#craig cash | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mercvry-glow · 19 days ago

Text

In the cool blue

parings. andrew "pope" cody x reader

summary. while staying at the cody house, a small group of rivals takes you, j and nicky hostage while the other are out. pope helps you in the after math.

warnings. based off of season two late episode six/early seven (so spoilers but also eh), reader is at the house with j and nicky when javi shows up, assault, drowning, gun mentions, reader and j get beat tf up, pope is actually pretty chill in this he's a softie today, established relationship, angst and hurt/comfort, general animal kingdom stuff, let me know if there's anything else!

notes. this is now my longest fic 😭 idk what inspired me to get this out but I really hope y'all enjoy bc this is a doozy and my current magnum opus. as always any and all feedback is appreciated!

wc. 5700+

It was supposed to be a quiet night.

You were stretched out on a lounge chair by Smurf’s pool, your freshly painted toes resting on the edge, a silk robe sliding off your sun-warmed skin. The water glowed that dreamy blue under the patio lights, casting ripples of light across your legs.

J and Nicky were inside, supposedly studying—though judging by how quiet it’d been for the past hour, you figured they were either making out or asleep, but with Nicky banging Craig you didn’t know. Either way, it meant you had the place to yourself. For once, things felt… safe. Even with Pope gone, running one of those jobs he never gave you the full story on.

You liked it better that way.

Until you heard the gravel shift.

At first, you thought it was just the wind. But then came the unmistakable slam of feet on the driveway. Then another. Then voices—low, quick, male.

You sat up.

The voices weren’t familiar. They didn’t carry like Deran or Craig’s. They were sharper. Harder.

You turned, just in time to see movement at the side gate. Four shadows. One of them kicked it open without hesitation.

Your blood ran cold.

You were moving before you even realized it, sandals forgotten by the chair, robe trailing behind you as you bolted across the backyard and slipped inside through the back slider, locking it instinctively—too late.

Before you could even breathe, a glass behind you shattered.

You screamed—just a little, more of a gasp—and darted down the hall, barefoot on tile, adrenaline flooding your veins.

You ducked into the nearest hallway closet, pulling the door shut as softly as you could, heart pounding so loud you swore they could hear it from the kitchen.

Then came the noise.

Boots stomping on tile. Furniture dragging. A bottle shattering.

You pressed a hand over your mouth, trying to hold in a whimper.

“Where is it?” one of the men barked.

“Check the freezer! Smurf used to keep cash in the damn freezer,” another snapped.

Cabinet doors slammed open. A chair was kicked over. Something heavy crashed to the floor and shattered. They were tearing the place apart like they knew something was here—and they wanted it now.

You didn’t dare peek. You couldn’t even cry. You just stayed curled up in the dark, wedged between winter coats and some old duffel bags, praying your knees wouldn’t give out before it was over.

You weren’t cut out for this. You weren’t a Cody. You weren’t like Pope.

You were just the girl he liked to keep close.

And right now, you were alone.

You didn’t even know how long you’d been in the closet.

Seconds? Minutes? It all blurred. Your muscles were locked, knees tucked to your chest, the smell of mothballs and old leather coats clinging to you as loud crashes and shouted curses continued to fill the house.

They were everywhere—kitchen drawers being yanked out, bedroom doors thrown open. You heard the crack of something heavy hitting the wall, then the dull thud of furniture being flipped.

Your fingers gripped the hem of your robe, knuckles white.

“Nothing’s here!” one of them yelled.

Another guy laughed, a low, mean sound. “Bullshit. This is Smurf’s place. There’s always something here.”

They were getting closer.

The voices grew louder. Clearer. Footsteps pounding down the hallway—your hallway. You squeezed your eyes shut.

And then they stopped.

Right outside the closet.

Your breath caught in your throat.

You heard someone mumble something under their breath, and then—

Click.

The door handle shifted.

You barely had time to suck in a gasp before the door was yanked open, the bright hallway light flooding the tiny space. You squinted up at a man with a shaved head, a leather jacket, and a small scar across his cheek. He froze when he saw you—half crouched in the back of the closet like a deer caught in headlights, robe pulled tight across your chest, cheeks streaked with silent tears.

His eyes widened, and for a split second, you thought maybe he’d just back off.

But then he smirked.

“Well, well,” he said, voice low and oily. “What do we have here?”

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

He grabbed your arm, hard, yanking you up to your feet like you weighed nothing. You stumbled, your bare feet skidding on the hardwood.

“Thought this place was empty,” he muttered, almost to himself, eyes raking over you like he was trying to figure out if you were worth more than whatever cash they’d been looking for.

You tried to wrestle yourself back into the closet wall, like maybe you could disappear. But he faster, calloused fingers wrapping around your wrist like a vise once again.

“Let go of me!” you gasped, but it barely came out.

He yanked you to your feet with zero care, dragging you forward, your bare toes sliding on the hallway floor. You fought him, pulling back with what little strength you had, but his grip only tightened.

“Don’t make this harder, princess,” he snapped, dragging you through the house as drawers hung open, broken glass crunched underfoot, and the stink of beer and sweat filled the air.

“I didn’t see anything—I swear—” you tried, breath shaking.

“Bet you know where the money is, though,” he shot back.

“I don’t!”

He ignored you, hauling you through the busted slider door and out into the cool night air. Your robe flared in the wind, and you blinked against the patio lights still glowing around the pool. Just minutes ago, you’d been lying there, peaceful, content—now you were barefoot, bleeding from your heels, and being dragged across the stone like some kind of prize.

The others were outside now too. Three men, scattered across the yard, tossing things from the poolside storage chest, upending flowerpots, one of them even kicking at the filter cover.

“She was hiding inside,” your captor called out, shoving you forward a few steps. You stumbled, caught yourself just before you hit the edge of the pool.

“She know where it is?” one asked, barely glancing up.

“She will.”

You wrapped your arms around yourself, heart thundering so loud you swore it echoed off the water.

One of them walked up to you slowly—taller, older, colder-looking. His boots stopped just short of your bare toes.

“You got about ten seconds to tell us where Smurf keeps her stash,” he said. Not yelling. Just matter-of-fact. Like he wasn’t asking—he was waiting.

“I don’t know,” you whispered.

Wrong answer.

The one who’d dragged you out stepped behind you, grabbing your arms tight and jerking you back against him. The edge of the pool was at your toes now. You felt the chill of the water in front of you, the way your balance shifted just slightly.

“Think again,” the tall one said.

Tears burned in your eyes, but you blinked them back.

Someone would come.

You twisted in his grip, heels slipping on the wet tile, arms aching from how tightly he held you.

“Please—please, I don’t know anything!” you gasped, trying to plant your feet, but he kept pushing you closer to the pool’s edge.

The taller guy just stared, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“I swear to God, I don’t—Smurf doesn’t tell me anything! I just—I’m just Pope’s girlfriend!”

“Which means you know something,” the one holding you growled, yanking your arms up hard enough to make your shoulders burn.

“I don’t!” you cried out, voice cracking as panic bubbled up into your throat. “I don’t even live here—I didn’t even want to be here, I just—they told me to hang out! I was by the pool!”

“Then you shouldn’t have been hiding like a little rat,” the man sneered into your ear.

Your breath caught. “I was scared,” you whispered. “You broke the door down—I thought you were here to kill someone.”

Another guy—shaggy hair, wide eyes like he was hopped up on something—laughed darkly from the side of the yard. “Might still happen, sweetheart, if you don’t start talking.”

“I don’t know!” You squirmed in the first guy’s grip, finally throwing your elbow back into his ribs. It wasn’t much, but it caught him by surprise and he grunted, stumbling just a step.

You broke free for half a second—just long enough to bolt toward the other side of the pool.

But the tall one was fast. He grabbed a fistful of your robe, yanked you back so hard your legs gave out.

You hit the ground on your knees, palms scraped raw from the stone. Before you could move, a boot shoved your shoulder, forcing you to stay down.

“Try that again, and I’ll throw you in face first,” he warned.

Tears spilled hot and fast down your cheeks now. You shook your head, voice high and broken. “Please—I’m not lying—I swear to God, please just let me go! I didn’t do anything!”

No one answered. The only sound was the water lapping gently behind you, and the soft clink of something metal being tossed into the grass.

They weren’t hearing you.

They didn’t care.

And Pope… Pope wasn’t here to fix it.

You curled in on yourself, trembling. You’d never been this scared in your life. And if they decided to stop being patient?

