded and mumbled, “Cool, see ya,” before slinking back to the group, his face burning.

As he rejoined Kyle and Kenny, Stan made a mental note: he needed a better plan. A way better plan. Because this craving wasn’t going away, and if he didn’t figure out how to get Craig to do it again—without making it obvious he was obsessed—he was gonna end up in a padded room, barking like a dog and dreaming of Craig Tucker’s stupid, sarcastic voice.

Chapter Text

It was a crisp Saturday afternoon in South Park, and the usual gang was loitering outside Tweak Bros. Coffee, mostly because Tweek’s parents were giving out free hot chocolate to “boost community spirit” (aka bribe people to buy their overpriced beans). The sidewalk was littered with cigarette butts, crumpled soda cans, and Clyde’s dreams of ever landing a date with Bebe, who was currently ignoring him to text someone actually worth her time.

Stan was there, sipping his hot chocolate and trying really hard not to stare at Craig, who was slouched against the wall a few feet away, scrolling on his phone with his usual I hate everything vibe. Stan’s obsession with the “good boy” incident hadn’t faded—if anything, it was worse. He’d spent the last few days plotting ways to casually bring it up without sounding like a total weirdo, but so far, his brilliant ideas included “accidentally” tripping into Craig’s hand (dumb) and asking him to join a dog-walking business (dumber). He was running out of options and dignity.

Kyle was ranting about some new environmental documentary, Kenny was making lewd gestures behind his back, and Token was trying to mediate before Kyle threw a punch. Tweek was inside, probably having a panic attack over a broken espresso machine, and Cartman was—thankfully—AWOL, likely terrorizing someone else for the day.

Craig, as usual, was in his own world, barely acknowledging the chaos around him. That is, until a scruffy mutt trotted up, sniffing at his shoes. It was one of those South Park strays—part lab, part gremlin, with a missing ear and a vibe that said I’ve seen some shit. Craig glanced down, unimpressed, as the dog started pawing at his jeans.

“Down, boy,” Craig said, his voice low and bored, like he was ordering a burger at Shakey’s. He didn’t even look at the dog, just flicked his hand in a lazy gesture.

Stan, who’d been pretending to listen to Kyle while stealing glances at Craig, froze. His brain short-circuited. Down, boy. The words hit him like a freight train, Craig’s deadpan drawl echoing in his skull. Without thinking—without even processing—Stan’s knees buckled, and he dropped to a crouch right there on the sidewalk, hands planted on the ground like he was about to do a push-up.

The group went silent. Kyle stopped mid-sentence, mouth open. Kenny’s flask slipped from his hand, splashing cheap whiskey on his parka. Token’s eyebrows shot up so high they nearly flew off his face. Even the dog looked confused, tilting its head at Stan like, Dude, what’s your deal?

Craig finally looked up from his phone, his expression shifting from bored to what the actual fuck in record time. “Uh… Marsh?” he said, his voice dripping with his signature sarcasm. “You good, or did you just decide to become a rug?”

Stan’s face turned the color of a fire truck. He was still crouched, frozen, his brain screaming WHAT THE HELL DID I JUST DO? He scrambled to stand, nearly tripping over his own feet, and yanked his beanie down over his eyes like it could hide his shame. “I—I thought I dropped something!” he stammered, patting the ground like he was searching for an imaginary quarter. “My… uh… contact lens! Yeah!”

“You don’t wear contacts, dumbass,” Kyle said, crossing his arms, his voice a mix of concern and secondhand embarrassment. “What was that? Did you just… obey Craig?”

“NO!” Stan snapped, his voice hitting a pitch that could summon dolphins. “I was just—shut up, Kyle! You didn’t see anything!”

Kenny, recovering from his shock, started cackling so hard he had to lean against the wall. “Holy shit, Stan! Did Craig just dog-train you? Oh my God, this is the best day of my life!” He mimed petting an invisible dog, cooing, “Good boy, Stan! Sit! Stay!”

“Fuck you, Kenny!” Stan yelled, shoving him. His heart was pounding, and he could feel Craig’s stare burning a hole in the side of his head. He risked a glance, and sure enough, Craig was watching him, one eyebrow raised, his lips twitching like he was fighting a smirk.

“Gotta say, Marsh,” Craig drawled, pocketing his phone, “that was… weird as hell. You got a thing for dog commands or what?” His tone was so dry it could dehydrate a lake, but there was a glint in his eyes—something dangerously close to amusement.

Stan wanted to die. He wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole. “I don’t—whatever, dude! You’re the one yelling at dogs!” he shot back, but it was weak, and everyone knew it.

Token, trying to be the voice of reason, stepped in. “Okay, okay, let’s all calm down. Stan, maybe you just… tripped or something. Right?” He gave Stan a look that said please go with this so we can move on.

“Yeah, exactly!” Stan latched onto the excuse like a lifeline. “Tripped. Slippery sidewalk. Whatever.”

The dog, apparently bored with the drama, wandered off to sniff a trash can. Kyle shook his head, muttering something about “needing new friends,” while Kenny was still giggling like a hyena. Craig, meanwhile, just shrugged and leaned back against the wall, but Stan could tell he wasn’t buying the “tripped” excuse. That tiny smirk was still there, and it was making Stan’s stomach do backflips.

“Alright, whatever,” Craig said, pulling his hat down. “Just don’t start humping my leg next time, Marsh.” He flipped Stan off casually and went back to his phone, like nothing had happened.

Stan forced a laugh, but inside, he was spiraling. He heard me. He SAW me. His obsession was no longer a secret—not completely. Craig had caught him red-handed, and worse, Stan was pretty sure he’d do it again if Craig said anything remotely like “down, boy.” He was screwed, and not in the fun way Kenny was always joking about.

As the group drifted back to their usual banter, Stan hung back, sipping his now-cold hot chocolate and trying to act normal. But his eyes kept flicking to Craig, who was ignoring him again, and all he could think about was how to avoid another public humiliation… or, worse, how to get Craig to say something like that again without anyone else around to witness it. Because if Cartman ever found out about this, Stan’s life was over. And if Craig figured out just how much power he had over him? Stan didn’t even want to think about it.

He needed a plan. A better plan. And maybe a therapist.

