okay, so in the vein of writing again ft. someone asking me for peppermint content, i thought i'd share this which i wanted to tack onto the end of chapter nine of pep ( where dying lovesick stan shows up on wendy's doorstep & #bendy rehabilitates bender!stan ) but that chapter was too long and i was unsure about it...
but i mentioned ravenstan's upper, inner thigh sh scars and that's an important universal headstannon to me...which i actually wrote extensively about bc of how important it is to me </3.
-- so given that i'm not posting, i felt like i should share it w/ you. :')
it's not style...per say, but it is platonic soulmate stendy and goes into stan's sh journey. there is some triggering imagery, so tw for obvious mention and discussion of self harm, suicidal ideation and a heavy blood tw, also i wrote this five months ago so be nice to me, but! ya!
tldr; i love you pep stan <3 hope you heal, baby <333
“But….Wait, Stan, there's something…”
Wendy squinted suspiciously at Stan's clavicle where right next to that faint tracheotomy scar that Kyle had made saving Stan's life, was a mark that was not made for business, but for pleasure. She ran her finger along it agonizingly, expression starting to simmer with discomfort.
“...On your neck.”
Her previously playful expression had dissolved into dead seriousness. She looked cautiously over Stan's shoulder at Bebe, who was completely distracted, shooting the shit with the Postmates delivery driver.
“You’re not…” Her voice was a horrified whisper.
“You’re not h u r t i n g yourself again, are you?”
And the very first time that day, intrepid, unbreakable Wendy Testaburger looked truly terrified.
Because Stanley Marsh was a product of harm...
And he harmed himself.
/ ***
With expensive kitchen knives that would go missing after the dishes were done, with cheap corner-store razors that cut more than just his hair, with too-hard, touchdown technical tackles, with the lighters whose artificial flame was the warmest touch he'd felt all week, with potent liquid poisons,
with words,
with words,
with w o r d s.
Stan's alcoholism was a poorly kept secret because he was loud about that one as a decisive diversion tactic. But he was dead silent about his self-harm. Dead. Silent. When you drank, you looked cool, you made people laugh and everyone liked you. But if you hurt yourself in an ugly, disquieting way, you didn't look cool, people didn't laugh and everyone hated you. That was Stan's worst fear: that people would grow to hate him as much as he hated himself.
Perfect Boy Next Door, High School Quarterback, Prom King, It Boy, Small Town Treasure Stanley Randall William Marsh had a disgusting secret and while it was hard to hide with the hungry eyes of everyone you knew on you at all times, Honest Stan learned how to lie.
And well.
It was a secret he kept from everyone. He had fooled his whole family, blindsided his best friends, even Kyle. Especially Kyle. His favorite person on planet Earth, who he was scared would find him so monstrously hideous and disfigured that he would never speak to him again in horror and disgust.
This list of people Stan had lied to also regrettably included his long term girlfriend, who knew the back of his hand better than her own.
Wendy Testaburger was summertime fine. She was as scary as she was smokin' hot. A regulation South Park High babe and betty.
Given even the whisper of a chance to sleep with her, people would go to war, but the second Wendy tried to take off Stan's pants he waved the white flag and floored it. Cartman and Kenny gave him regular onslaughts of shit about having the hottest girlfriend in the world and never nailing her, but he always insisted that they were just "waiting for the right moment."
But that moment would never come.
Because Stan wouldn't let her see.
Wendy couldn't know.
No one could ever know.
So, horny teenage boy Stan, who was actually quite skilled at baseball, never got past second base. Well, on him anyways.
He did a n u m b e r of scandalous things to Wendy, but he never let her return the favor. Ever. And more notably, he'd done all those sexually deviant things almost completely clothed. Stan nearly never took his pants off, so if you caught him in his boxers, it was high praise because that was a serious undertaking. A mishap that usually only happened when he wasted and even then, his guard was up enough that his pants never came down.
Until one day when they were sixteen. It was their anniversary and Wendy had given Stan a little card with five things on it: an address, a room number, a key card, a time and a magenta lipsticked kiss as a signature. Strawberry Seduction. Wendy's favorite.
