[Disclaimer: I do not own South Park or any of its characters...unfortunately :) This story is purely for entertainment purposes.]

A/N: Hey, so... It's been over a week since my last update, so I apologize for that. Plus, this chapter is a little shorter than the rest... But whatever. Hopefully you guys will like it. I'm starting to think this is going to take up more chapters than I'd originally planned, especially since it's still Monday in chapter 3, and my story ends almost a week later... So sorry if this is a long fanfic!

Just to let you know, there's some smut in here, for all of you who enjoy that sort of thing ;)
Anyway, read on!

DING-dong.

I wait patiently at Stan's door until someone answers, trying hard not to think about how much homework I still have to do, or how my jeans and t-shirt aren't the perfect attire for this occasion, or how annoyingly hungry I am.

Within a minute, I see the knob turning, the door opening wide. It's Stan. He's beaming like Cartman after winning a bet.

But honestly, why are you thinking about an a-hole like Cartman when your boyfriend is standing right there? Seriously. Stop it.

"Thanks for coming," Stan says, gesturing for me to enter. As I'm about to go inside, he closes the door a bit and steps out onto the stoop. "I want to make sure my parents think you're as wholesome as possible so they won't suspect anything while they're gone this weekend."

I'm about to point out that it's probably not the greatest idea to manipulate his parents, especially when they're so trusting and understanding, but he quickly covers my mouth with his own, his hands cupping my face. I give in to the kiss, allowing his tongue to flick against mine ever so gently. Stan has never been the most assertive kisser, and sometimes I wish I could get some aggression out of him. Now, when he's suckling my lips so softly that it feels like little butterflies fluttering across my mouth, is not one of those times. It takes every ounce of strength I have to pull away. "We should get inside before your parents wonder where you went," I murmur.

He gives me one last peck on the lips. "Yeah, you're probably right." He gives the door a push and lets us both in. "Mom, Dad, Wendy's here!"

Mrs. Marsh pops her head out of the kitchen. "Hello, Wendy! How are you? You haven't been over for dinner in a while."

"I know," I reply with a rueful smile. "I'm just been so busy the last few weeks. Midterms, driver's ed, SAT prep work…"

She shakes her head. "I remember that all too well. My junior year in high school was one of the most stressful years of life."

"Tell me about it."

Her attention turns to her son. "Stan, why aren't you stressed about everything?"

"I have Wendy to copy homework off of," he answers with a shrug. I roll my eyes. His mom chuckles and goes back to cooking.

"Where's your dad?" I ask.

It's Stan's turn to roll his eyes. "In the basement, as usual."

"Still trying to build a robot that makes sushi?"

"Yep. With no luck at all."

"I should go say hi."

Stan groans. "Why?"

"Because I like your dad! And it's rude not to say hello."

"Fine," he grumbles, trudging to the basement door. He kicks it open and steps halfway in the doorway. "Dad, Wendy's here." I hear something jostle, then a loud bang! Stan pinched the bridge of his nose. "Wends, he's not really in a position to come up right now.

"Why?"

"He's not…wearing any pants."

"Oh."

"Or underwear."

"Um—"

"And I'm pretty sure his Japanese-food robot is a makeshift sex toy."

"I…I'm not sure how to respond to that."

Stan looks perturbed. "Then don't say a thing until we're safely upstairs, away from my moron of a father." He takes my hand and leads me up to his room. "Stay here, I'll be right back." I make myself comfortable on Stan's bed while he's gone.

Ah, Stan's room. The same old room it's been since we were kids. Not much has changed, and with all that has changed over the years, it's nice to see something remain dependably normal.

When he returns, he closes his bedroom door and lies down next to me, propping himself up on one elbow. "My mom says Shelly'll be here in around forty minutes, so we have roughly fifteen minutes before I have to go take a shower and put on some 'nice clothes.'"

I cuddle up to him. "Don't you usually shower after basketball practice?" (Yeah, that's right. He does football in the fall and basketball in the winter. My rock star of a boyfriend.)

"Yeah, but they were doing maintenance on the showers in the locker room, and Kyle and I went back to his house afterwards to finish up our poster thing for the history project, so I practically just got home."