Chapter Text

A week had passed since the “down, boy” disaster outside Tweak Bros. Coffee, and Stan Marsh was officially at war with his own brain. The craving for Craig’s sarcastic, dog-trainer vibe hadn’t let up—it was like a mosquito bite he couldn’t stop scratching, except instead of itching, it was making him question his entire existence. He’d tried everything to get it out of his system: blasting emo music, chugging energy drinks, even watching dog training videos on YouTube (which only made it worse when the trainer said “good boy” in a way that was not Craig). Nothing worked. He was hooked, and Craig Tucker was his dealer.

The worst part? Stan was pretty sure Craig knew. That smirk from the coffee shop hadn’t faded from Stan’s memory, and every time they crossed paths—at school, at the arcade, wherever—Craig’s deadpan stare felt like it was peeling back Stan’s skull to expose the freakshow inside. Stan was paranoid, jumpy, and avoiding the group as much as possible to keep Cartman from sniffing out his weakness. If Cartman got even a whiff of this, he’d probably show up with a leash and a megaphone, chanting “Stan’s Craig’s bitch!” for the whole town to hear.

But Stan couldn’t avoid everyone forever. Kyle was already texting him, asking why he was “acting like a hermit,” and Kenny had started leaving dog biscuits in his locker as a joke. So when Token invited the crew to his place for a low-key movie night, Stan figured he had to show up or risk looking even more suspicious. His plan was simple: act normal, stay quiet, and definitely don’t let Craig say anything remotely dog-related. Easy, right?

Token’s House: Movie Night

Token’s basement was the usual setup: a massive flat-screen blaring some shitty action movie nobody was actually watching, a table covered in Doritos and half-empty Monster cans, and the gang sprawled across couches and beanbags. Clyde was whining about his latest failed attempt to ask out Bebe, Tweek was twitching and muttering about “EXPLOSIONS BEING TOO LOUD,” and Kyle was arguing with Jimmy over whether the movie’s plot made any sense. Kenny, predictably, was sneaking glances at his phone, probably looking at something that would get him expelled if anyone saw.

Craig was slouched in the corner of the couch, one leg up, flipping his middle finger at Clyde for no reason other than habit. He hadn’t said much all night, which was normal, but Stan was hyper-aware of him, like Craig was a bomb that could go off with one wrong word. Stan sat on the opposite side of the room, pretending to be engrossed in the movie while clutching a Red Bull so tightly the can was denting.

“Yo, Stan,” Token called, tossing him a bag of chips. “You’re quiet tonight. You good?”

Stan jolted, nearly dropping the bag. “Huh? Yeah, I’m fine!” he said, too fast, his voice cracking. “Just… into the movie.”

Kyle raised an eyebrow. “Dude, you hate action movies. Last week you said they’re ‘brain-dead testosterone fests.’ What’s up with you?”

“Nothing’s up!” Stan snapped, then immediately regretted it when everyone turned to look at him. “I mean… just tired, okay? Lay off.”

“Jeez, touchy,” Clyde said, smirking. “What, you got a secret girlfriend or something?”

“Or a secret boyfriend?” Kenny added, waggling his eyebrows and making a kissing noise. The room erupted in laughter, and Stan’s stomach dropped. He glanced at Craig, who was still staring at his phone, but Stan swore he saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

“Fuck you guys,” Stan muttered, sinking lower in his seat. He needed to change the subject, fast. “Hey, why don’t we… uh… play a game or something? Like, I dunno, charades?”

“Charades? What are you, five?” Kyle said, but Butters clapped his hands excitedly.

“Oh boy, I love charades! I can be a cowboy, or—or a dinosaur!” Butters started miming a T-Rex, arms flailing, and everyone groaned.

“Nah, let’s do something better,” Kenny said, his grin pure evil. “How about… Truth or Dare again?”

Stan’s blood ran cold. No. Not again. The last time they played Truth or Dare, he’d ended up with a fetish he couldn’t shake. “Uh, maybe not,” he said, trying to sound casual. “That game’s kinda lame.”

“Since when?” Token asked, frowning. “You were fine with it at my party.”

“Yeah, real fine,” Craig said suddenly, his voice cutting through the room like a knife. He looked up from his phone, his eyes locking onto Stan’s with that infuriating, unreadable stare. “Didn’t you, like, love that dare I did?”

The room went quiet, everyone sensing the shift. Stan’s face burned, and he could feel his pulse in his ears. “I—what? No! It was stupid!” he stammered, but his voice was shaking, and he knew he sounded guilty as hell.

Craig tilted his head, his smirk barely there but definitely there. “Sure, Marsh. Whatever you say.”

Kenny, never one to miss a chance to stir shit, leaned forward. “Oh, this sounds juicy. What’s this about, Craig? Spill.”

“Nothing to spill,” Craig said, shrugging, but his eyes didn’t leave Stan’s. “Just saying, Stan seemed… into it.”

Stan wanted to disappear. He wanted to spontaneously combust and take the whole basement with him. “You’re full of shit, Craig,” he said, but it came out weak, and everyone could tell.

“Alright, alright, enough,” Token said, sensing Stan’s panic and trying to keep the peace. “No Truth or Dare. Let’s just watch the movie.”

The group grumbled but settled back in, and Stan exhaled, thinking he’d dodged a bullet. But his relief was short-lived. Halfway through the next explosion scene, Craig got up to grab a drink from the mini-fridge, passing by Stan’s chair. As he did, he leaned down just slightly, his voice low enough that only Stan could hear.

“Relax, boy,” Craig murmured, his tone dripping with that same sarcastic drawl. “You’re acting like you’re in heat or something.”

Stan choked on his Red Bull, coughing so hard Kyle had to slap him on the back. Craig just sauntered off, grabbing a Mountain Dew like he hadn’t just set Stan’s entire nervous system on fire. Stan’s face was scarlet, his hands shaking, and—oh God, not again—his jeans were feeling way too tight. He yanked his hoodie down, praying nobody noticed, and tried to focus on the movie, but all he could hear was Craig’s voice, looping in his head: Relax, boy.

Later That Night

The movie ended, and the group started to scatter. Stan lingered, pretending to help Token clean up but really just trying to figure out how to talk to Craig without making it obvious he was losing his mind. Craig was by the stairs, pulling on his jacket, and Stan saw his chance.

“Hey, uh, Craig,” Stan said, jogging over, his heart pounding. “Can I… talk to you for a sec?”

Craig turned, his expression as blank as ever. “What’s up, Marsh?” he said, but there was that glint in his eyes again, like he knew exactly what this was about.