You didn’t know what would happen next.

Your wrists were burning.

The zip ties they had grabbed bit into your skin as one of them yanked your arms behind your back, cinching them so tight you cried out. “Shut up,” he muttered, like your fear was an inconvenience.

The others had gone quiet. Focused.

The tall one paced near the pool, agitated, eyes scanning the yard like he was waiting for something to appear. The guy who tied you up shoved you down roughly back onto a lounger, rope around your ankles now too. You kicked, once, but it only earned you another curse and a warning glare.

You were helpless.

And then… movement.

From the corner of your eye, past the broken slider door and toward the far patio table, you saw J—slow, careful, almost crawling—edging toward the backpack he’d left out there earlier. It was half-hidden under a chair, just slouched enough that no one had noticed it yet.

But you knew what was inside.

His gun.

Your eyes went wide, lips parting in a silent gasp as you watched him stretch a hand toward the strap, his body low, fingers just brushing the zipper. He was so close—

A shout cracked through the night like a whip.

J didn’t freeze.

One of the guys—shaggy hair, twitchy—was already rushed toward him, tackling him towards the pool. J tried to dive away, but the man cracked him across his ribs, sending him sprawling across the stone with a sharp grunt and into a chair.

“Don’t!” you screamed from the lounger, struggling against the ropes. “Stop it! He’s just a kid!”

“Yeah?” the tall one snapped, stalking toward J now with ice in his voice. “Then he should’ve stayed hidden.”

The man in the brown jacket went to grab some leftover rope as two of his men continued to beat up J. They ignored your cries, focused on getting the teen who knew much more than you did.

J coughed, curled on his side, one arm over his stomach. He looked at you—eyes wide, scared, like he was sorry. Sorry he got caught. Sorry he couldn’t stop this.

And all you could do was watch, wrists bound, robe soaked with your own tears, knees bleeding from the flagstone.

Inside the house, somewhere deep, a door creaked. Maybe Nicky was still hiding—maybe she’d heard it all.

God, you hoped she stayed hidden.

J was already coughing, barely able to get to his knees when they grabbed him again.

You tried to scream—tried to tell them to stop—but your voice was hoarse, useless against the chaos unfolding feet away from you.

The tall one grabbed J by the collar and hauled him. His shoes scraped across the tile, hands clawing at the man’s arm, but he was no match. Not like this. Not when he was winded and scared and outnumbered.

“J,” the tall one growled, voice calm in that cold, terrifying way, “who else is in the house man?”

“No one… just us,” J grunted, trying to gain his breath back.

Wrong answer.

“Go check the bedroom.” the man, who you assumed to be their leader, said as two of them left to go search the house again.

The silence was heavy, water sloshing up onto the patio as J’s body stayed on the stone. You curled instinctively, like maybe if you didn’t watch it would stop, but the zip ties bit into your skin again and you could barely even sit up, and it kept you in the moment.

The tall man knelt at the pool’s edge, grabbed J by the back of the shirt, and held his head. “Smurf isn’t here?”

“Sh-She went to meet you…”

You started sobbing quietly.

“She didn’t show.”

They didn’t listen to whatever the teen had to say, and two of them took J into the pool holding him up by his shoulders.

“Hey, Jay. Where does Smurf keep her money?” the bald man asked, brandeshing his revolver like it was no big deal. J could barely get his answer out before they shoved him under.

Your heart seized in your chest. “He’s not lying! He’s just a kid!”

They yanked him back up—J came out sputtering, gasping for air like a fish yanked from the deep, hair plastered to his face, chest heaving.

“One more time,” he asked, voice deadly quiet, “Where is Smurf’s money?”

J shook his head, water dripping down his face. “I swear to God—I don’t know—”

Back under.

The splash this time was smaller, like J didn’t even have the strength to fight it.

You were screaming now. Screaming and crying and twisting so hard your skin was raw from the rope, your knees scraped to hell from the concrete. “Please! He doesn’t know anything! Please don’t kill him!”

Finally—finally—they let him up again.

He floated toward the edge, wheezing, barely able to lift his head.

The tall one stood slowly, glanced over at you.

“You believe him?” he asked, wiping water from his hands.

You nodded frantically, eyes wide. “Yes! Yes, I believe him! I swear he’s telling the truth—there’s no money here! I-If it was, it'd be behind the dryer o-or shoe boxes!”

He didn’t move. Just stared at you for a long, uncomfortable second.

Then he said, “Maybe we’re asking the wrong person then.”

Your stomach dropped.

The twitchy guy who’d hit J first turned, stepping closer to you with a smirk, eyes running over your soaked robe, your trembling frame. They had dragged the poor boy out of the pool, beating him a bit more before turning their attention to you.

“Nah,” he said. “She looks like a real good liar.”

And then the tall one said it—flat, casual, awful.

“Next time, we start with her.”

You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t even think.

Just cry.

You didn’t even realize how loud you were until the tall one’s eyes snapped back to you.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “Shut her up.”

Your breath caught in your throat, panic curling deep in your gut.

“No—no, please, I didn’t—” You tried to scramble backward on the lounger, bound wrists twisting behind you, but you didn’t make it far. One of them—the twitchy one—grabbed your ankle and yanked you off the chair like it weighed nothing. You hit the stone patio with a painful thud, cheek scraping the ground, knees buckling beneath you.

“Get off me!” you cried, kicking, writhing in the ropes. “Don’t—don’t touch me!”

But he already had both hands on you, dragging you toward the pool.

“Guess she wants to take a swim,” he said darkly, like it was funny.

“No! Don’t—please, please don’t—!”

You thrashed harder, your robe getting twisted, legs scraping over the edge of the concrete just as your toes touched water. Cold. Too cold.

J was still wheezing, choking on his own blood, on the opposite side, watching in horror as they pulled you closer to the deep end.

“Leave her alone!” he tried to shout, voice wrecked from coughing.

The tall man didn’t even look back. “She wants to run her mouth, she can hold her breath.”

And then you were in the air—ropes tight, arms behind you, no way to break the fall—

Splash.

The cold hit you like a brick.

You sank instantly, robe ballooning around you, legs kicking uselessly as your wrists stayed locked behind you. You tried to swim, tried to surface, but the water kept dragging you down, twisting your body as you fought against it.

Your lungs burned.

You broke the surface once—gasped—only to be shoved back under again.

You didn’t know which of them did it. A hand on your head, a push between your shoulders. You couldn’t see. Everything was bubbles and blur and cold, cold, so cold.

Your scream was just a gurgle under the water.

You were going to drown.

And they didn’t care.

You came up again, coughing violently, gasping through sobs, and someone finally pulled you toward the steps, dumping you like trash onto the slick tile. You coughed, spit, choked on your own breath as you curled onto your side, sobbing uncontrollably.

“Now shut the hell up,” the tall one said, calm again, like none of it meant anything.

Behind him, J was still slumped on the ground, bleeding, soaked, and shaking.

And you—barefoot, half naked, shivering, and drenched—lay there helpless, your body shaking so hard it barely felt real.

You didn’t say another word.

The cold, sharp air felt like it might never leave your lungs. You shivered uncontrollably on the edge of the pool, the water dripping from your hair, your robe clinging to you like a wet sheet. The ropes around your wrists bit deeper into your skin, but you were too numb to even notice it anymore.

Then the door creaked.

You didn’t see her at first, just heard the shuffling footsteps—slow, dragging, someone stumbling.

“No one else in the house huh?,” the tall one said with a grin, eyes flicking over toward the door.

And then, like something out of a nightmare, Nicky was shoved into view.

Her face was swollen, bruised, blood streaking down her cheek from where someone had hit her. She was tied up too, wrists bound, her own robe in tatters from the way they'd manhandled her. She could barely stand, her knees buckling as they shoved her forward, her eyes red from crying, hair in disarray.

“No—no…” you whispered, horrified. Your voice cracked like glass under pressure.

She didn’t look at you, didn’t even try to. She was too dazed, too hurt, and when they shoved her to the ground next to you, she just crumpled, hands still tied, trying to curl into herself as much as possible.

“Nicky, please,” you begged, trying to push yourself toward her, but the ropes kept you in place, your body too weak to get far.

The tall one crouched down in front of J, who they had just pulled out of the pool one last time, was still trying to sit up from where they’d dumped him on the ground after you’d been thrown in the pool. He was shaking now—no longer the kid who thought he could hide a gun, no longer defiant. He was a ragdoll, eyes wide with fear yet dropping with exhaustion as he looked back and forth between you, Nicky, and the crew.

