#there Is one other goth in mall au though. i think it shouldn’t be too hard to guess who!

[comfymoth]

is goth quackity part of the mall au as well

haha, not quite! as is, these are my two designs for mall au quackity— he’s just kinda slouchy! i’m having a hell of a time choosing between them though. do you guys wanna vote?

[abalonetea]

making up and going out

Look! I wrote an actual complete thing (sort of) instead of just a random scene! @sawyer-is-unisex had some lovely headcanons which served as the inspiration for this story. I might use this as a start for an AU that gets added too later, but I'm pretty happy with how it all turned out as a stand alone.

Stan is a sad child.

  When Stan is ten years old, Wendy breaks up with him for the first time, and it’s enough to make his heart stop. The whole world seems to fracture around him, tilting on end, sending him slipping sideways across the playground and into the monkey bars, where the metal twists around his limbs and threatens to swallow him whole.   And he tries to find solid footing to stand on, but none of his friends have been in love yet – with the exception of Kenny, but Stan doesn’t think that you can really call that love – doesn’t think, at that moment, there’s actually a word for it. But he knows that they don’t understand and even Kyle just wants to move on.   “Girlfriends are over rated,” he says, flippantly. Kyle looks over his shoulder, only to find that Cartman and Kenny are already gone. “Let’s just go, man. I’ll let you have my pudding cup.”   Except pudding cups didn’t fix things. Stan tried to find the words to explain that but he couldn’t. “No,” says Stan. “It’s fine. I’m just…gonna go hang out somewhere else.”   “Dude,” says Kyle, frowning. “They’ve got tapioca today.”   “Yeah, man, I know. I’m just not hungry.”   “You love tapioca.”   “I just don’t want to, Kyle. I’m going outside,” snaps Stan, even though he isn’t really angry, and certainly not at Kyle.   He thinks that he’s just sad.  

  By eleven, Stan has managed to piece his heart back together, using bits of black eyeliner and nail polish remover. When he’s thirteen there’s a cross necklace tucked into his dresser drawer and bottles under his bed and something about looking in the mirror that makes him feel utterly wrong, and it doesn’t change a year later, when Randy boxes him up for a trip to the steakhouse in North Park to celebrate his birthday and Stan can’t get anything to eat except for a plate of fried onions.   “So,” says Randy, trying to be conversational while they wait for their dinner to be served. “Are you and that girl still dating?”   Stan pushes a soggy piece of breaded onion across his plate. “Who, Wendy?”   “Sure, sure, that one. I haven’t seen any girls over at the house, Stanley.” Randy says it in a way that makes the whole thing come off as wrong. Like there’s something about being single that’s a crime.   And, sure, Stan isn’t actually single, but that doesn’t really matter here. He and Wendy have both come to the agreement that it’s better if they just stay out of the Marsh house.   Stan shrugs.   Randy frowns. He swipes a piece of Stan’s fried onion. “You need to bring her over sometime, Stanley. Your mother will like it. And, you know – Stanley, you know that you’re going to have to make a move at some point, right? That’s how things go when you hit…middle school?” Randy narrows his eyes, like he can’t remember what grade Stan’s actually in. “If you don’t keep her happy, someone else is gonna come in and grab that ass.”   “Dad,” whines Stan, cheeks burning red. His stomach twists. The onion tastes like bacon and everything smells burnt meat. “Can we not talk about this?”   “Yes, Stanley. That’s exactly what I mean. We should be not talking about this.” Randy snags another bite of fried onion. There is grease clinging to his mustache, which is in desperate need of a trim. “I should be giving you a lecture on keeping things quiet after midnight and making sure you always use protection, because the last thing we want is a bunch of you running around the house.”   “So, what – you’re pissed because I’m not bringing my girlfriend over and having – “   “You shouldn’t be pussy footing around so much, Stanley. When girls hit this age, there’s only one thing on their mind. Stanley, it should be the only thing on your mind, too!”   Stan stares at his father, too caught off guard to form any sort of proper argument. “What?”   “I’m worried about you, Stanley,” says Randy. It’s obvious that he’s going to say more but the waiter arrives right then, and Stan doesn’t think he’s ever been so grateful to have a rack of ribs set down in front of him.   Their conversation is over. Stan picks at his onion but his appetite is gone.