Stan glanced around, making sure nobody was listening. Kyle was upstairs, Kenny was flirting with some girl on his phone, and Token was busy stacking empty cans. “Look, I… about the other day, and… the party,” Stan started, his voice low. “Can you just… not tell anyone? Like, ever?”

Craig raised an eyebrow, leaning against the wall. “Tell anyone what? That you’re, like, weirdly into dog stuff?” His tone was so casual it was almost cruel. “Don’t worry, dude. I don’t care enough to spread it.”

Stan’s relief was immediate, but it came with a sting. Craig didn’t care. Of course he didn’t. Why would he? To Craig, this was just another dumb thing that happened in South Park. To Stan, it was a full-blown crisis. “Okay, cool,” Stan said, forcing a laugh. “Just… yeah. Thanks.”

He turned to leave, but Craig’s voice stopped him. “Hey, Marsh.”

Stan froze, turning back. Craig was watching him, that smirk back in full force. “If you’re gonna keep freaking out every time I say something, maybe you should get a leash for yourself,” he said, flipping Stan off as he headed up the stairs. “Night, boy.”

Stan stood there, rooted to the spot, his brain a mess of panic and something else he didn’t want to name. Craig was gone, but that word—boy—hung in the air, taunting him. He was so screwed. He needed to figure out how to either get Craig to stop (impossible) or get him to keep doing it in private (even more impossible). Because one thing was clear: Stan wasn’t getting over this anytime soon, and Craig Tucker was going to be the death of him.

Chapter Text

Stan Marsh was officially out of moves. Two weeks after the “down, boy” incident and Craig’s infuriating “night, boy” jab at Token’s movie night, Stan’s obsession had gone from bad to catastrophic. It was like Craig had planted a virus in his brain, and every sarcastic word, every lazy smirk, was another dose of whatever the hell was making Stan lose it. He couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t even play Call of Duty without zoning out, imagining Craig’s bored drawl saying “good boy” while patting his head. He was one step away from writing angsty poetry or checking himself into a psych ward.

He’d tried to stay away from Craig, but South Park was too small, and their friend group was too incestuous. Craig was always there—lurking at the back of the cafeteria, flipping off Clyde at the arcade, or just existing in Stan’s peripheral vision like a sarcastic ghost. And every time Stan saw him, his stomach did that stupid flip, and he had to fight the urge to either run away or beg Craig to say it again. He was a mess, and he knew it.

The worst part? Stan was pretty sure Craig was onto him. That glint in Craig’s eyes, the way he’d drop a casual “boy” into their conversations just to watch Stan squirm—it wasn’t an accident. Craig was playing with him, like a cat batting around a half-dead mouse, and Stan was too pathetic to do anything but squeak.

He needed to end this. Either he got Craig to stop, or he got Craig to… do it again, but on Stan’s terms, in private, where nobody—especially Cartman—could find out. The problem was, Stan had no idea how to make that happen without sounding like a total lunatic. So, he did what any desperate South Park kid would do: he hatched a plan so dumb it might just work.

The Plan: Operation Arcade Ambush

The arcade was the perfect spot. It was loud, crowded, and dark enough that Stan could talk to Craig without anyone overhearing. Plus, Craig was always there on Fridays, dumping quarters into the claw machine like it was his personal mission to win every shitty stuffed animal in South Park. Stan’s plan was simple: corner Craig, play it cool, and somehow get him to say “good boy” again—ideally without Stan having to admit how much he wanted it. If that failed, he’d at least beg Craig to stop teasing him before he had a full-on mental breakdown.

Stan showed up at the arcade right on time, his beanie pulled low and his hands shoved in his hoodie. The place was a neon-lit chaos of beeping machines, screaming kids, and Clyde whining about losing at Street Fighter. Kyle was there, trying to beat Token’s high score on Pac-Man, while Kenny was… nowhere to be seen, probably banging someone in the bathroom. Tweek was twitching near the air hockey table, muttering about “RIGGED GAMES” and “ARCADE MAFIA.”

And there was Craig, exactly where Stan expected: at the claw machine, his face set in that eternal I don’t give a fuck expression as he maneuvered the claw over a knockoff Pikachu. Stan took a deep breath, wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans, and sauntered over, trying to look like he wasn’t about to vibrate out of his skin.

“Yo, Craig,” Stan said, leaning against the machine like he was in a bad ‘80s movie. Nailed it.

Craig didn’t even look up. “What, Marsh?” he said, his voice flat as he tilted the joystick. The claw missed the Pikachu by a mile.

“Uh… just chilling,” Stan said, immediately regretting it. Chilling? Again? Get new material, idiot. “You, uh, win anything yet?”

Craig finally glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. “No. This thing’s rigged. Why do you care?” His tone was suspicious, and Stan’s stomach lurched. Craig was too good at sniffing out bullshit.

“I don’t! Just… making conversation,” Stan said, laughing nervously. He was bombing this harder than Clyde’s love life. “So, uh… you remember that thing at Token’s party? With the… dare?”

Craig’s hand paused on the joystick, and he turned to face Stan fully, his expression unreadable but definitely amused. “You’re still on that?” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Jesus, Marsh, you’ve got it bad.”

Stan’s face went nuclear. “I don’t—shut up! I’m just saying, it was weird, right? And then the coffee shop thing, and… you keep saying shit, and it’s freaking me out!” He was rambling now, his voice getting louder, and he could feel the eyes of nearby kids starting to turn.

Craig tilted his head, his smirk growing. “Freaking you out, huh? Or turning you on?” He said it so casually, like he was commenting on the weather, and Stan’s brain flatlined.

“W-What? No! Fuck you, dude!” Stan sputtered, stepping back so fast he nearly tripped over a stray skateboard. His heart was pounding, and—oh God, not again—his jeans were betraying him. He yanked his hoodie down, praying the dim arcade lights hid his shame.

Craig didn’t move, just watched him with that infuriating calm, like he was studying a lab rat. “Relax, boy,” he said, and there it was—that word, low and lazy, hitting Stan like a punch to the gut. “You’re making a scene.”

Stan froze, his breath hitching. His knees wobbled, and for one horrifying second, he thought he might drop to the ground again, just like at the coffee shop. He clenched his fists, forcing himself to stay upright, but his face was burning, and he could barely think straight. “Stop… stop doing that,” he hissed, his voice barely audible over the arcade noise.