“Think I came all this way for twenty-five grand!?” the tall one said, eyes cold and calculating, smacking J in the face with the money you told them where to find. He drew another gun from his jeans, “Last goddamn time! Where’s the real money?!” The gun was aimed right on J’s face, locked and loaded and this guy wasn’t afraid to do it.

J’s lips parted. He didn’t say anything at first, and the silence was worse than anything else. “I told you I don’t know, I swear!” the blonde boy promised, desperate and pleading. They stepped on his bad leg, the one he hurt in the church hiest, as you and Nicky screamed in pain for him.

Nicky flinched when one of the men reached down and grabbed her by the arm, lifting her up roughly. She winced but didn’t cry out, just staring at the ground, her whole body shaking.

“Get her out of here?” the tall one said again, voice flat.

J didn’t respond. His hands were shaking, too, but he wasn’t answering.

The crew didn’t wait.

One of them grabbed Nicky, taking her god knows where after she left your sight as the two men kept arguing over the fucking money. J’s scream was guttural, and he collapsed back to the stone, curling in on himself, chest heaving with pain.

You gasped, heart hammering in your chest as you fought against the ropes, but you couldn’t do anything.

J tried to speak, but it was barely a whisper. “Smurf’s got a storage unit on Freemont!”

The tall one stood back, his eyes cold, hands in his pockets. “What’s the number!?”

J said he didn’t know but would take them as long as they didn’t take Nicky, begging them to stop before pushing him into the pool one last time. His body arched, another groan escaping his throat as he struggled to swim, just as you had. He wasn’t able to defend himself, wasn’t able to do anything but take it.

You could feel the heat rising inside you, your stomach twisting in knots. You wanted to scream, to help him, to do something—but you were just tied up, helpless, watching him be broken apart in front of you.

They left after that, leaving you on the floor barely conscious. Taking Nicky and leaving J to drown in the pool his grandmother owned. You tried to crawl toward him, wrists bleeding from the ropes, but your vision went white, then black, then nothing at all.

The Jeep rolled to a slow stop in the driveway, headlights washing over the front of the Cody house. The gate was open. The porch light flickered. One of the patio chairs was overturned on its side like it had been thrown or tripped over. Something about the stillness was wrong. Off.

Pope stared at the front door—it hung open just a crack, too quiet, too deliberate. His knuckles tightened around the steering wheel as his instincts kicked in. He killed the engine and reached down beneath his seat, pulling out his gun. “Stay in the car.”

Smurf started to follow, her hand already on the door handle, but Pope turned to look at her sharply, eyes already storm-dark. He told her to stay put.

She didn’t listen.

“I said stay in the car!”

By the time he was creeping up the walkway, gun low and steady, Smurf was already on his heels. Her voice was low but sharp, cutting through the heavy silence—there was no way in hell she was waiting in the damn car while something had clearly gone sideways.

The moment they crossed the threshold of the house, the sight hit them first—The living room was a mess. Chairs overturned. A shattered lamp across the floor. One of the barstools broken in half, splinters fanned across the tile. Picture frames cracked and crooked on the walls.

Pope’s eyes swept the scene, methodical, calculating. Smurf stepped over a smashed photo of Baz and Julia, heart hammering in her chest as her gaze caught the trail—scuffs on the floor, a faint smear of blood.

Pope moved room to room, clearing each space like the soldier he was, finger resting steady beside the trigger. The whole place was silent. Empty. But it wasn’t abandoned. Something had happened here. Something bad. And it wasn’t over yet.

Smurf made it to the back of the house first. She reached the sliding glass door and stopped cold.

Her breath hitched in her throat.

Outside, under the cold glow of the moon, two figures lay in the stillness. One, half in the pool—barely moving. The other crumpled on the concrete like a broken doll. She bolted, flinging the door open so hard it slammed against the wall. “Pope get out here!”

And he was right behind her, and when his eyes landed on the scene, he didn’t hesitate. J was slumped at the edge of the deep end, one arm hanging limply into the water, lips blue, chest barely rising as he coughed out water. His skin was soaked and pale. They ran for him, dropped to thier knees, and hauled the rest him out in swift motion, dragging him onto semi-dry ground

You were collapsed on the pavement not far from him, your wrists still bound, rope burns angry and raw. Your clothes were damp and ripped in some places. Your head lolled to one side, blood matting the edge of your hairline. You were breathing—but it was shallow, strained, like your body was hanging on by a thread.

Andrew dropped beside you, hands still as he checked your pulse, pressed his fingers against your clammy cheek. There was blood, but it wasn’t fresh. Whoever had hurt you. Tied you up. Left you here like garbage. His jaw clenched as he tore the ropes free with his knife.

His own heart was racing now—not out of fear, but rage.

Behind him, Smurf was crouched next to J, trying to keep him awake, her expression darkening with every slurred word that came out of the kid’s mouth. Something about a storage unit. Fremont. Smurf’s name. Nicky. And a man—Javi. He’d given them what they wanted. It still hadn’t been enough.

Pope was tense, but not from the sudden adrenaline rush. From fury. From failure. From the sight of you lying there like that, and J barely clinging on.

Smurf pulled off her coat and draped it over J’s shoulders, and You flinched slightly as Pope tried to move you, a broken whimper escaping your lips, but you didn’t wake.

The air felt thicker now—like the violence hadn’t left yet. Like it was still sitting heavy over the house, waiting to be answered.

You woke to the low hum of an air conditioner and the faint scent of bleach and detergent—clean, sterile, unfamiliar. The world came back in pieces. The pressure in your skull. The aching pull of your muscles. The bruises blooming beneath your skin.

Your eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the dim light of a shaded living room. You were lying on a couch, a heavy blanket draped over your legs, the cushions dipping slightly beneath your weight. Your old clothes were gone. Replaced with a big, worn t-shirt that didn’t belong to you and a pair of sleep shorts. The fabric was soft. Smelled faintly like soap and someone else’s cologne.

Specifically the someone next to you.

You turned your head—barely—and saw Pope, sitting silent in the chair beside the couch, elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of him. He hadn’t noticed you were awake yet. His eyes were fixed on the floor, brow furrowed, that same stormcloud expression carved into his face like stone.

There was a first-aid kit on the table nearby. A bloody rag beside it. A bottle of water, half-drunk. And your wrists—carefully wrapped in gauze. Clean. Tended to.

He’d done it. You could tell.

His head finally lifted. Eyes meeting yours.

He didn’t speak at first. Just stared. Not coldly—but intensely, like he was trying to figure out if you were real or maybe just what to say.

Your throat was dry. Scratchy. Every part of your body screamed in protest, but you managed a slow breath. You swallowed, trying to sit up slightly, and he was there in an instant—hand on the couch cushion near your arm, grounding you, steadying you without touching.

He didn’t ask how you felt. He didn’t need to.

The silence between you said enough.

You blinked at him, struggling to find the words. You remembered the pool. The ropes. The last thing you saw—J’s body going under, your own lungs burning, your screams swallowed by the water.

But you were here now.

Alive.

Pope leaned back slightly, never taking his hazel eyes off of you. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and gravely.

"You’re safe now."

It wasn’t a comfort. It was a promise.

And in the look he gave you, you knew—someone was going to pay for what happened, every second of it.

The silence lingered, stretching long between you.

Heavy.

You kept your eyes on him, chest tight and aching in a way that had nothing to do with your injuries. There was this pressure building inside you—like your ribs were made of glass and every breath was another tap against the surface. The weight of it all pressed down until it cracked.

Your lip trembled before you could stop it. A choked breath caught in your throat. And then, without thinking—without asking—you pushed the blanket off and slid off the couch, barefoot and trembling, legs unsteady beneath you.

Pope moved instantly, as if to stop you from falling, but froze when he realized where you were going.

You stepped between his knees and just… folded.

Dropped down into his lap like gravity pulled you there, like it was the only place you could go. Your arms slid around his neck, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you buried your face against his shoulder and finally let it go.

The sob came out broken and raw, like it had been hiding deep in your chest, waiting for the moment you were safe enough to let it out.

And Pope didn’t speak.

He didn’t stiffen or push you off. He just wrapped his arms around you, slow and solid, one hand bracing your back, the other cradling the back of your head like you were made of something fragile. He held you like that was his only job now. Like that was all he could do.

