Worst Idea Yet Ch. 6
Pairing: Stan Marsh x Reader
Words: around 3k
Tags: sp high school au, slow burn, friends to lovers, smoking/underage drinking, drug use, take dating troupe, sarcastic chaotic reader, reader has body piercings, sexual tension, crude language, teen angst, fluff, eventual smut (they're 18!!!)
⋆｡°✩ 🏈 Chapter 6: Making The Drama Club Lesbians Proud🍃 ✩°｡⋆
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The next day, you found Stan by his truck before school, leaning against the driver’s side door with his hands shoved in his jacket pockets and his beanie pulled low like he was trying to disappear into the fabric.
You approached with your usual morning energy: iced coffee in one hand, gum in your mouth, backpack hanging off one shoulder half hazardously. Stan looked up when you got close. His eyes flicked over you once, then away.
“Good Morning, my lovely boyfriend thing,” you said brightly.
He sighed like you’d already exhausted him and it wasn’t even eight yet. “Morning.”
You stopped in front of him, squinting. “You look suspicious.”
“I always look like this.”
“Nuhuh, you usually look depressed. Today you look suspiciously depressed.”
Stan gave you a flat look. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“It would if you were smart.”
“Then explain it.”
“No...”
He rolled his eyes, but his mouth twitched at the corner. That tiny almost-smile did something stupid to your chest. You hated it. You hated it so much that you immediately shoved your iced coffee into his hand. “Hold this.”
“What? Why?”
“Boyfriend duties, duh.” You said like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“You have hands.”
“And you have the privilege of holding my drink. Don’t fumble, Marsh.”
Stan stared at the cup like it had personally offended him. “This is the dumbest fake relationship ever.”
“Then why are you blushing babe?”
“I’m cold.”
“You’re in Colorado. That excuse is basically always available. Doesn’t make it true.”
His face darkened. “Shut up.”
You stepped closer, grinning, and reached up to adjust his beanie. “You’re so easy.”
Stan froze a little beneath your hands. Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But you noticed. You noticed the way his shoulders went still, the way his eyes flicked down to your mouth for half a second before immediately shooting away like he’d committed a crime. Your fingers paused at the edge of his beanie.
Something warm and electric crawled up your arm.
Absolutely fucking not.
You yanked the beanie down over his eyes. “There,” you said loudly. “Now you look even more emotionally unavailable.”
“Dude—” Stan shoved the beanie back up, glaring. “What the hell was that for?”
You snatched your iced coffee back and took a victorious sip. “Love you too.”
He opened his mouth to respond, probably with something bitter and sarcastic, but then his gaze shifted over your shoulder.
You followed it. Wendy and Bebe were crossing the parking lot. Perfect timing. Stan tensed beside you. You could feel it before he even moved. That familiar little shift in him, the way he closed off all at once, like someone had slammed a door behind his eyes.
Oh, Stan.
You turned back to him and, without thinking too hard about it, stepped into his space. Stan blinked down at you. “Woah personal space—”
“Method acting,” you whispered. Then you slipped your hand into his and leaned your body into his side, clinging on to him. His hand was cold at first, but after a second his grip tightened around yours. Slightly. Carefully.
Wendy’s eyes flicked toward you two. Bebe leaned in to whisper something to her. Stan swallowed. You bumped your shoulder against his. “Breathe, dumbass.”
“I am breathing.”
“You’re doing it weird though.”
He let out one sharp breath through his nose, almost a laugh. “You’re so fucking annoying.”
“And yet,” you said, raising your joined hands a little, “you’re holding my hand.”
“For the bit.”
“Sure, babe.”
His thumb shifted against the side of your hand. Barely anything. A nothing movement. A completely insignificant, not-worth-thinking-about, totally fake relationship thumb brush.
Your brain immediately lit itself on fire.
Wendy passed by with Bebe, giving Stan a polite little smile. “Hey, Stan.”
Stan’s hand tightened. “Hey,” he said, voice rougher than usual.
Wendy looked at you next. Not mean. Not friendly either. Just curious in that sharp Wendy way. God did she scare the fuck out of you sometimes.
“Hey,” she said to you.
You smiled sweetly. “Hey, Wendy.”
Bebe gave you a look that was entirely too entertained. “Cute.”
You squeezed Stan’s hand harder. “Thanks. He’s house-trained and everything.”