“Doing what?” Craig asked, playing dumb, but his smirk said he knew exactly what. He stepped closer, close enough that Stan could smell his cheap cologne and the faint hint of Mountain Dew. “You’re the one who keeps bringing it up, Marsh. Maybe you want me to keep going.”

Stan’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. He was trapped, cornered by Craig’s stupid voice and his own stupid brain. This was supposed to be his plan, but Craig was turning it against him without even trying. “I… I just want you to stop,” Stan lied, but it sounded pathetic, even to him.

Craig raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “Sure,” he said, his tone mocking. “Tell you what, boy—I’ll stop when you stop looking at me like you’re begging for it.” He flipped Stan off, grabbed his quarters, and sauntered off toward the pinball machine, leaving Stan standing there like a deer in headlights.

Stan’s legs gave out, and he sank onto a nearby stool, his head in his hands. He was so fucked. Craig knew. Craig knew, and he was enjoying this, the sadistic bastard. Stan’s plan had backfired spectacularly, and now he was worse off than before. He couldn’t keep avoiding Craig, but he couldn’t keep facing him either—not when every word out of Craig’s mouth made him feel like he was one step away from barking.

He needed a new strategy. Something that didn’t involve talking to Craig, because clearly, Stan couldn’t handle it. Maybe he could bribe Tweek to distract Craig with free coffee forever. Or fake his own death and move to Canada. Or… maybe, just maybe, he could figure out how to get Craig to do it one more time, in private, and get it out of his system for good.

But deep down, Stan knew the truth: he didn’t want it to stop. And that was the most terrifying part of all.

Across the Arcade

Kyle, who’d been watching the whole thing from the Pac-Man machine, turned to Token with a frown. “Dude, what’s up with Stan? He’s acting like Craig’s his dealer or something.”

Token shrugged, glancing at Craig, who was now racking up points on pinball like nothing had happened. “I dunno, man. But whatever’s going on, it’s weird as hell.”

“Should we… do something?” Kyle asked, already dreading the answer.

Token sighed. “Let’s just pretend we didn’t see it. For Stan’s sake.”

But across the room, Kenny had seen everything, and he was already texting the group chat with a single word: Dogboy.

Chapter Text

Stan Marsh was dangling on the edge of sanity, and the arcade disaster had pushed him closer to the abyss. Craig Tucker’s relentless teasing—those smug “boy” drops, that knowing smirk—had turned Stan’s life into a waking nightmare. He couldn’t go five minutes without replaying the “good boy” moment from Token’s party, the “down, boy” at Tweak Bros., or the arcade’s brutal “begging for it” jab. It was like Craig had cracked open Stan’s skull and rewired his brain to crave something he didn’t even understand. He was a wreck, and the worst part was, he wasn’t sure he wanted to be fixed.

He’d tried to go cold turkey, avoiding Craig entirely. He skipped group hangouts, faked a stomach bug to ditch school for two days, and even deleted the “South Park Shitshow” group chat from his phone to avoid Kenny’s dogboy memes. But South Park was a fishbowl, and Craig was unavoidable. Plus, Stan’s absence was raising red flags. Kyle kept leaving voicemails asking if he was “depressed or some shit,” Token sent a worried text about “needing to talk,” and Cartman—because of course—had started a rumor that Stan was “joining a cult to worship veganism.” Stan had to re-enter society eventually, or he’d end up with an intervention led by Butters in a cowboy hat.

So, against his better judgment, Stan agreed to show up at Stark’s Pond for a “chill hangout” the gang had planned. His new strategy: blend in, keep his mouth shut, and stay at least ten feet from Craig at all times. If Craig tried anything, Stan would just… leave. Or punch him. Or cry. He hadn’t decided yet.

Stark’s Pond: The Showdown

The pond was its usual mix of muddy snow and teenage stupidity. Clyde was throwing rocks at a frozen patch, trying to impress Wendy, who was politely ignoring him while reading a book. Tweek was pacing, clutching a thermos of coffee and muttering about “LAKE MONSTERS.” Kyle and Token were debating whether to build a fire, Kenny was carving something inappropriate into a tree, and Jimmy was practicing his stand-up routine on Butters, who was laughing way too hard at jokes that didn’t land.

Craig was there, of course, sitting on a fallen log, tossing pebbles into the water with his usual I’d rather be dead energy. His black hat was tilted low, and he hadn’t said a word to anyone, which was both a relief and a problem for Stan. On one hand, no teasing. On the other, Stan’s brain was screaming for a hit of that sarcastic drawl, and the silence was making him twitchy.

Stan hung back, sticking close to Kyle and pretending to care about the fire debate. He kept his hoodie up, his beanie down, and his eyes anywhere but Craig. So far, so good. Nobody had mentioned the arcade, and Kenny’s dogboy texts seemed to have died down. Maybe he could survive this.

Then Cartman showed up.

“AY! What’s up, losers?” Cartman bellowed, waddling over with a bucket of KFC and a grin that spelled trouble. “Where’s my favorite vegan cult leader, Stan? You done sacrificing tofu to Satan yet?”

“Fuck off, Cartman,” Stan muttered, already regretting coming. Cartman’s presence was like a lit match in a room full of dynamite—nothing good ever came of it.

Cartman plopped down on a stump, shoving a drumstick in his mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry, did I interrupt your brooding? What’s wrong, Stan? Still crying over your dogboy phase?” He cackled, spitting chicken crumbs, and Stan’s blood ran cold.

The group froze. Kyle’s head snapped up. Token coughed. Kenny, who’d been halfway up the tree, nearly fell off, laughing so hard he choked. Stan’s face went from pale to fire-engine red in record time. “What the fuck did you just say?” he hissed, stepping toward Cartman.

Cartman’s eyes lit up, sensing weakness. “Oh, you didn’t hear? Word on the street is you’re Craig’s little puppy now. Down, boy! Sit! Roll over!” He mimed throwing a ball, and Kenny lost it, collapsing on the ground in hysterics.

Stan’s vision blurred with rage and panic. He glanced at Craig, who was still tossing pebbles, but his head was tilted slightly, like he was listening. That smirk was back, faint but unmistakable, and Stan wanted to scream. “Shut up, Cartman!” he yelled, his voice cracking. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Don’t I?” Cartman said, leaning forward, his grin pure evil. “Kenny told me everything. You’re out here panting for Craig like a bitch in heat. Ain’t that right, Craig?”