Your body shook with each breath, each silent sob that spilled into the fabric of his shirt. You weren’t even sure what part of it broke you—J being thrown into the water, the ropes cutting into your skin, the helplessness, the fact that no one came until it was nearly too late—or maybe just the simple weight of surviving it.

Pope stayed quiet. Solid. A wall at your back.

He didn’t shush you. He didn’t tell you to stop crying. He just held on tighter.

Eventually, your cries softened. Still trembling, but quieter now, worn out from the storm. Your arms loosened, head still pressed to his shoulder, breaths coming in uneven little gasps.

“I thought I was gonna die,” you whispered against him, the words barely audible.

Pope didn’t answer right away. But you felt the slow rise and fall of his chest. The way he breathed in through his nose like he was trying to keep it together, too.

“You didn’t,” he said quietly. “You’re here.” In that soft, impossible voice of his—rough and raw and honest—you could feel the edge of something else underneath.

You stayed like that for a long time, curled against him in the quiet. The sounds outside the windows were distant—cars passing, wind through the trees, the faint hum of someone’s music down the block—but none of it touched you here. Not in this little pocket of stillness, where Pope’s arms stayed around you like he was trying to hold your broken pieces together with his own hands.

Your breathing slowed eventually. You felt the exhaustion in every limb, every bruise, but you didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to let go. The silence between you shifted—less sharp now, more full. Safe.

Your voice cracked when you finally spoke again. "I thought no one was coming."

Pope’s hand moved slowly along your back, not soothing exactly—more like he needed the contact too. He let the silence linger a moment longer before he answered.

"I should’ve gotten there sooner."

You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were darker than usual, rimmed with something unspoken. Not guilt exactly—something deeper. Regret. Rage. Fear. All the emotions he felt so intensely.

“You got there,” you whispered. “You found me.”

That mattered. It mattered more than he probably realized.

He looked at you for a long second. You could see it then—the way his jaw clenched, the slight shake in his hand as it rested against your hip. He hadn’t stopped replaying it.

Finding you like that.

Finding J.

“I didn’t know what I was gonna see,” he said finally. His voice was low, hoarse. “When I walked in.”

You swallowed hard, eyes stinging again. “They were gonna kill him. And they were gonna take me and Nicky too. I—I thought—”

Your breath hitched and his hand was already on the back of your neck again, grounding you, pulling you gently forward until your forehead rested against his. He didn’t kiss you. Didn’t say anything romantic or comforting. Just held you there, close.

“The guy…” you breathed, “he kept asking about the money. Smurf’s stuff. I don’t even know what the hell they wanted from me.”

“You didn’t tell them anything,” Pope said, more fact than question.

You shook your head. “Didn’t know anything important enough. I just… took the beating.”

His grip on you tightened for a second, like the thought of that was too much. Like he needed something to break. But then he took a breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter.

“You did good.”

You looked at him—eyes puffy, cheeks streaked with tears—and almost laughed, but it came out cracked and sad. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You survived,” he said. “That’s everything.”

And you knew, in that moment, that if Pope had gotten there even five minutes later, he would’ve dragged bodies out of that pool himself. Not to save them. But to make sure they stayed under.

You let your forehead rest against his again, breathing in his warmth, the steady thrum of his presence. Not perfect. Not even close. But steady in the way only Andrew “Pope” Cody could be—quiet, fierce, unmovable when it mattered.

You closed your eyes.

“I don’t feel safe anywhere right now.”

His arms wrapped around you again, tighter this time. And his voice was soft enough it barely reached your ears.

“You are when you’re with me.”

mercvry-glow 2025

#animal kingdom #animal kingdom tnt #animal kingdom x reader #animal kingdom x you #andrew cody #andrew cody x reader #andrew cody x you #pope cody #pope cody x reader #pope cody x you #andrew pope cody #andrew pope cody x reader #andrew pope cody x you #shawn hatosy #❥ - Pope Cody

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soliloquality · 5 days ago

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End Up Together - A.H.

You love Aaron, Aaron loves you. But you don't talk about it. Oh, you'd never. Until your mom says a thing, and feelings finally tide over.

A/N: a whole lot of unspoken/suppressed feelings, years of restraint culminating into...something, Aaron taking a chance, reader feeling conflicted, angst, so much pining.

Word count: 3.5k

The steering wheel is warm beneath your fingers, sticky even, from sweat and sunscreen and general car-grime that has accumulated in your old Nissan Altima over the years, complemented by faded, worn-out seat covers and the stubborn Black Vanilla Little Tree hanging from the rearview mirror. It’s pointless, really—its scent has faded into oblivion by now—but it clings there like a badge of honor, a relic from the past. This car has stood the test of time—your first car and you’re preferential to firsts, even if they’re a little stuffy inside.

First taste of ice cream (Jo’s Caramel Cookie Crumble), first time out of state (Sarasota, 1992) and your first ever love letter—to Craig Sullivan, devastatingly.

However lyrically—? A work of art.

“I can’t believe she said that, you know.”

Aaron’s crammed in the passenger seat, knees squished against the glove department and nightly shadows swallowed by jet black hair, but if you looked at him, really looked, you know you’d see the street lights reflecting in his eyes—bright, sparkling, taunting.

If.

You’re not sure you can ever look at him again.

___________

Such a beautiful ring, my dear.

It’s funny though, how life works. I always thought you two would—

___________

“She didn’t mean it.”

Right. Of course not.

Your jaw ticks, eyes drifting from the barely visible road to your phone. 0.3 miles until the next turn, left on Hill Drive, then another left and you’ll be straight on the I-95 to Washington.

ETA: 00:06 AM. 37 minutes to go.

“I don’t care if she meant it,” you say through your teeth, gripping the steering wheel tightly. “She can’t just—“

Say what you’ve never had the courage to say? What you never dared to even think about?

Aaron and you. You and Aaron. Like a pendulum, two poles forever divided, but always connected. By something.

You remember being small, innocent, playing fetch with your neighbors’ son—Sean, not Aaron—because Aaron was always busy fixing your mother’s house or mowing the lawn for some extra cash—to get the fuck out of Manassas—and when he did, he left you, too.

You were only eight, but still. Sean was four, and practically lived at your house instead of next door. You never thought of it as particularly neglectful on anyone’s part—you just liked having a little brother to torment.

And before you were old enough to even grasp the meaning of love, Aaron was head over heels for Haley, blushing furiously whenever your mother mentioned the theatre club, when she teased him about being the worst fourth pirate in The Pirates of Penzance to date, and yet—and yet, maybe you liked Haley even more than Aaron.

She was the big sister you never had, but always wanted—and while Aaron threatened to punch Craig Sullivan for cheating on you with a girl from Eastwood High, in a god-darn tree of all places, Haley was the one who actually helped you through senior year.

Checking in on you from GWU campus, revising countless applications essays—she even took you dress shopping for prom, which you attended with Craig’s best friend.

Better to go out with a bang, right?

And it’s not like you thought about Aaron in any sort of way—ever—at least not until you really grew up and started to subconsciously compare any guy you met to Aaron and any of your relationships to his marriage.

A marriage that is now over—your once so highly esteemed picture-perfect image of partnership, of love, festered into something else entirely by the force of responsibility, by careless negligence and scathing loneliness.

Priorities, for short.

But it’s weird, right?

The man who chose his job over his own wife and son countless times—which you condemn, of course—flies in from Wisconsin the moment your mother calls from the hospital?

It makes you wonder, would he do the same for you? You know you would. Any day, even at three in the morning, without hesitation.

“I’ve been engaged for two months,” you point out finally, the words grating on your throat, “even as a joke, it’s not fair to Nathan.”

And although it’s not your truth per say, somewhere in this universe, in a dimension where you’re more worried about your fiancé than your ever emotionally unavailable childhood best friend, it’s a truth, at least.

You thought your mom liked Nathan; his happy-go-luckiness, the quirky glasses, always coming through with some sort of historical fact or grammatical pun.

He’s a teacher—a fun teacher. Reliable. Nice.

A real sweetheart.

Everything you should ever want. Everything you do want.

“You keep saying that like it’s already over.”

From the corner of your eye, you catch Aaron’s hand landing on his thigh, the way he shifts in the passenger seat—and your chest constricts.

“What do you mean?”

He doesn't even hesitate.