And Stan had just hoped to take Wendy around the hotel gift shop, hit the arcade while Wendy got her nails done, eat at the fancy French restaurant and soak in the hot tub until they were both gross and pruny. But Wendy...had a different idea. Because when Stan finally flung open that hotel door, holding a teddy bear and a bouquet of roses, Wendy was waiting for him...in bed, in lacy lingerie, staring seductively, sinfully strawberry scented.
Stanley Marsh was living every South Park high school student's wet dream and it was his fucking nightmare.
Which quickly escalated as Wendy tried to rip all of Stan's clothes off and backed against a wall, Stan had front-flipped over her shoulder before locking himself in the hotel bathroom.
It was the worst fight Stan and Wendy had ever had.
And they had had it between a bathroom door.
At the emotional end of it, Wendy's throat was raw from screaming, her eyes were raw from crying and her heart was raw from trying and trying and trying as she yelled: "Is some sick joke to you? Am I a fucking joke to you, Stanley? Why won't you let me touch you? WHY? Are you fucking with me? Are you using me for something? For my body?! Or is it because you think I'm ugly? Is that why you won't sleep with me? Is it because I'm some kind of horrible monster?"
To which Stan promptly unlocked the door and stepped out.
"No, it's me. I'm the monster."
And the only sound that interrupted that insidious silence was the sound of a complementary hotel razor falling out of Stan's shaky, bloodstained hand and clambering to the floor.
Because Stan was completely naked, vulnerable and exposed in a way that he had never been with anyone else before. And every square inch of skin on Stan's legs that could be covered with a pair of boxers or swim trunks was marred with an hideous white scar, which stood out starkly against Stan's skin, jagged and odious. Save for one. It was brand new and the blood it beckoned ran down Stan's naked leg and shallowly pooled by his left foot.
But Stan didn't faint. No, the ironic and heartbreaking twist that Stan's fear of blood took was this: He only fainted when it was somebody else's blood. When someone else was bleeding, it devastated Stan, but when he was bleeding, it d e l i g h t e d him.
It was his only way out.
Wendy had finally seen it. His secret. He looked as ugly on the outside as he felt on the inside.
And he figured she would point and laugh, run or hide. But she just threw her arms around him and held him. And after a long pause, simply said. "You are the most beautiful person I have ever seen."
Sixteen year old Stanley Marsh did not have wild, crazy, animal style sex with his girlfriend that night. But she did give him a bath, where she lovingly lifeguarded him, washed away all the blood and tears, threading her hands through his hair, baptizing him for new beginnings.
She wrapped his wound up with gauze and sealed it with a Strawberry Seduction kiss before Wendy dressed Stan to the nine's in her oversized Nasty Woman sleep shirt and pink fuzzy pajama pants before they climbed into bed, without a note of sexual innuendo.
Stan did not smash his super sexy significant other on the night of their anniversary, but they did share uncomfortable silences, cry cathartically, talk for hours, devour room service breakfast for dinner, laugh at stupid game shows on the dinky hotel tv and start some Matt Damon movie that they'd never finished because they had accidentally fallen asleep, ironically, during the romantic part.
And since that day, Stan has been two years sober from cutting.
But when his father screams in his face, Stan notices that his pocket knife glitters golden in the low light. Or one particularly bad days, when Stan is shaving his face, he holds the razor blade a little too long over his carotid artery.
When that happens, Stan puts the weapon down and texts Wendy, who always talks him off the ledge.
And while the past two weeks had been absolute hell, Stan had not broken his promise to Wendy on the night of their anniversary.
Stan had not hurt himself.
Not with a b l a d e at least.
/ ***
He shook his head adamantly.
“No! No, nothing like that. I promise.” He met Wendy's frightened eyes earnestly, before smiling at the ghost of a memory. He looked a little embarrassed as he traced the line. Man-made. But not by him. “Kyle actually left that…when we kissed the other night. He got me pretty good, but you should see the other guy.”
Stan winked charmingly, disarmingly, but Wendy's guard never fell.
“Okay, but you’d tell me if you were. You’d --You’d tell me if you felt like you wanted to again…” She insisted, her words desperate and haunted. Wendy's grip tightened as her voice came undone.
“S t a n . You’d tell me, right?”
Stan smiled softly and knowingly.
“Of -- Of course, Wen.” He coaxed gently, carefully detaching her fingers from his forearm and placing the softest kiss there.
“You’re my girl.”
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