The group turned to Craig, who finally looked up, his expression as bored as ever. “Dunno what you’re talking about, fatass,” he said, flipping Cartman off. But his eyes flicked to Stan, and there it was—that glint, that knowing look that made Stan’s stomach lurch. “Sounds like Stan’s got his own problems.”

Stan couldn’t take it anymore. The teasing, the smirks, the fact that Cartman of all people knew—it was too much. He snapped. “Fuck this!” he shouted, storming over to Craig, who raised an eyebrow but didn’t move. “You! You’re the problem, asshole! Stop saying shit! Stop looking at me like that! Just—STOP!”

The group went silent, even Cartman, who looked like he’d just won the lottery. Craig stood up, brushing dirt off his jeans, and stepped closer to Stan, his voice low and infuriatingly calm. “Chill, Marsh. You’re freaking out again.” He paused, then leaned in, just enough that only Stan could hear. “What’s the matter, boy? Need a pat to calm down?”

Stan’s brain imploded. That word, that tone—it was like a shot of adrenaline straight to his veins. His knees wobbled, his face burned, and before he could stop himself, he grabbed Craig’s jacket, yanking him closer. “Do it,” he hissed, his voice desperate, barely audible. “Just… do it, okay? One more time. Please.”

Craig’s eyes widened, just for a second, before his smirk returned, bigger than ever. He glanced around—Cartman was watching like a hawk, Kenny was still cackling, and Kyle looked like he was about to call a therapist. Craig leaned in, his voice a whisper. “You sure you want this in front of them?”

Stan froze, realizing his mistake. He’d just begged Craig, out loud, in front of everyone. Cartman’s jaw dropped, then twisted into a grin so wide it could’ve swallowed the pond. “OH MY GOD!” Cartman screamed, jumping up. “STAN’S BEGGING! CRAIG, YOU GOT HIM ON A LEASH! THIS IS BETTER THAN PORN!”

“Stan, what the hell?!” Kyle yelled, storming over. “What’s going on with you?”

“I—I didn’t—” Stan stammered, letting go of Craig and backing up, his face a furnace. He wanted to run, but his legs wouldn’t move. He’d blown it. His secret was out, and Cartman was already pulling out his phone, probably live-streaming to the entire school.

Craig, for once, didn’t look amused. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Jesus, Marsh, you’re a mess,” he muttered. Then, louder, to the group: “Alright, show’s over, assholes. Leave him alone.” He grabbed Stan’s arm and dragged him away from the pond, toward a cluster of trees where nobody could hear.

Stan stumbled after him, his heart pounding. “What… what are you doing?” he asked, his voice shaking.

Craig stopped, letting go and crossing his arms. “Saving your dumb ass,” he said, his tone annoyed but not cruel. “Look, I don’t know what your deal is, but you gotta chill. You want me to do the thing? Fine. But not in front of Cartman. He’ll make your life hell.”

Stan blinked, processing. “You… you’d do it?” he asked, his voice small, like he couldn’t believe it.

Craig rolled his eyes. “Not if you keep acting like a kicked puppy. But yeah, maybe. In private. If you stop being such a spaz about it.” He paused, then smirked. “Gotta say, though, it’s kinda funny how bad you’ve got it.”

Stan groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “I hate you,” he muttered, but there was no heat in it. He was humiliated, but for the first time, he felt a tiny spark of hope. Craig wasn’t running away. He wasn’t laughing. He was… offering?

“Whatever, boy,” Craig said, flipping him off as he turned to walk back. “Figure your shit out, and maybe I’ll throw you a bone.”

Stan stood there, watching Craig saunter off, his brain a tangle of relief, panic, and something dangerously close to excitement. He’d fucked up, big time, but Craig hadn’t shut him down completely. There was a chance—a small, terrifying chance—that he could get what he wanted without the whole town knowing.

But first, he had to survive Cartman. And that was gonna take a miracle.

Back at the Pond

Cartman was already on his phone, narrating to his followers: “Ladies and gentlemen, Stan Marsh has officially become Craig Tucker’s pet! Stay tuned for exclusive dogboy content!”

Kyle grabbed the phone, shoving Cartman. “Knock it off, fatass! Stan’s going through something!”

“Going through Craig’s doggy door, you mean!” Cartman cackled, dodging Kyle’s punch.

Stan, still hidden by the trees, sank to the ground, his head in his hands. He was so screwed. But somewhere, deep down, he was already planning how to get Craig alone. Because if he was going down, he was at least getting one more “good boy” out of it.

Chapter Text

Stan Marsh was living on borrowed time. Cartman’s “dogboy” livestream had gone viral—at least by South Park standards—and now half the school was whispering about Stan’s meltdown at Stark’s Pond. Kids in the cafeteria were barking at him, Clyde had taped a dog biscuit to his locker, and even Mr. Garrison had made a weird comment about “leash laws” during class. Stan was a walking meme, and every snicker felt like a nail in his coffin. Cartman was milking it for all it was worth, strutting around with a dog whistle and promising “exclusive dogboy merch” by next week.

But Stan had bigger problems than Cartman. Craig Tucker had offered him a lifeline—a private chance to get that “good boy” fix—and Stan was obsessed with making it happen. The problem was, Craig wasn’t exactly Mr. Approachable. He’d gone back to his usual routine of ignoring everyone, flipping off the world, and hanging out with his crew like nothing had happened. Stan, meanwhile, was a nervous wreck, jumping every time his phone buzzed, terrified it was another Cartman prank or, worse, Craig changing his mind.

Stan knew he had to act fast. If he didn’t lock this down soon, Cartman’s torment would bury him, or Craig would get bored and shut it down for good. So, he devised a new plan: get Craig alone, seal the deal, and keep it secret from the entire town—especially the human landfill that was Eric Cartman. It was risky, but Stan was desperate, and desperation made him stupid.

South Park Middle School: After Hours

Stan had cased the joint like a shitty detective. Craig always stayed late on Wednesdays, helping the janitor clean the science lab as part of some detention deal he’d never explained. It was the perfect opportunity—no friends, no witnesses, just Craig and a bunch of Bunsen burners. Stan waited until the halls were empty, then slipped into the lab, his heart pounding like he was about to rob a bank.