“It’s always ‘I’ve been engaged’ or ‘I got engaged’. Past tense, like you’re detaching yourself from the reality of ‘I am engaged’ or ‘I’m getting married’.” Aaron’s voice is quiet, a low, steady rumble that is void of any real affliction, like he’s solving a case.

Like he’s solving you.

“Really, Aaron?" you ask, unimpressed, but there's a subdued sharpness to your tone. "My mom just had a heart attack and you’re profiling me?”

Aaron mumbles, “Costochondritis,” as if that matters at all—as if you didn’t get a phone call sixteen hours ago and drove 180 miles to D.C. under the impression that your mother did have a heart attack.

And you haven’t been able to get it out of your head; the image of your mother, the strongest woman you know, in a hospital gown, talking with a slight voice and shaky fingers, her face pale and drained in a moment she thought could have been her last—and the one thing she chooses to tell you isn’t I love you, kid or I’m proud of you. No, it’s:

I always thought you two would end up together.

It makes sense, the both of you.

Like that’s at all an okay thing to say to your engaged daughter and in-the-midst-of-his-divorce surrogate son. And Haley, god, she loves your mom. She and Aaron chose you as Jack’s godmother—that way you’re officially part of our family, isn’t that beautiful?—and if it wasn’t for her being the second half to in-the-midst-of-Aaron’s-divorce, you would’ve asked her to be your maid of honor. Hell, you still might.

“Why does it bother you so much?”

You cast a squinting look at Aaron in the passenger seat, just for a moment.

Is he being serious?

“For a plethora of reasons,” you reply gravelly, trying to keep your voice level, “Nate. Haley. The fact that it’s absolutely absurd.”

You scoff sharply, fingers tightening around the steering wheel as you relive the scene.

Because that’s the problem, isn’t it? The way Aaron didn’t flinch when she said it—not even the bat of an eye. No surprise on his features, no denial.

As if he’s had the thought before, maybe even the conversation.

And that, the simple idea of it slowly ships away at your resolve, clawing straight into your chest, where a quiet, stickling truth resides, always there, hiding, lingering—the one you’ve never wanted to face—and never had the chance to.

“The question is,” you continue, signaling left to turn on Hill Drive, although it’s not like there’s any other vehicle around at this time of night, “why doesn’t it bother you?”

The moment it’s out, you regret it. Deflection means there’s more to the truth.

You remember the first time he said that to you, in his brand new prosecutor’s office, back when the USAO building was just a couple blocks from the National Gallery on 6th street, and you had just come back from taking a stroll to enjoy the architecture—or, more accurately: call Craig Sullivan from a payphone down the street.

You were sixteen, for god’s sake.

“Maybe because she’s not entirely wrong.”

Something in you snaps, shatters—and the world turns upside down. Your world, carefully constructed to hold everything together, to reconcile this feeling with that feeling, to keep everything neatly compartmentalized, safe, unchallenged.

Aaron and Haley. Haley and Aaron.

You and…someone else.

That’s how it’s always been.

Craig from high school, Jordan from college, then no one for a while—and now Nate, anchoring you to a reality where things are clear-cut, where your engagement means certainty, where Aaron is just Aaron, the brother-like figure, the best friend who has always been there although for you, at times, it’s not been quite enough.

But you never thought—

—yet here you are now, in your first car with the signature Black Vanilla Little Tree, and Aaron isn’t denying your mother’s words. He isn’t scrambling to explain them away. He’s just… accepting them, as though they’re not absurd at all.

“You’re joking,” you balk, but it’s not as sharp as you intended. Your voice wavers, thoughts whirring, desperately trying to keep this, whatever it is, at bay.

Aaron exhales slowly, hands pressing into his thigh. “Not like that,” he says, and it’s tired, weary, like he has had this conversation before—but not with you. Never with you.

With who, then? Your own mother? Sean? Haley?

Betrayal weighs on your chest, leaving a bitter taste on your tongue. How dare he?

“Then what is it like?” You don’t mean to sound defensive, but you are. Defending everything you’ve ever thought to understand about him, about yourself. About boundaries, unspoken, but always there.

Heat sizzles beneath your skin, anger bubbling in your veins. Your right foot steps on the throttle as Hill Drive stretches ahead, empty and dark, giving you nothing to distract yourself from the growing heaviness in your chest.

“Please enlighten me, Aaron,” you snap, wondering if this is him finally reacting to Haley filing for divorce. Maybe he’s overcompensating, prodding at the stability of your relationship, testing the vigor of your choices because he regrets his own.

Maybe it’s the broken home he’s from—alcoholic father, a passive mother—and he just can’t bear to be happy, to see anyone else happy.

You know that’s unfair. But he isn’t being exactly fair either.

“Why do you think Nate’s wrong for me?”

“I don’t,” Aaron says quickly, decisively, and you feel the slightest bit appeased. Until he adds, “But maybe different things can be true at the same time.”

You blink in confusion, frozen as your chest slowly fills with dread. Your eyes drop to the TomTom, the new-tech navigation device Aaron got you for Christmas three years ago.

Philadelphia’s a big city. I don’t want you to get lost.

But isn’t that exactly what you are?

Living somewhere between a fantasy and a delusion, balancing it out with careful calculations to not feel too out of control. Because what you do is what you feel, right?

Daily runs equals 10,000 steps equals feeling healthy. A busy calendar equals productivity equals feeling purposeful. And Nate checking a lot of your boxes? A steady foundation equals a happy relationship.

It’s a logic you thought Aaron could appreciate, at the very least.

31 minutes to go.

You hum quietly, carefully, like you’re bracing yourself for impact, a revelation, perhaps. A tipping point.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Your eyes stay on the road, grip tight around the steering wheel as your pulse kicks up. This isn’t happening. This conversation isn’t happening.

“That it’s…crossed my mind,” Aaron’s voice is gentle, the familiar rumble of syllables and words, hushed, like he’s running out of time, always. But for you, he makes time, he makes room. It’s music to your ears on any given day, and right now, if it weren’t for the adrenaline coursing through your body, you probably would have asked him to tell you again and again and again.

Because he says it so simply, like it’s just another fact about the world—as if it doesn’t unravel something buried deep inside you, something you’ve never had the nerve to examine or admit, not even to yourself. A threat to the foundation you’ve so carefully laid.

“Aaron—” you choke out, pleading, asking him to stop, to repeat. You don’t even know anymore.

The time on the TomTom drops from 31 to 30 minutes, and it’s the longest sixty seconds you’ve ever endured.

Waiting for Aaron to say something, to do something, laugh it off, tell you it was just a joke, a test, anything that doesn’t mean what you think it means. But he doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t take it back. And for a moment, just one second, you allow yourself to imagine it—

Coming home from a long day at work, tired and exhausted, to a wall of warmth and Aaron’s favorite freshly cooked pasta—the one your mom always makes with lentils—and he’d greet you with a hug and a smile. Then you’d have dinner, talking about work and how Jack’s doing, maybe you’d be thinking about buying a house, about building a life together.

You’d drive to Manassas on the weekend to visit your mom and she’d finally have something nice to say about your partner.

You’d bicker about something stupid on the way home, like you always do, and he’d kiss it better later in the night, knowing just how much you could take, how much you wanted it, needed him—

“No.”

It’s sharp, panicked, cutting through the air like a blade, like a door slamming shut before something dangerous can slip through. Something you’ve kept under lock and key for a long part of your life.

In front of you, the windshield blurs for a moment, but you blink hard, force yourself to focus. And then the anger comes back, red hot in your veins.

“No,” you repeat, lower now, and your head shakes, “you don’t get to do this.” Your voice is thick with emotion, uneven, like the ground is shifting beneath you and you’re trying to stay upright. “Haley’s my friend. I’m getting married.”

“I know,” Aaron nods once, slow, measured, like it’s another fact he’s just…accepted. But his voice is strained, frayed at the edges, like he’s at war with himself, but about to give up.

Frustration rises in your throat, bristling against something dangerously close to fear—maybe a dooming realization that Aaron feels it too, that you might not be alone in this, maybe haven’t been for a while.

It makes everything worse.

“This isn’t fair,” you say, voice clipped. It’s not fair to Haley or Nathan or you, after all these years of keeping your mouth shut, after all the times you bit your tongue, forced a smile, tucked emotions away like secrets. When you sat across from your boyfriends and thought—Aaron wouldn’t say it like that. Aaron would know better. Aaron would understand.