"Oh." I don't really mind that Stan hasn't showered yet. When he's sweaty, he's just so…masculine.

Stan interrupts my thoughts with a kiss, one that's a little more forceful than the last. We make out for a while until his hands start exploring. Usually it isn't a big deal if he squeezes my breasts and traces around my bellybutton with his thumb, but when his fingers begin to wiggle underneath my pants, I have to push him off. "Stan! Your parents are right downstairs! And we have less than ten minutes!"

He shushes me and captures my lips in another kiss, a dizzyingly passionate kiss. I give up trying to reason with him, letting his hand slide down my skin. When it reaches my mound, I can feel his pinkie rubbing my clit. I try not to moan. I don't let him take off my pants—"We only have five minutes," I whisper.

As we kiss some more, I begin my own exploration, my hands grasping at Stan's shoulders and feeling his muscular chest through the soft cottony fabric of his shirt. One hand makes it down to his jeans; I can see the bulge forming at his crotch, his member pushing desperately at the thick denim. I cup his crotch, massaging it with great care. He grunts softly and his breath quickens as I massage deeper. His hips buck, letting me unzip and pull down his jeans just a bit. I roll down his boxers and his dick becomes apparent, swelling with every passing second, rising and falling in time with his breath. I lick my hands and begin moving up and down its length, getting faster and faster, watching Stan come closer to ecstasy. Finally he erupts, letting out a low guttural moan. I lean over and grab some tissues from his bedside table to wipe his seed from my hands.

We simply lie there for a few moments, breathing heavily. All of a sudden, Stan pulls me in close and mashes his groin against mine. I've always marveled at how our bodies fit together like two perfect pieces of the same puzzle.

"I fucking love you, Wendy Testaburger," he growls, our foreheads barely touching.

"I love you, too." And I mean it. I honestly do.

I think…

Stan gets up and starts removing the rest of his clothes. "Guess it's shower time."

"I'd like a nice hot shower right now," I sigh. He looks at me pointedly. "And no, I'm not suggesting what you think I'm suggesting."

"Good," he says simply, pulling off his shirt. He's now completely stark naked.

For the record, I'm not usually the kind of girl who drools over guys with hot bodies, but I must say, it's extremely difficult to concentrate on anything when a penis and a six-pack are staring you right in the face.

I push myself off the bed and wrap my arms around Stan's thick waist. "Oh, so you'll get down and dirty with me," I tease, "but you won't get clean with me?"

"That's really funny," he remarks sarcastically. He removes my hands from his body and goes to the closet for a bathrobe.

I guess it's weird to be naked and hug someone who's clothed. Not that I care in the slightest bit.

"I'm surprised you don't want to make out with me some more," I comment lightheartedly. "You're way hornier today than I've ever seen you."

This makes him blush. "I sort of prepared before you came."

"Prepared?" I repeat with a laugh. "At Kyle's? What did you do, watch porn together or something?"

Stan gets this weird, uncomfortable look on his face, as if I'd just announced that I'm secretly a man. He does know I was joking, right? I mean, he has been the butt of many a gay joke for as long as he and Kyle have been best friends. He knows that I of all people understand that his relationship with Kyle is, although deep and codependent, strictly platonic. He has a girlfriend, for goodness' sake!

I move closer to him. "I'm just kidding, Stan."

He pauses for a second, then shakes his head. "As my Latin teacher likes to say, est verum in omne mendacium."

"Verum what?" I take French classes. I've taken French for the past five years. Say something in French (or English, for that matter), and I'll most likely understand it. But this?

"It's not my fault you don't take Latin," he says solemnly. "Ignosce mihi." And with those parting words, he leaves me standing alone in his bedroom.

…

After fifteen minutes of intense thinking and Google-searching, I have to come to the conclusion that Stan is hiding something from me. Not that it would take a genius to figure that out or.

According to the Internet, ignosce mihi means "forgive me". I don't remember the rest of the first phrase, so all I'm left with is verum, which means "truth", and "forgive me". I have no idea what that all amounts to, but it can't be too goddamn good.