Craig was there, lazily wiping down a counter, his black hat skewed and his expression screaming I’d rather be anywhere else. He didn’t notice Stan at first, which gave Stan a second to panic. What am I even doing? he thought, gripping the doorframe. This is insane. I should just leave—

“Marsh?” Craig’s voice cut through his spiral. He’d stopped wiping, one eyebrow raised, looking at Stan like he was a stray cat that wandered in. “What’re you doing here? You lost or something?”

Stan swallowed, his mouth dry. “Uh… no. I just… needed to talk to you.” His voice cracked, and he cursed himself. Real smooth, idiot.

Craig leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. “About what? Your little freakout at the pond?” His smirk was back, sharp and dangerous. “Or are you still chasing that dog shit?”

Stan’s face burned, but he forced himself to step inside, closing the door behind him. The click echoed, and he prayed nobody else was around. “Look, can you just… not be an asshole for, like, five minutes?” he said, his voice low. “I’m serious. I need to talk.”

Craig’s smirk faded slightly, replaced by a flicker of curiosity. He set the rag down and tilted his head. “Alright, fine. Talk. But if you start begging again, I’m out.”

Stan took a deep breath, his hands shaking. This was it. No turning back. “Okay, so… you said at the pond you’d maybe… do the thing. In private.” He paused, his face so red he probably looked like a tomato. “I want that. Like, for real. But nobody can know. Nobody. Especially Cartman.”

Craig stared at him, unblinking, for what felt like an eternity. Then he snorted, shaking his head. “Jesus, Marsh, you’re pathetic,” he said, but there was no real venom in it. “You’re this hung up on me saying ‘good boy’? What’s next, you gonna ask for a collar?”

“Shut up!” Stan snapped, stepping closer, his desperation overriding his shame. “You don’t get it. This is… it’s messing me up, okay? I can’t stop thinking about it, and you keep making it worse with your stupid comments! So just… do it, alright? Once, in private, and maybe I can move on.”

Craig raised an eyebrow, clearly amused but also… intrigued? “Move on, huh? You sure about that?” He stepped forward, closing the gap between them, his voice dropping to that low, sarcastic drawl that made Stan’s knees weak. “Sounds like you’re hooked, boy.”

Stan’s breath hitched, and he hated how his body reacted—like Pavlov’s dog hearing a bell. He clenched his fists, trying to stay focused. “Just… do it,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “Please.”

Craig studied him, his smirk softening into something almost thoughtful. “Alright,” he said finally, glancing at the door to make sure it was still closed. “But here’s the deal: I do this, you stop acting like a psycho in public. No more meltdowns, no more begging in front of Cartman. And if anyone asks, this never happened. Got it?”

Stan nodded so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. “Got it. Totally. Swear.”

Craig sighed, like he couldn’t believe he was doing this, then reached out and ruffled Stan’s hair, just like at Token’s party. His hand was firm but not rough, and his voice was pure Craig—bored, sarcastic, perfect. “Good boy,” he said, dragging out the words like he was mocking a dog trainer.

Stan’s world tilted. His knees buckled, and he grabbed the counter to stay upright, his face burning and his heart racing. It was everything he’d been chasing—better, somehow, because it was just them, no audience, no pressure. His jeans tightened, and he prayed Craig didn’t notice, but the smirk on Craig’s face said he probably did.

“There,” Craig said, pulling his hand back and wiping it on his jeans like he’d touched something gross. “Happy now, weirdo?”

Stan couldn’t speak. He just nodded, his brain a puddle of static. “Y-Yeah,” he managed, his voice hoarse. “Thanks.”

Craig rolled his eyes. “Don’t thank me. Just don’t make this a daily thing, alright? I’m not your personal dog whisperer.” He grabbed his rag and went back to cleaning, like he hadn’t just rewired Stan’s entire nervous system.

Stan stood there, trying to remember how to breathe. It was perfect. It was too perfect. And that was the problem—he already wanted it again. Craig’s warning about not making it a daily thing? Yeah, that was gonna be impossible to follow.

Later That Night

Stan was back in his room, sprawled on his bed, staring at the ceiling with a dopey grin. The lab encounter had been worth every second of humiliation. He’d gotten what he wanted, and nobody knew—nobody except Craig, who’d probably forget about it by tomorrow. For the first time in weeks, Stan felt like he could maybe, maybe, get a handle on this.

Then his phone buzzed. He grabbed it, expecting another Cartman meme, but it was a text from Craig. Just two words: Behave, boy.

Stan’s grin vanished. His heart started pounding again, and his jeans were, once again, a problem. “Fuck,” he muttered, dropping the phone like it was on fire. Craig wasn’t forgetting. Craig was playing. And Stan was in deeper than ever.

He needed a new plan. One that kept Craig on board, kept Cartman clueless, and kept Stan from losing his mind. But as he lay there, replaying Craig’s voice in his head, one thing was clear: he wasn’t moving on anytime soon. And Craig Tucker was going to ruin him.

Chapter Text

Stan Marsh was in over his head, and he knew it. The science lab encounter with Craig Tucker had been a high he couldn’t come down from. That sarcastic “good boy,” the rough pat on his head—it was like Craig had mainlined dopamine straight into Stan’s brain. But Craig’s text—Behave, boy—had thrown a wrench into everything. It wasn’t just a one-off anymore. Craig was toying with him, dangling the fix Stan craved like a treat over a dog’s nose. And Stan, pathetic as it was, was ready to jump for it.

The problem was, he couldn’t let this spiral out of control. Cartman’s “dogboy” campaign was already a school-wide plague—some kid in gym class had left a squeaky toy on Stan’s locker, and Bebe had asked him, with a straight face, if he was “into pet play.” Stan was one viral TikTok away from social death. He needed to keep Craig’s teasing under wraps, but he also needed more of it, and the contradiction was driving him insane. He was sneaking around like a spy, dodging Cartman’s traps and praying Craig didn’t get bored and ghost him.

Stan’s latest plan was to set ground rules. If Craig was going to keep this up, they needed boundaries—times, places, limits—so Stan could get his hit without the whole town knowing. But talking to Craig was like negotiating with a brick wall that flipped you off, and Stan wasn’t exactly a master strategist. Still, he had to try, or he’d end up barking in the middle of math class.