  The next day, Butters shows up to school wearing a ragged blue polo. By the time second period’s come around, he’s changed into a bright yellow shirt with a picture of Hello Kitty plastered to the front, with a series of bows plastered on one side. Butters goes bright red anytime someone stares and he fumbles with handling the comments -   did you snag that out of lost and found?   jesus, you look like you came from one of my little sister’s sleep overs   youre really playing up the fag card, huh, stotch? -  but the shirt looks right on him, somehow, in the same way that Stan’s clothes look wrong most days. A crowd of students rushes out of one of the nearby classrooms, Kenny surfacing from it, surging into existence like some sort of wave.   Kenny throws an arm over Butters shoulders. He says something Stan can’t hear and it makes Butters blush, hard, in a good sort of way. Then there’s a wave of Kenny’s gloved hands before a tube of bright pink lipstick is deposited in Butters hand.   That’s a nice color, thinks Stan. I want that. I think I want that. It would look nice with my eyes and maybe Kyle will humor me and go get a pedi out at the mall because it’s been a while and this is so fucking stupid, all of it is stupid, what would my fucking father think? Boys don’t wear lipstick and they don’t wear pink shirts and I don’t care what Kenny thinks, no one cares what Butters thinks, because they shouldn’t have bows in their hair either and I think that maybe something might be wrong, something is totally wrong, I’m totally wrong.   Stan pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers and forces himself to look away. “Jesus Christ. I need a fucking beer.”

  The beer turns into two – three – a six pack plus one, and that one is currently sweating into Stan’s hand while he stares at the bathroom mirror. The door is locked, though it doesn’t really matter. He’s pretty sure that no one else is home.   There’s a tube of black lipstick in his other hand. A black eyeliner pencil sits innocently at the back of the counter. It’s been a while since Stan’s heart was broken, but the appeal of being goth has never completely left. Stan likes the complicated simplicity behind the ideal, likes the people that belong to that little clique.   And he likes the way it looks on him, too, even if the beer makes his hands shake a little bit. Stan can’t get the black lipstick on in a smooth line. It doesn’t look nice with his eyes, either, not the way that Stan’s positive Butters lipstick would.   “This is weird,” he tells his reflection. “And stupid.”   Stan’s reflection stares back at him, messy and unhappy looking.   Stan asks it, “why the fuck do you have to be like this?”   Brows pinch down. The tube of lipstick clatters into the sink and Stan scowls, grabbing a wad of toilet paper and scrubbing at his face. It doesn’t clean off the make-up so much as it smears it into the corners of his mouth. Stan is in too much of a hurry to get out of the bathroom to care.   He texts Wendy and asks if she wants to come over.