Once Stan gets out of the shower, dries off, and puts on a nice shirt and pants, we head downstairs to wait for his sister to arrive. I desperately want to confront him about whatever it is that he feels he needs to hide from me; as expected, timing's a bitch. As soon as I open my mouth to say something, anything, the doorbell rings. Stan springs up off the couch and opens the door. A grinning Shelly Marsh greets her brother with arms outstretched. "How're you doing, turd?" she asks, mussing his hair.

Stan scowls and tries to fix his previously perfect hair. "Don't fucking start with that again."

"Language, Stanley," Mrs. Marsh reminds him, rushing in to give Shelly a hug. As she leans over and embraces Shelly, Shelly crosses her eyes and sticks out her tongue at Stan, who returns the favor with his middle finger. His mom turns around just in time to catch a glimpse of his finger going back down. "Stan," she warns him.

Shelly smiles. "Haven't changed much since you were nine, have you, Stan?"

"Nope," Stan replies placidly. "I'm seventeen and I still don't have any braces. When was it that you got yours? Age thirteen? Twelve?"

"Don't be a jackass," Shelly says sourly.

"Shelly!" Mrs. Marsh exclaims. "God, you two! Can you please get it together for one family dinner?"

Shelly pats her on the back. "Sorry, Mom. We're only kidding around."

They have almost exactly the same conversation every time they get together. And each time, Mrs. Marsh gets upset. I have to laugh. This is when Shelly finally realizes that I'm in the room. "Oh my God—Wendy!"

Yeah, she likes me a lot.

She runs over and gives me a big squeeze. "I haven't seen you in forever!"

"I know! It's terrible."

Shelly usually visits from college every couple of months, but because my parents decided in December that a Caribbean Christmas was a great idea, the last time I saw her was over Thanksgiving break. Which is annoying, since Shelly Marsh is one of the smartest, kindest, and funniest individuals I have ever met. On her sixteenth birthday, she didn't ask her parents for a big party; no, what she wanted was a makeover. And she got it. POOF! Gone were the baggy clothes and ratty hair. By the time her braces finally came off a year later, she was pretty and—no surprise there—popular. Of course, all the resentment she had built up over the years vanished along with the awful headgear. It was around that time that I started coming over to Stan's more frequently, and Shelly and I got pretty close. She used to pull me aside and tell me to "whip that turd into shape and teach him some fucking manners." She was like the sister I never had, and seeing her now just brightened my day.

We start catching up immediately. Mrs. Marsh heads off to find Mr. Marsh, leaving Shelly and me in the living room chatting it up while Stan watches unenthusiastically. I wish I could tell her about the letter, but Stan wouldn't be too happy to find out that I'm still thinking about it.

A few minutes later, Mr. Marsh enters the room.

(Yes, he's wearing pants.)

"Shelly!" he cries, giving her a big hug. "What's happenin', girlfriend?"

Stan pinches the bridge of his nose. "No, dad. Just…no."

"It's all good," Shelly says, sitting back down next to me. "Classes are tough, but I still have some time free time to hang out with my friends and whatnot."

Stan cocks his head. "You have friends?" Shelly punches him in the arm. "Ow! Shit, Shelly, that…aw, man, it hurts."

"Don't be a wimp," Shelly teases.

Stan turns to me. "Do you see what I have to deal with here?"

"You can handle it," I retort, rubbing the spot on his arm where she'd punched him.

Shelly shakes her head. "You coddle him too much, Wendy. You need to wear the pants in the relationship."

"Oh, I already do."

Stan furrows his eyebrows. "Wait, I wear them, don't I?"

"Yeah, uh, of course you do." I shoot Shelly a quick look that says otherwise, and she winks back.

"Hey, Shell," Mr. Marsh pipes up, "wanna see my sushi-making robot? It's really cool."

"The robot can wait until we're done eating," Mrs. Marsh asserts as she walks in. "Dinner's ready."

"But Sharon!"

"No but's, Randy. I'm sure everyone's hungry."

"Sorry, Mr. Marsh," I say kindly, "but I'm really looking forward to those quesadillas."

His face falls. "Alright. But after dinner?"

"Uh, sure."

"Great."