Every moment you had to remind herself that wanting more would never be an option.

“I’m just trying to be honest.“

Now that—

That does it.

There’s a beat of silence—deafening, devastating silence. You glance at the rearview mirror, and before you can think about it, you slam the brakes. Aaron jerks forward in the passenger seat, caught by the seat belt. His right hand snaps to the dashboard to steady himself.

“What are you—” Aaron starts, but you don’t let him.

The moment the car stills, you stare at him, eyes wide, streetlights flashing through the windshield, casting fractured streaks of gold and shadow across his face, and for once—he looks caught off guard. But you’re too angry to revel in it.

“Honest? You want honesty?”

The heat behind your words builds fast, sharp and unforgiving, spilling out before you can stop it. “I have been watching from the sidelines for years, Aaron. I was happy for you, for Haley and I never said a thing because it would have ruined the life of everyone I love.”

Your voice is rough, edged with something close to regret—not for holding back, but for never getting the chance not to. You shake your head slightly, swallowing hard, forcing down the ache rising in your throat before locking your gaze on him.

“And you throw this at me now? When it’s finally my turn? When I finally found someone who—”

You stop short, words catching like a lump in your throat.

Someone who ticks all the boxes? Someone so opposite that you couldn’t possibly compare him to Aaron?

This is a farce. A cruel joke you’ve played on yourself for years—pretending you don’t care, convincing yourself that holding back was a choice and not survival. That your careful decisions, your curated relationships, your picture-perfect stability meant you’d won.

But the truth is, you’ve been fighting against this from the very beginning—against him, against whatever this is. And what’s worse?

It makes sense, the both of you.

Ultimately, it’s the truth. You know it is.

Aaron’s jaw shifts, slow, deliberate. His gaze flickers toward you, unreadable—but not indifferent. Never indifferent.

“Your turn?” There’s something careful in his voice, calculated, knowing. The weight of his words settle between you, thick and suffocating, pressing into the space where something shouldn’t be—but is.

Always has been, maybe.

“Are you getting married to prove something?”

Your stomach twists, brows pulling together in something that feels like being caught, ensnared in your own web of divisions and self-preserving lies, and for what?

A sense of control? A lifeline for something simpler, something less...impossible?

“That’s not—” you exhale sharply, leaning back in the seat, your head falling against the headrest as you try to keep it together, scrambling to hold onto the reality you’ve built over the last three years, the one that was supposed to protect you, to help you move on.

Because you had to, after Haley announced that she was pregnant. It was the last straw, undeniable proof that Aaron belonged somewhere else—that there was no space for whatever you had convinced yourself wasn’t real.

So you did what anyone desperate to move on would do.

You left Washington. You packed up your life, relocated to Philadelphia, took on a different job, met new people—built something from scratch, far enough away that you wouldn’t accidentally run into old ghosts. You filled your days with work, routine, order. When you met Nathan, cheerful, fun, shining bright like the sun, it was like two jigsaw puzzle pieces entwining, factoring into a bigger picture.

It was supposed to be enough.

“I love Nate,” you force out, the words scraping against your throat, raw, uneven, too fragile to feel real. You stare straight ahead, refusing to meet Aaron’s gaze, because if you do, if you see whatever’s sitting in his expression, you might not be able to hold back.

He studies you, and for once, you let him, assuming—accepting—that you will not get out of this conversation unscathed.

“Because you choose to, yes.”

Your breath falters, letting out a hollow laugh, sharp, bitter—because isn’t that the truth?

A person chooses actions, feelings choose a person. It’s a cycle you’ve been trying to escape for years, by making calculated, careful decisions, the kind that leave no room for recklessness.

Because recklessness is what led you here, on the side of a road with Aaron, unraveling years of restraint with just a few sentences.

“What else was I supposed to do?” The question is desperate, but your voice carries an edge, and your gaze lands on him—reproachful. “Did you want me to put myself on hold while you were married with a kid? Always at your disposal when it’s convenient? That’s selfish, even for you.”

Aaron’s jaw tightens slightly. His gaze flickers toward the windshield, toward the empty road ahead, like the words have landed somewhere he isn’t sure he wants to explore.

“I didn’t know you felt like that,” he says, his voice quiet, pondering.

De-escalating.

You let out a breath, shaking your head as something pulls at your chest—something heavy, similar to grief.

“How could you?” you ask, your gaze softening in the dim lighting. It’s been a long day, and his hair is messier than usual. Unkempt in a way that makes him look younger, less intense, more approachable. “I suppose you’re not the only one with a good poker face.”

It’s a try at lightness, at easing the blow of this conversation. But your momentum ends as soon as Aaron breaks eye contact, turning in on himself.

“I’m sorry,” he says, murmurs, and it sounds sincere. “I never wanted you to feel that way.”

Suddenly you’re twenty-four again, sprawled across your tiny apartment floor, notes scattered and cradling a half-empty coffee cup in your hands, complaining to Aaron about legal terms like prudent person and quid pro quo.

He used to revel in it, you—a trained nurse, taking after him, fighting for patient’s causes, for justice.

It’s addicting, right?

And it was, just like him.

When you finally got that certificate, he was so, so proud of you. And you loved every second of it, loved it in a way you shouldn’t have.

That’s when you knew, six years ago.

Your eyes close, just for a second, but the weight of it doesn’t lessen. If anything, shutting out the world only makes it louder. The memories, the choices, the things you told yourself you were better off leaving behind.

None of it has worked.

So you open them again, the world settling back into place—but it doesn’t feel any steadier.

“What do you want then?” The words spill out of you before you can stop them. Sharper than you meant, but there’s no taking them back.

Silence stretches between you, long enough to feel unbearable, to make you second-guess, wishing you never had this conversation.

Because this might be the end of it all—the end of you and Aaron, Aaron and you, two poles forever divided by time and place and the weight of your choices.

Then, softly—too softly, like he’s had the same realization and wants to recover—he says, “I don’t know.”

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blushweddinggowns · 4 months ago

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Eddie guessed that it was his own fault for waiting the last second to get a new one. He thought that he’d be able to wait it out. He was on the edge of graduating from his apprenticeship at the shop, so, so close to being able to afford the apartment completely on his own. But then his boss had to go and make it clear that nothing was happening until the New Year, a solid three months away.

His paycheck to paycheck life style wasn’t gonna cut it for that long. And that's how we found himself desperate enough to post a Craig’s list ad. What did he think was going to happen? That he’d get the creme of the crop? No. The only applicants he’d had were a chronic cigarette smoker who couldn’t wait to light up until after the apartment tour, a middle-aged guy who immediately told him that his ferrets free-roaming around the house was a non-negotiable, and some dude who wore polo shirts and looked like he fell out of a highschool rom-com.

He should have chosen the smoker. But no, he had to go with the eye-candy. Despite the fact that he knew Steve would never look twice his way, even with the low odds that he even liked men.

But he couldn’t help it.

Eddie had been a failure when it came to romance ever since he moved out of his uncle’s place. Twenty-four years of conservative small town bullshit, all culminating into a completely lack of ability when it came to getting laid. Three more completely dedicated to making something of himself out in the city. He hadn’t been prepared to ward-off the model with the puppy dog eyes and the sob story of his last place flooding.

Though in his defense, it wasn’t just from his extremely horny mind. Steve seemed polite enough when they first met. He was surprisingly sweet for someone openly wearing Ralph Lauren. So when he said that he could move in immediately, Eddie was sold. He didn’t even think to question Steve paying his first month of rent in cash. He was just relieved the worry about getting kicked out was officially gone.

The first week had been fine enough. Eddie met a few of his friends who were helping him move in. It was a gaggle of twenty-one year olds, oddly enough.

“I was their babysitter,” Steve had sighed when Eddie asked about it, his eyes fond, “They got a little too attached. Now I’m an underage uncle for life.”

It was cute, another point towards Eddie’s slight pining. But then, Steve went back to work.

Eddie didn’t care that he worked a night shift. He could understand that, tip-based work was pretty lucrative. He was pretty sure Steve was a bartender or something considering the crazy hours. He could handle a few bumps in the night while he got situated.

What Eddie couldn’t handle was Steve’s multi-hour long, middle of the night routine. He’d get home at three a.m.

And yeah, maybe Eddie hadn’t been totally upfront about the downsides of this place when he got Steve to sign the sublet. Despite the price, their walls were paper thin. The advertised “soundproofing” of the place had only applied to hearing the neighbors. You could hear everything in this place, from the front door to their insanely loud showerhead. A fact that he assumed Steve would catch up on without Eddie having to act like an RA.