Stan turned his head slowly. “What?”
Bebe laughed. You patted Stan’s chest with your free hand. “Mostly.”
Stan looked like he wanted to walk into oncoming traffic, but he didn’t let go of your hand.
Wendy and Bebe walked away, whispering between themselves. You waited until they were far enough before dropping Stan’s hand like it had burned you. Except it had kind of done the opposite. Which was worse.
Stan flexed his fingers once, then shoved both hands into his pockets. “Was that believable?” he asked.
You took a long sip of your coffee to buy yourself time. “Yeah. Ten outta ten. Oscar bait. The lesbians in drama club would give us a standing ovation full of tears an’ everything.”
His ears went pink. “Cool,” he muttered.
A beat passed. Then he glanced sideways at you. “House-trained?”
You shrugged. “I panicked.”
“You panicked and called me a dog?”
“I said mostly house-trained. Don’t be an ungrateful bitch.”
Stan shook his head, but this time he actually smiled. Not a big one. Not enough for anyone else to call attention to. But you saw it. You saw it, and your stomach did something deeply embarrassing. You were starting to think this fake dating thing was a bad idea. Oh well
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By lunch, you regretted telling Kenny the truth. He hasn’t said anything yet, but you could feel his stupid little eyes already judging you from under that orange hood.
He slid into the seat beside you instead of across from you, which immediately made you suspicious.
“What?” you asked.
Kenny tilted his head. “What?”
“You’re looking at me weird.”
“I always look at you weird.”
Stan sat down on your other side with his tray, looking impossibly tired. Kyle followed, still carrying the expression of someone who had spent all night building a conspiracy board in his room. Cartman dropped into his seat last, already chewing before his ass fully hit the bench.
Kenny leaned closer to you, voice low. “So. How’s the fake boyfriend?”
You kicked him under the table. Hard. Kenny made a muffled wheezing sound, then bent over his tray, shoulders shaking with laughter. Stan looked over. “What happened?”
“He’s poor,” you said immediately.
Kenny wheezed harder. Kyle narrowed his eyes. “That doesn’t explain anything.”
“It explains a lot, actually,” Cartman said through a mouthful of food. “Poverty is hilarious.”
“Shut up, Cartman,” Kyle and Stan said at the same time.
You leaned back against Stan’s side before you could overthink it. “Aw. Couple goals. You guys are finishing each other’s sentences.”
Kenny’s eyes flicked to the way your shoulder pressed against Stan’s arm. His eyebrows lifted. You gave him a look that said don’t you fucking dare. He gave you a look back that said I am absolutely daring.
Kyle set his fork down with surgical precision. “Okay. I’m just going to say it. This is weird.”
“So you keep saying.” Stan muttered.
“Because it keeps being weird!” Kyle snapped. “You two are acting like you’re dating, but also like you’ve never touched another human being before.”
Cartman gasped. “Oh my god, Kyle’s right. They have virgin chemistry.”
You pointed at him with your spoon. “Say virgin chemistry again and I’ll chemistry your face into the table, tubby.”
“That doesn’t even make sense, junkie.”
Stan’s head snapped up. “Dude, don’t call her that.”
The table went quiet for half a second. You blinked. Cartman looked mildly surprised, then immediately smug. “Ohhh, look at Stan defending his trashy little girlfriend.”
Stan’s jaw clenched. “I said shut up.”
Something in his voice shifted. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just sharp. Protective?
Your chest did that awful warm thing again. Kenny noticed. Of course Kenny fucking noticed. His eyes slid to you, softer now but still amused. Kyle looked between you and Stan, suspicion briefly replaced by something more careful. Like maybe this wasn’t adding up the way he thought it would. You recovered first because emotional vulnerability made you itchy.
“Thanks, babe,” you said, reaching up to pinch Stan’s cheek. “My hero. My knight in crusty Vans.”
Stan shoved your hand away, face red. “Don’t.”
“Too late. I’m swooning.”
“You’re embarrassing.”
“You love it.”
He didn’t answer fast enough. That was the problem. He didn’t answer fast enough, and Kenny’s eyes practically lit up like Christmas lights someone had plugged into a wall. Kyle noticed too. Cartman, thankfully, was too busy opening another bag of chips with his teeth.
Stan cleared his throat and looked down at his tray. “Whatever.”