Once we've all sat down at the table and started eating Mrs. Marsh's incredible chicken quesadillas and buttery mashed potatoes, I ask Shelly about the drive down from Denver.

"It was good," she replies. "I was able to come up today 'cause both of my Monday classes were canceled, which is pretty much unprecedented for me, since most of my teachers are super adamant about showing up and getting things done on time."

"Speaking of getting things done," Stan mutters, "I gotta go to the bathroom."

I wrinkle my nose. "Ew, Stan." He smiles and leaves the table.

"Was the traffic bad?" Mrs. Marsh asks.

"Not really," Shelly replies. "Why?"

"Well, you were a little late coming over… I don't care, but I know how much of a stickler you are for arriving on time."

Shelly puts down her fork. "Okay. That was for a completely different reason, and it was really weird. So I stopped at Tweek Bros. Coffee as I usually do, but it took me forever to get my drink. Why? Because out of the blue, this woman in line starts screaming at the cashier about recycling."

"Recycling?" Mr. Marsh repeats quizzically.

"Yes, recycling. Apparently she had noticed on her way in that there were some magazines in the trash, and she was angry that they were being thrown away instead of being recycled. The poor cashier was trying to tell her that a customer had complained this morning that the magazines—you know, the ones they keep on the table in the front for people to read… The customer had complained that the magazines had a bunch of words cut out of them—"

My ears perked up. "Words cut out of them?"

"Yeah. Weird, huh? So anyway, he told the customer she could throw them away, you know, not really thinking about whether or not she would put them in the trash or the recycling bin or whatever. And this woman in line wouldn't listen to a word the cashier had to say. She just kept on yelling until she felt she had made her point."

"That's bizarre," Mrs. Marsh comments. "If I were her, I would've just moved the magazines to the recycling bin and not bothered the cashier. I mean, who makes a scene like that over magazines?"

Mr. Marsh nods. "A better question would be, who cuts out words from coffee shop magazines and just leaves them there?"

I can't take any more of this. It's driving me insane. "Excuse me," I interject quietly. "I'll be right back."

I dash off into the kitchen and pull out my phone. The coffee shop might still be open, right? I look at the clock on the wall. Damn. It's not a Harbucks; it's a little family-run coffee shop. They have normal hours.

I pull out my phone anyway, hoping I might be able to reach an employee cleaning up after hours or something, but the battery's dead. Great. Now I'll have to wait until tomorrow to call them, and by then the magazines will probably be in the dumpster. I just need to see them. And I want to figure out who wrote me that stupid letter, but not enough to go fishing in a dumpster.

As I'm contemplating my next move, I see Stan, who's sneaking into the kitchen with his eye on the Oreo cake. "Stan."

He jumps. "Jeez, Wen, I didn't see you there."

I guess now is as good a time as any to ask him about the Latin thing. "Stan… Can I talk to you? It's important."

"Sure." He looks concerned. "What's wrong?"

"I just… About what you said to me in Latin…"

He sighs. "Wendy, forget about that."

"Are you…hiding something?"

"Wendy," he says slowly, putting his hands on my shoulders. "It's nothing. Honestly. Just forget I said anything."

"You sure?"

"Positive."

I smile. "Okay. Thanks. I wanted to make sure it wasn't anything serious."

"If it was serious, I'd tell you."

"I know." I snuggle into his chest. "I trust you one hundred percent."

"Good," he whispers. He's holding me close, but his voice sounds strained. It's probably due to the fact that I basically just accused him of doing something bad and keeping it from me. God, am I stupid. Stan loves me. He would never do anything to hurt me.

He's the most honest guy I know.

Whoa. Some foreshadowing there, perhaps? And now the mystery deepens... Will the coffee shop magazines help Wendy solve the mystery? (Hopefully, or else I just wasted ten minutes of your life.) If you want to find out, look out for the next update! And remember, REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW! And tell people about the story if you like it. I would be so happy.

xoxo,
FonicsMonkey

P.S. For those who are curious, est verum in omne mendacium means "there is truth in every lie." (Ooooh...)

P.P.S. I had so much fun writing Randy Marsh's lines ^_^ Out of context, they'd sound like a four-year-old. Or a ghetto teenage girl. Whatever, I love it.