With him and Gareth having basically the same schedule, Eddie had forgotten just how loud things could be. But Steve quickly gave him a reminder. Without fail, he’d hop into the shower first thing, the sound of the water pounding against the ceramic more than enough to wake Eddie up. Not to mention the singing. The good quality of his voice did not make up for the fact that it was tortuous at night.

But it didn’t stop there. No, then he’d go to his room and talk for hours. Eddie had no fucking idea what kind of freak was sharing a five a.m. time table, but it was killing him. Whoever it was knew how to rile Steve up like no other, his laughter so clear through out the night that Eddie couldn’t focus on anything else. It was a lot, it was intense, and Eddie was losing his fucking mind. He tried to find time to talk to him about it, be civil about the whole thing. But when Eddie woke up Steve was dead to the world. When Eddie got home from work, Steve was already gone for his own.

That’s how he found himself here. Wide awake for the fourth night in a row while Steve’s voice streamed through the walls. Every passing second had his pathetic crush on the man dissolving more and more. The last bastion between Steve and Eddie telling him to fuck off.

an excerpt from my soon to be exchange fic. Of course I'm an extension needing bitch 😩😩😩

#steddie #steddie fic #coming soon #omg they were roommates #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie ficlet #fic preview #how do they always get so long......

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yoyomomiko · 4 months ago

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[THREE] — The music box

☆ `` SPECTRAL SCAMMERS ``

☆ — summary: when cartman comes up with yet another 'get rich quick' scheme, he forces his friends, and you, into starting a ghost hunting service. armed with a mix of makeshift equipment, a questionable van and no actual skills, you begin taking jobs to "exorcise" haunted houses.

warnings: strong language, violence, horror elements, cartman being cartman.

(a/n): this chapter is sooo long and it took me DAYS to write it!! >_< (I genuinely didn't sleep at all and just wrote this without stopping, hours without breaks xx) -- this is by far the longest fic/chapter that I've ever wrote... I can't believe it's over 11k words!! I apologize for any grammar mistakes, you can point them out nicely and I'll fix them!! I also apologize for how this chapter seems kinda bland ^.^ -- for some reason, i feel like there wasn't enough romantic tension and stuff... and Tweek's interactions with the reader were so awkward I just don't know how to write for him (╥⁠﹏⁠╥)

wc: 11.1k+

★m.list

★series m.list

<- [PREVIOUS] — [NEXT] -> (uncompleted)

Lunch was rarely quiet, but today's chaos reached a new level as Cartman slammed his backpack onto the cafeteria table with a grin.

"You guys aren't going to believe this." He started, practically shaking in excitement.

"Is it another terrible idea?" Kyle asked, barely looking up from his lunch.

"It's not a terrible idea." Cartman snapped, puffing out his chest. "It's a brilliant idea. A $200 idea, to be exact."

"Here we go..." Stan muttered, leaning back in his seat.

Cartman ignored the groans and unsure looks as he whipped out his phone like a trophy. "I just landed us a gig at the old DeLacroix mansion. They're paying us $200 to 'investigate paranormal activity'."

You all froze for a moment, processing his words.

"Two hundred bucks?" Kenny asked, his eyes lighting up. "That's like... A month's worth of pop tats!"

"Wait, wait, wait..." You interrupted them, raising an eyebrow. "Who in their right mind would pay us twenty hundred dollars to investigate anything? We're not exactly professionals."

"That's where my genius comes in. I told them we're licensed professionals." Cartman smirked.

"Licensed by who? The South Park Department of Bullshit?" Craig asked jokingly.

"Licensed by me, obviously." Cartman shot back.

Kyle pinched the bridge of his nose. "So let me get this straight... You lied to some poor people and convinced them to pay $200 to mess and play around their houses pretending to hunt ghosts?"

"Exactly!" Cartman answered proudly. "And you're welcome."

"Dude, this is going to blow up in our faces." Stan said as he shook his head. "We don't know the first thing about ghost hunting."

"We don't need to." Cartman replied, waving him off. "Ghosts aren't even real. We just have to scare the homeowners enough for them to think that we actually did something."

"That's... Moraly questionable." You mumbled, eyeing him up and down.

"Oh, please, [Y/N], like you've never fucked with the truth to make a quick buck." Cartman rolled his eyes.

"I-I don't know about this..." Tweek, seated beside you, shifted uncomfortably. "What if the house is actually haunted?"

"Ghosts aren't real, Tweek." Craig replied flatly as he rested his arms on the lunch table.

"They're not real until they are..." Tweek mumbled, fidgeting with his fingers.

"Okay can we focus on the important part?" Clyde interrupted. "Two hundred dollars is a lot of money. I say we go for it."

"Yeah." Kenny agreed, nodding excitedly. "We could use the cash to upgrade our equipment or something." He muttered hesitantly, a bit heart broken that, most probably, that's what Cartman would want to do with the money.

"What equipment?" Stan asked, raising and eyebrow.

"We'll figure that out later!" Cartman said as he slammed his hands on the table. "All we have to do is show up, act professional and maybe sprinkle some flour to make it look like ghost footprints. Easy money!"

"This is such a bad idea." Kyle groaned.

"Bad idea or not, you're in." Cartman shot back smugly. "Everyone's in."

"I didn't agree to anything." Craig cut in.

"I don't care what you think, Craig." Cartman snapped. "You're coming. And you're driving the van."

Craig flipped him off with the same bored expression on his face.

"What van?" You asked, narrowing your eyes.

"Oh, I've got that covered. Just wait." Cartman's grin widened.

...

As the rest of the group continued to bicker, you couldn't help but notice Tweek fidgeting beside you. His hands toyed with the hem of his shirt, his leg bouncing under the table.

"You okay?" You asked softly, leaning closer to him.

He jumped slightly at the sound of your voice but nodded quickly. "Y-Yeah, just... You know, Cartman's plans never end well."

"That's fair." You mumbled, sighing before quickly giving him a small smile. "But hey, at least this one doesn't involve creating an alien beacon that sends signals out, which ends up getting us abducted by aliens and then arrested by the police." You recalled, reminding Tweek of the horrific incident that happened... Not long ago.

The corners of Tweek's lips tugged upwards, forming a shy smile, his eyes briefly meeting yours. "Yeah, I guess. Still, it's a haunted mansion... That's horror movie territory..."

"You're not scared, are you?" You teased lightly.

"N-No! Of course not!" His face turned a faint shade of pink.

"Don't worry, I'll protect you if anything jumps out." You assured him, smirking as you noticed his cheeks growing redder.

‘ He was so cute when he blushed! You could barely contain yourself from kissing him! ’

He laughed nervously, feeling heat rise to his cheeks. "T-Thanks..."

Across the table, Clyde wiggled his eyebrows at the two of you. "Aw, look at that! Lovebirds bonding over ghost hunting!"

"Shut up, Clyde." Your smirk faded as you threw your empty carton of milk at him.

"You're just jealous." Cartman cut in smugly. "Not everyone gets to bask in my genius and charm like [Y/N] does."

"Yeah, that's exactly it." You muttered dryly, fighting the urge to roll your eyes.

...

After much debate and several insults exchanged between Cartman and Kyle, you all hesitantly agreed to the plan.

"Fine!" Stan snapped, throwing his hands up in the air. "We'll do it, but if this goes wrong, I'm blaming you, Cartman."

"Blame me all you want!" Cartman shot back as he smirked. "I'll be too busy counting my $200 to care."

"What do you mean 'my' $200?" Craig asked, his monotone voice cutting through the noise. "Pretty sure we're splitting it evenly."

"Yeah!" You agreed, nodding. "We're all risking our dignity here, so we all get a fair share."

Cartman huffed but didn't argue further. "Whatever. The point is, we've got a job. We're gonna kick some ghost ass!"

You all gathered in the school parking lot after the last bell, backpacks thrown over shoulders and various pieces of 'ghost equipment' in a row. Cartman stood in front of a suspiciously beat up white van, grinning ear to ear as if he was about to ask you if you wanted some candy.

"What the hell is that?" Kyle asked, staring at the van with wide eyes as if it would come to life and swallow him whole.

"Our ride." Cartman answered proudly, slapping the side of the van. "Rented it with my mom's credit card!"

"Your mom let you use her credit card?" Stan raised a brow.