You turned your attention to his own bag of chips because theft was easier than feelings. “Mine,” you announced, grabbing it.
“Dude—”
“You defended my honor. I need tribute.”
“That’s my lunch.”
“And I’m your girlfriend.”
“Fake girlfriend,” Kenny coughed under his breath.
You kicked him again. Stan looked up sharply. “What?”
Kenny held up both hands, still laughing. “Nothing, man. Allergies.”
Kyle stared at him. “You don’t have allergies.”
“I’m allergic to bullshit.”
You smiled dangerously. “Kenny.”
He leaned back, grin hidden by his hood. “What? I’m being supportive.”
“You’re being a little slutty detective.”
“Can I put that on my college applications?”
“You’re not going to college dipshit.”
“Damn. True.”
Stan looked between you both, still confused but too emotionally exhausted to investigate. “Why are you two always like this?”
“Chemistry,” Kenny said.
You shot him another warning look. Cartman immediately gagged.
“Chemisty with Kinny? He smells like poor people and welfare.”
“You smell like beef sticks and entitlement,” you snapped back.
Kyle rubbed his temples. “I hate this table.”
Stan sighed. “Yeah. Same.”
But when Wendy walked past again, slower this time, Stan’s hand found your knee under the table. Not your thigh. Not anything dramatic. Just his hand resting lightly on your knee. A prop. A fake dating prop. A totally normal, strategic, performative prop.
You froze for half a second. Stan didn’t look at you. His eyes were forward, jaw tight, pretending like this was easy. His palm was warm. You swallowed. Then you covered his hand with yours. Wendy’s glance landed there. Then on Stan’s face. Then yours. Something unreadable crossed her expression before she looked away.
Stan exhaled slowly. You leaned toward his ear, keeping your voice low. “She saw.”
“Yeah,” he murmured.
“You okay?”
He hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah.”
But his hand didn’t move. Neither did yours.
Across the table, Kenny watched the whole thing with the expression of a man witnessing a car crash in slow motion and deciding, honestly, this was great entertainment.
You mouthed, “Shut up.”
Kenny mouthed back, “You’re fucked.”
Unfortunately, you were starting to suspect he might be right.
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After school, Stan drove you home. That wasn’t part of the rules. Technically, he’d only agreed to walk you to class and do basic public couple behavior when needed. But when the final bell rang and you started toward the parking lot, he just followed.
“You stalking me now, Marsh?” you asked, spinning around to walk backward in front of him.
He shrugged. “I have a truck.”
“No shit? Hadn’t noticed.”
“You need a ride or not?”
You grinned. “Are you asking because you care about me, or because Wendy’s by the front doors?”
Stan’s eyes flicked past you. Wendy was, in fact, near the front doors. He looked caught. You laughed.
“Relax. I’ll accept your emotionally constipated ride offer.”
“Great. Fantastic. Thrilled.”
You hopped into the passenger seat like always, immediately messing with the radio. Stan slapped your hand away. “Don’t.”
“Your music makes me want to become a missing person.”
“Your music sounds like auditory war crimes”
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
He gave you a sideways look as he pulled out of the lot. “That’s sad.”
“You’re sad.”
“Yeah.”
You blinked, then snorted despite yourself. “Emo.”
For a minute, the truck was quiet except for the rumble of the engine and some miserable guitar song playing low through the speakers. Snow sat dirty and gray along the curbs. The sky looked heavy, like it was deciding whether to ruin everyone’s day.
Stan drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift. You stared at it. Not intentionally. Just… it was there. And your brain, being the absolute worst roommate in your skull, kept replaying the way his hand had felt on your knee at lunch. Warm. Careful. A little shaky. You looked out the window instead.
“So,” Stan said eventually.
“Oh no.”
“What?”
“You said ‘so’ like you’re about to have feelings at me.”
“I’m not having feelings at you.”
“That sounds exactly like something someone about to have feelings at me would say.”
He sighed. “Can you please shut up for, like, ten seconds?”
“No promises,” you grinned.
Stan’s fingers tapped against the steering wheel. “Thanks. For lunch.”
You glanced at him.
“For stealing your chips?”
“For…” He frowned, searching for the words like they were hidden somewhere under the dashboard. “For checking if I was okay. When Wendy walked by.”
Oh. Gross. Emotional sincerity.