South Park Park

Stan picked the park for the meetup. It was neutral territory, quiet after school hours, and far enough from Cartman’s usual haunts that Stan wouldn’t have to deal with him waddling up with a megaphone. He’d texted Craig to meet him by the swings, keeping it vague—“need to talk, no big deal”—to avoid sounding like the desperate mess he was. Now he was pacing near the rusty swing set, his beanie pulled low, his stomach churning. Every crunch of leaves made him jump, half-expecting Cartman to leap out with a GoPro.

Craig showed up ten minutes late, sauntering over with his hands in his pockets, his black hat tilted like he’d just walked off a movie set for Apathetic Assholes. “This better be quick, Marsh,” he said, stopping a few feet away. “I’ve got better shit to do than play therapist.”

Stan swallowed, his rehearsed speech crumbling under Craig’s stare. “Yeah, uh, cool. I just… we need to talk about… the thing.” He glanced around, making sure nobody was hiding in the bushes. “The… you know. Lab thing.”

Craig’s smirk appeared, slow and dangerous. “The lab thing,” he repeated, his voice dripping with mockery. “You mean when you practically melted because I patted your head? That thing?”

Stan’s face went scarlet. “Keep your voice down, dude!” he hissed, stepping closer. “I’m serious. This is… it’s getting out of hand. Cartman’s already on my ass, and now you’re texting me shit like—” He lowered his voice, barely audible. “Behave, boy? What the hell, Craig?”

Craig shrugged, unfazed. “Thought it was funny. Wasn’t wrong, though. You are acting like a dog waiting for a treat.” He leaned in, just enough to make Stan’s pulse spike. “So, what? You want me to stop? Or you want more?”

Stan’s brain stalled. He wanted to say stop, to end this before it ruined him. But his mouth betrayed him. “More,” he mumbled, then immediately wanted to punch himself. “I mean—not like that! I just… I need it to be chill. Like, private. No texting, no public shit. Just… sometimes. When nobody’s around.”

Craig raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying Stan’s meltdown. “You’re making a lot of demands for a guy who’s begging,” he said, his tone so dry it could start a fire. “What’s in it for me? I’m not your personal kink dispenser.”

Stan froze. He hadn’t thought about that. What did Craig get out of this? Was he just screwing with him for laughs? “Uh… I dunno,” he said, scrambling. “What do you want? I could… owe you a favor? Cover for you in detention? Buy you pizza?”

Craig snorted. “Pizza? Lame.” He tilted his head, studying Stan like he was a puzzle he didn’t care enough to solve. “Tell you what. I’ll keep it going—private, like you want—but I call the shots. When, where, how. You don’t get to nag me about it. And if you fuck up and let Cartman find out, I’m done.”

Stan’s stomach flipped, a mix of dread and excitement. Craig calling the shots sounded dangerous, but it also meant more of that voice, that hand, that feeling. “Okay,” he said, nodding. “Deal. But you gotta promise nobody knows. Not Clyde, not Tweek, nobody.”

Craig rolled his eyes. “I don’t gossip, Marsh. That’s your problem.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to that low, sarcastic drawl that made Stan’s knees weak. “So, you want a taste now, or you gonna wait like a good boy?”

Stan’s breath caught, and he nearly choked. “N-Now?” he stammered, glancing around the empty park. “Here?”

Craig smirked, clearly enjoying Stan’s panic. “Relax, nobody’s around.” He reached out, ruffling Stan’s hair with that same lazy confidence, his voice a perfect mix of boredom and mockery. “Good boy. Sit.”

Stan’s legs obeyed before his brain could catch up. He dropped to a crouch, his face burning, his heart racing. The swings creaked in the wind, and for a second, it was just them—Craig’s hand in his hair, Stan’s world narrowing to that single point of contact. Then Craig pulled back, flipping him off. “There. Don’t say I never do anything for you.”

Stan scrambled to his feet, his jeans tight and his dignity in tatters. “Fuck,” he muttered, adjusting his hoodie to hide the evidence. “You’re… you’re evil, dude.”

“Whatever,” Craig said, already turning to leave. “Behave, boy. I’ll text you when I feel like it.” He sauntered off, leaving Stan alone by the swings, his head spinning.

Later That Night

Stan was back in his room, pacing like a caged animal. The park had been a win—Craig was in, the deal was set, and nobody had seen. But it was also a loss, because Stan was already craving the next time, and Craig’s “I call the shots” rule meant he was at Craig’s mercy. He checked his phone obsessively, half-hoping, half-dreading another text.

Meanwhile, across town, Cartman was scheming. He’d noticed Stan’s absence at school and Craig’s weirdly calm vibe at the pond. “Something’s up with those two,” he told Kenny over a bucket of fried chicken. “I’m gonna find out what, and when I do, Stan’s dogboy ass is mine.”

Kenny, sipping a stolen beer, just grinned. “Good luck, dude. Craig’s not dumb. And Stan’s… well, he’s fucked.”

Stan, oblivious to Cartman’s plotting, flopped onto his bed, staring at the ceiling. He’d gotten what he wanted, but at what cost? Craig was running the show now, and Stan was just along for the ride. He closed his eyes, replaying the park—the hand, the voice, the sit—and groaned. He was so screwed. But for the first time in weeks, he didn’t care. Craig Tucker was his drug, and Stan was all in.

Until Cartman found out. And that was a problem for another day.

Chapter Text

Stan Marsh had crossed the point of no return, and he was reveling in it. The school assembly had been a crucible—Cartman’s  “Dogboy Diaries” expose, meant to destroy Stan. Stan’s secret—his collar, his leash, his surrender to Craig Tucker—was out, laid bare when he stood in the gym, collar in hand, and declared himself Craig’s. The shock, the jeers, the whispers—they didn’t matter. Stan was free, unashamed, and completely, irrevocably Craig’s.

The gang was reeling. Kyle’s worry had turned to stunned silence, Kenny’s smirks were now open grins, Token was cautiously supportive, Clyde was horrified, Tweek was spiraling about “BDSM CULTS,” and Butters thought it was “awfully sweet.” Jimmy’s leash puns were relentless, but Stan didn’t flinch. He was done hiding, done fighting his hunger. The collar was no longer a secret shame but a badge of devotion, and Stan wore it proudly, clinging to Craig like a dog to its master—not just kneeling, but wrapping around him, nuzzling, whining, utterly unselfconscious in his need.

And South Park was adjusting to the new reality: Stan Marsh belonged to Craig Tucker, and nobody was stupid enough to challenge that. But the final test was how Stan would live this truth, not just in private but in the chaotic, judgmental world of South Park.