  Stan is fourteen years old. He’s been dating Wendy on and off since they were kids, and they’ve been steady for almost six months. This is the seventh time that she’s been into his bedroom and he’s suddenly acutely aware of every dirty shirt that’s been thrown across the floor, of the unmade bed, of the beer can tower that’s propped up under the window.   She shrugs out of her jacket, looks more amused than anything else. “Wow, Stan. I’m really glad that you cleaned up first.”   “Sorry,” mutters Stan, blushing. He uses one foot to kick a pair of dirty boxers under the bed. “I didn’t think you would actually want to come over.”   “You invited me, Stan. Of course I’m going to come over. I said that, right? I mean – you got my text?”   “I did. I just – sorry. I don’t like picking up in here.”   “Obviously,” laughs Wendy, but she sits down on the edge of the bed without making an actual fuss. “So, what did you want to do?”   Stan shrugs, shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He finished off that extra can, but it hasn’t made him feel anymore courageous. Honestly, Stan just feels tired and a little queasy. He says, “you have to promise not to laugh,” and instantly regrets it.   That makes him sound like a kid, which is the exact opposite of what he’s going for. Is it too late to call all of this off?   Wendy has that serious look on her face, so he’s thinking yes. She leans forward, hands on her knees, and says, “promise.”   “And you won’t tell anyone,” says Stan, sitting down on the bed next to her.   Wendy scoots close enough that their shoulders are touching. “Promise.”   “I just – wanted your help, I guess. With figuring something out. I mean, I’ve already figured it out, sort of, but I’m not good at it yet and – “   Wendy pulls her legs up onto the bed and shifts around so they’re facing each other. “You don’t have to be good at it. I mean, whatever this is.” Her hands settle on Stan’s thigh. “You can just give it a try to see how it goes.”   “I know that. I just…I don’t know. I was hoping you would show me how to put it on.” Stan puts his free hand over the back of Wendy’s left hand, unaware of the strange look she’s giving him. “I’ve done it before, but I’m just really not good at it. Everything always ends up looking like shit.”   “Stan,” says Wendy, drawing out his name until it means something else entirely. “What are you talking about?”   “Oh. Right, sorry.” Stan shifts, pulls the little tube of lipstick out of his pocket. The eyeliner is still sitting in the bathroom. “I was thinking about wearing some of this stuff again,” he explains, with a small wave of his hand. “I kind of liked how it all looked before, you know? When we were younger. But, man, I was really shitty at it. So I was thinking you could probably show me, since you’re always putting stuff like this on, and it always looks really nice on you.”   Wendy’s lips do this little twisting thing where they sort of curl in on themselves but it’s not a frown, per say. “You want me to help you put on make-up?”   “Not make-up,” says Stan, quickly, because that makes him think of blush and pink lipstick and shirts with boys on them, and thinking of that makes his chest hurt and his stomach knot up. “Just – this, and eye liner. Like, for when I wear some of my black shirts. “   “Okay,” says Wendy, but the word is soft and hesitant. Her lips twist again, but it’s a different twist, and Stan kind of doesn’t like it. “Do you want to go to the bathroom so you can watch how I do it?”   Stan shrugs, but Wendy stands up, and she holds out a hand, and he realizes that it wasn’t actually a question.

  Wendy makes it look easy. She flicks her wrist and twists her hands, dragging the tip of the eye liner pencil across Stan’s skin like she’s been doing it her whole life. And she has, sort of, at least since fifth grade when Bebe got her a packet eye shadow and shimmery lip gluss and blush for her birthday, and things sort of spiraled from there because the blonde wants to be a make-up artist and she needs someone to practice on.   Stan fidgets and tries not to look at his own reflection too much, at least not too blatantly. He looks at Wendy’s hand instead, and at the crease of her reflection’s brow. “You’re really good at this.”   “You just don’t wear it enough,” says Wendy, with a hum. “Are you going to start dressing like this again?”   “I don’t know,” admits Stan. “I just felt like wearing this again. Does it look weird?”   “No,” says Wendy, quickly. “It looks good on you, Stan. I was just asking. You look good in bright colors. I just don’t think you should go back to just wearing black. Oh! But you have that really nice red one that Kyle got you last year! I bet that would look nice with this stuff.”   Stan shrugs, just a little. “I don’t know. Would it go with that?”   “Black goes with everything,” says Wendy, sagely. She presses her thumb against the top of Stan’s right cheek. “Don’t blink an try to hold still. I’m going to put this on your waterline, too, and then we’re done. Okay?”   “On my what?”   Wendy rolls her eyes. “Your waterline! Just don’t blink, Stan. We’re almost done!” She pulls down on Stan’s cheek and tugs his lower lid down, too. The tip of the black pencil scratches the inside lip of his lower lid, and it’s uncomfortable enough to make Stan’s eyes water. She’s quick about it, though, does both eyes in just a matter of moments. “There,” says Wendy, rocking back on her heels to admire her work. “All done! What do you think?”   Stan looks in the mirror, just to humor her.   He thinks that Butters lipstick looked nicer.   He thinks that black makes his eyes look too dark, and his skin too pale.   He thinks that he feels ten years old all over again, but his heart isn’t breaking for a girl, and his voice isn’t breaking because of puberty. “It looks great, Wendy. Thanks. That was a huge help.”   Wendy’s lips twist again. She has to stretch up onto her toes to press a kiss against Stan’s forehead. “Anytime, sweetie. Anytime.”