Your fight-or-flight response activated immediately. “Yeah, well,” you said, forcing casualness into your voice. “Can’t have my fake boyfriend having a public breakdown. Bad for my brand.”
His mouth twitched. “Your brand?”
“Hot, sexy, unstable, mysterious.”
“Sure.”
“Thank you.”
Another quiet beat. Then Stan said, softer, “It helped.”
You looked over. He wasn’t looking at you. His eyes stayed on the road, face half-shadowed beneath the edge of his beanie. “It helped,” he repeated, like admitting it physically hurt. “Not feeling like a total idiot.”
You chewed the inside of your cheek. Your usual jokes lined up in your head, ready to throw themselves on the grenade. Instead, you said, “You’re not a total idiot.”
Stan glanced at you, eyebrows raised. You held up a hand. “Don’t make it weird. You’re like… seventy percent idiot max.”
He huffed a laugh. A real one. Small, but real. “There she is,” he muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, what?”
“Nothing.”
“Stanley Marsh, do not ‘nothing’ me.”
He groaned. “God, don’t call me Stanley.”
“Why? Too intimate? Should I save it for pillow talk?”
His face went pink instantly. “Jesus Christ.”
You cackled, pleased with yourself. Then the truck pulled up in front of your house. Neither of you moved immediately. Which was weird. Usually you jumped out, flipped him off, stole something from the passenger seat, and fucked off. But now there was this pause. This dumb, heavy pause sitting between you like a third person. Stan’s hand was still near the gear shift. You wanted to touch it. You did not touch it. You were not insane. Mostly…
“Well,” you said, grabbing your bag. “Thanks for the ride, pookie bear.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Okay, sweetie pie.”
“Worse.”
“Snookums?”
“I’m kicking you out.”
You laughed and opened the door, cold South Park air rushing in. Before you climbed out, Stan said your name. You looked back.
He seemed like he regretted speaking before he even finished thinking. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Tomorrow,” he said finally. “Same thing?”
You tilted your head. “Same thing?”
“Ride. School. Whatever.” He looked away. “For the bit.”
You smiled, but it felt strange on your face. “Yeah. For the bit.”
Stan nodded. You hopped out, shut the door, and walked backward toward your house, pointing at him dramatically.
“Don’t miss me too much, Marsh!”
“Already forgot you exist.”
“Liar!”
He rolled his eyes, but he stayed parked there until you reached your front door. You noticed. You pretended not to.
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That night, Kenny texted you.
Kenny: so how long before u admit ur fake dating is getting weird
Y/N: how long before u admit ur obsessed with me 😬
Kenny: already admitted that years ago babe keep up
Y/N: die 🥰🥰🥰
Kenny: been there done that
You stared at the screen, grinning despite yourself. Then another message popped up.
Kenny: fr tho be careful
Your grin faded a little.
Y/N: with what??
Kenny: stan
you
wendy
the whole dumb thing
You rolled onto your back, phone held above your face.
Y/N: wow look at u having emotional depth gross 🤢
Kenny: don’t tell anyone I’ll lose street cred
Y/N: what street cred ur poor
Kenny: exactly streets are all I have 🤧
You laughed under your breath, but Kenny’s warning sat in your chest weirdly. Be careful. You hated when people said that. Careful was boring. Careful was for people who planned ahead and drank water and didn’t agree to fake date their emotionally unstable friend for free weed and maybe a little attention. Your phone buzzed again. Not Kenny this time.
Stan: found a song you might not hate
A link came through. You clicked it. It was still sad as hell, because of course it was, but less unbearable than his usual playlist. Softer. Warmer. Something with a girl’s voice and a guitar that sounded like a porch light left on. You listened for thirty seconds. Then texted back.
Y/N: omg is this character development marsh??? 🤩 did my bullying work????
Stan: nvm I take it back
Y/N: no no booo send more I’m training you like a shelter dog
Stan: house-trained shelter dog?
You paused. Then smiled before you could stop yourself.
Y/N: mostly
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Stan: night idiot
Y/N: Gn dearest shelter dog 🐶
You set your phone on your chest and stared at the ceiling in the dark. Somewhere outside, a car passed slowly, headlights sliding across your wall and disappearing.
It’s fake, you reminded yourself again. But this time, the thought didn’t land right. This time, it sounded less like a reminder and more like a warning.
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