South Park High School: The New Dynamic

The school hallways were a gauntlet of stares and whispers, but Stan strode through them with a confidence he’d never had before. The collar was around his neck, unhidden, the leather glinting under the fluorescent lights. Craig walked beside him, his smirk sharp, the leash coiled in his pocket but ever-present in their dynamic. Stan didn’t just follow—he clung, his arm looped through Craig’s, his shoulder brushing Craig’s, his head tilting to nuzzle Craig’s neck when they paused at their lockers.

“Craig, you got a pen?” Stan asked, his voice soft, almost whiny, as he leaned into Craig’s side, his fingers tugging playfully at Craig’s jacket. He didn’t care that kids were watching, some snickering, others averting their eyes. He was Craig’s, and he wanted everyone to know.

Craig raised an eyebrow, his smirk amused but firm. “You’re pushing it, boy,” he said, his voice low, tugging Stan’s collar lightly to pull him closer. “Behave, or I’m putting you on a tighter leash.”

Stan grinned, undeterred, and nuzzled Craig’s shoulder, a soft, dog-like whine escaping him. “But I’m being good,” he teased, his eyes sparkling with mischief. The hallway buzzed, but Stan was in his own world, wrapped around Craig like a puppy begging for attention.

Kyle, watching from across the hall, looked like he’d aged a decade. “Dude,” he said, approaching with Token and Kenny in tow. “I’m trying to be cool with this, but… you’re really leaning into it.”

Stan didn’t pull away, just leaned harder into Craig, his arm tightening around Craig’s waist. “Yeah, so?” he said, his tone light but defiant. “I’m Craig’s. No point hiding it.”

Kenny cackled, nudging Token. “Told you he’s gone full pet. Pay up, man.”

Token sighed, handing Kenny a five. “I thought he’d at least be subtle,” he muttered, but his smile was warm. “You happy, Stan?”

Stan nodded, his cheek pressed against Craig’s shoulder. “Happier than ever,” he said, and Craig ruffled his hair, a silent good boy that made Stan’s heart soar.

Craig, for his part, was adapting to Stan’s clinginess with a mix of amusement and control. “You’re a fucking nuisance, Marsh,” he muttered, but his hand stayed in Stan’s hair, guiding him through the hall like a master with a devoted dog. “Keep it up, and I’m making you crawl in the cafeteria.”

Stan’s eyes lit up, half-joking, half-hopeful. “Promise?” he whined, nuzzling Craig’s neck again, earning a groan from Kyle and a laugh from Kenny.

“Jesus, get a room,” Kyle said, throwing up his hands. “I’m supportive, but I don’t need to see…this.”

“Then don’t look, Broflovski,” Craig said, flipping him off, his smirk unwavering. He tugged Stan’s collar, pulling him toward class. “Come on, boy. Heel.”

Stan followed, practically bouncing, his devotion on full display. The whispers didn’t faze him; the stares were irrelevant. He was Craig’s, and he’d never felt more alive.

Stark’s Pond

That weekend, the gang gathered at Stark’s Pond, a tense attempt to reclaim normalcy. Kyle was skipping rocks, still processing. Kenny was sprawled on the grass, flirting with a random jogger. Token was mediating a spat between Clyde and Tweek, who was freaking out about “COLLAR-INDUCED MIND CONTROL.” Jimmy was testing new material, with Butters clapping like always. Craig sat on a bench, Stan draped over him, his head in Craig’s lap, one hand playing with Craig’s jacket as he whined softly for attention.

“Dude, you’re like a labrador,” Token said, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “Don’t you ever… chill?”

Stan grinned, nuzzling Craig’s thigh. “Why chill when I’ve got Craig?” he said, his voice muffled but content. Craig’s hand rested on his head, a lazy pat that said good boy without words.

Clyde gagged dramatically. “This is worse than when my dog humps my leg,” he said, dodging a pebble Kenny chucked at him.

“GAH! It’s UNNATURAL!” Tweek shrieked, spilling his coffee. “What if it’s CONTAGIOUS? What if we ALL end up COLLAR-CRAZED?!”

“Tweek, relax,” Token said, patting his shoulder. “It’s just Stan being… Stan.”

Butters piped up, starry-eyed. “I think it’s real sweet! Like a puppy lovin’ its owner! Ain’t that right, Stan?”

Stan nodded, his cheek pressed against Craig’s jeans. “Exactly,” he said, and Craig’s smirk softened, his fingers tightening in Stan’s hair.

Kyle, tossing a rock, finally spoke. “I don’t get it, but… if you’re happy, I’m good,” he said, his voice grudging but sincere. “Just don’t, like, lick him in front of me.”

“No promises,” Stan teased, and Craig snorted, tugging the leash he’d clipped on discreetly, making Stan whine and nuzzle closer.

Kenny raised his flask. “To Stan, the horniest puppy in South Park,” he said, and the group groaned, but the laughter was real, the tension easing. They were adjusting, slowly, to Stan’s new reality.

Craig’s House: The Eternal Bond

That night, Stan was at Craig’s, the collar a permanent fixture, the leash in Craig’s hand. The house was theirs, Craig’s parents out, the world shut out. Stan was on the floor, curled against Craig’s legs, his head resting on Craig’s knee, whining softly as Craig’s hand moved through his hair. The TV flickered, ignored, the only sound Stan’s contented hums and Craig’s low chuckles.

“You’re a fucking menace, boy,” Craig said, tugging the leash to pull Stan closer. “Clinging to me like a damn koala. You ever gonna stop?”

“Nope,” Stan said, grinning, his lips brushing Craig’s knee in a playful nuzzle. “I’m yours, Craig. Forever.”

Craig’s smirk was soft, his eyes warm. And Stan melted, his hunger sated but endless. The collar was his home, the leash his lifeline, and Craig was his everything.

Cartman was a memory, his schemes dust. The gang was adapting, their judgment fading into acceptance. South Park could stare, mock, or cheer—Stan didn’t care. He was Craig’s, wrapping around him, whining, nuzzling, a dog devoted to its master, and he’d never be anything else.

Craig tugged the leash, guiding Stan’s face up, his voice a promise. “Good boy.”

Stan obeyed, his heart full, his world complete. He was Craig’s, unashamed, unleashed, and utterly, perfectly his.

The End.