"She doesn't know yet." Cartman admitted with a shrug. "But she will when I 'accidentally' leave the receipt on the counter. By then, it'll be too late."

"Classic." Craig muttered, fighting the urge to roll his eyes.

"Dude, we're not getting in that thing." You said, eyeing the van doubtfully. "It looks like it hasn't been cleaned since the 90s. What's with the stain on the side?"

"Ghost residue." Cartman answered without missing a beat.

"Pretty sure that's bird crap." Clyde pointed out as he leaned closer.

"Shut up!" Cartman snapped. "Do you losers want to walk all the way to the DeLacroix mansion? No? Then get in."

"This is so stupid..." Stan sighed.

"Not as stupid as your haircut." Cartman shot back.

"Let's just get this over with." Kenny interrupted as he threw his backpack in the back. "I wanna see if we can actually pull this off."

The rest of you hesitated but eventually climbed into the van one by one. The inside was even worse, barely breathable air, carrying the smell of sweat, and seats covered in mysterious stains that no one wanted to identify.

"It smells like ass." Clyde stuck out his tongue, pinching his nose.

"This is disgusting." You mumbled as you took a seat near the back.

"Disgusting but functional." Cartman replied as he dropped into the driver's seat.

"You're not seriously the one driving, are you?" Kyle asked, eyeing Cartman up and down.

"Uh, yeah, who else is going to drive?"

"Literally anyone else." Craig cut in, raising his hand.

Cartman ignored him as he turned the key, starting the engine, which, by the way, sounded like it would break down any moment.

"Didn't you say Craig was gonna drive?" Clyde, who was seated in the passenger's seat, asked hesitantly.

"Nope. Don't remember ever saying that." Cartman replied, barely moving the van an inch.

You ended up next to Tweek, who was already fidgeting with the strap of his bag. His eyes scanned the van like he expected a ghost to pop up from the shadows.

"You good?" You asked, leaning slightly toward him.

"Y-Yeah." He nodded quickly, though his jumpy movements suggested otherwise.

"Well at least the van hasn't exploded yet. That's a good sign, right?" You gave him a small smile.

"I guess. But this thing smells like a gym locker." He chuckled, his shoulder relaxing a bit.

"You're not wrong..." You nodded, trying to hold your breath. "Let's just hope the drive isn't too long."

From the front, Cartman banged his fist on the steering wheel. "Can you idiots shut up for five seconds?! I'm trying to focus!"

"You're trying to focus on driving two miles an hour?" Kyle shot back.

"It's called being cautious you fucking bitch!" Cartman defended himself.

"It's called being a terrible driver." Craig muttered, earning a snicker from Kenny.

"Why don't you go flip off a tree or something?" Cartman snapped, glaring at him through the rearview mirror.

Craig responded by slowly raising his middle finger.

As the van crept out of town and onto the road leading to the DeLacroix mansion, the air began to shift. The sun was slowly lowering on the sky, causing long shadows across the pavement. Trees lined both sides of the road, their branches twisting up in the orange sky as they gently swayed in the wind.

"This road is creepy as hell." Kenny pointed out, gazing out the window.

"Perfect setting for a haunted mansion." Clyde added, his voice touched with nervous excitement.

"Or for us to get murdered." You muttered, making Tweek's grip on his thighs tighten.

"Relax! Nothing's going to happen. Ghosts aren't real, remember?" Cartman replied, though his hold on the steering wheel tightened.

"That's not what you said when you were charging $200." Stan pointed out.

"That's called marketing." Cartman shot back smugly. "You wouldn't understand."

The road hit a bump, making everyone jump out of their places.

"Careful, fatass!" Kyle shouted, grabbing onto Kenny who was beside him, holding onto his shoulder to secure himself in his seat.

"Don't like my walking? Get out and walk you fucking asshole!" Cartman snapped, turning around to glare at you all.

‘ Of course that idiot wasn't wearing a seatbelt... ’

"No one's walking." You spoke up, cutting off the argument before it could escalate. "Let's just focus on getting there in one piece."

Tweek shifted uncomfortably beside you, his knee bouncing nervously. You reached out and gave his arm a light tap, grabbing his attention.

"Hey, we'll be fine." You assured, keeping your tone casual. "Worst case scenario, we get there, find out it's just some creaky floorboards and call it a day."

He nodded slowly, the corners of his lips tugging upwards and forming a shy smile. "Yeah... Yeah, you're probably right."

"Of course I'm right, I'm always right." You smirked, and Tweek was sure you could hear his heartbeat.

"Aw, look at that!" Clyde teased from the front of the van, smirking as he was turned to fully look at you.

‘ Another idiot who didn't wear seatbelts... ’

"Tweek's got a little bodyguard!"

"Keep talking like that and I won't hesitate throwing you out the van." You warned him, your smirk fading away.

"Try it. I'll land on my feet."

"Can we stop fucking flirting and focus?" Cartman snapped, glaring at everyone in the rearview mirror. "We've got a job to do, assholes!"

"You're the only asshole here..." You muttered quietly.

"Maybe that's why it smells like ass." Craig added, earning a snicker from Stan.

The van shook along the lonely and bumpy road, the engine groaning with every turn of the wheels. The sun was slowly setting in, the once orange and pink sky darkening.

"Hey, uh... This thing is making weird noise." Stan pointed out.

"That's just the sound of your whining." Cartman shot back, his tone sarcastic.

"No, seriously." You spoke up, trying to glance at Cartman in the rearview mirror. "It's been getting louder for the last mile. Do you even know how to drive this thing?"

"Of course I know how to drive!" Cartman shouted, puffing out his chest. "I'm a naturally born leader. Driving's part of the package, asshole!"

"Leader of what? The loser unit?" Craig snorted.

Before Cartman could fire back and insult him, the van gave a violent shake. Everyone lunged forward as it came to an abrupt stop. The engine faltering as it made loud, roaring sounds before going completely silent.

"You've got to be kidding me." Kyle groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"What happened?" Kenny asked as he looked around.

Cartman angrily twisted the key, but the engine only made clicking noises in response. "What the hell?!"

"I think your piece of crap van just died." Clyde pointed the obvious, earning a glare from Cartman.

"Shut up, you don't know anything about cars dumbass!" He yelled, practically shaking aggressively in his seat.

"And you do?" Stan raised an eyebrow, only making Cartman's face grow a darker shade of red from frustration.

"I know more than you!" Cartman shouted, slapping the steering wheel.

...

As you all piled out of the van, the reality of your situation started to sink in. The road stretched endlessly in both directions, and to add to the creepiness, the crickets started chirping as the sun lowered.

"This is bad..." Tweek muttered, clutching his bag tightly. "This is really bad..."

"It's fine." You assured him quickly, although your voice was a bit too loud to be entirely convincing. "We'll just figure it out, no big deal."

"No big deal?! We're stranded in the middle of nowhere! What if something's out there?!" Tweek glanced at you, eyes wide as his whole body trembled.

"There's nothing out there." You placed your hand on his shoulder, causing him to flinch. Your gaze flickered nervously toward the dark trees. "Probably just squirrels or something..."

"Squirrels don't make weird noises at night..." He muttered, his voice shaky as he struggled to keep still.

Craig, standing a few feet away, sighed as he interrupted. "Relax. The only dangerous thing out here is Cartman's driving."

"Hey, screw you asshole!" Cartman barked loudly.

Ignoring him, your hand that was on Tweek's shoulder slowly trailed down to his arm, holding it, trying to steady him. "Look, we'll figure it out, okay? We're not gonna be stuck here forever."

"A-Alright... If you say so." Tweek nodded hesitantly, his breathing slowing a little.

For a moment, you felt pride knowing you managed to calm him down a bit. But then the stillness of the road, the sinister silence, the darkening sky... It was starting to creep you out. Before you knew it, the panic you've kept holding in all this time came rushing in.

"What if we are stuck here?" You blurted out quietly, the words coming out of your mouth before you could stop yourself. "What if no one finds us? What if-"

You felt a hand on your shoulder, the gentle gesture catching you off guard. You almost screamed, but you turned around before you did. You found Craig standing beside you, his usual bored expression replaced with a softer one.

"It's alright." He said simply, his voice low and steady.

You blinked at him, caught off guard.

"You're freaking yourself out." He added, his monotone voice oddly comforting. "It's not helping."

"I know that." You muttered, feeling slightly embarrassed.

"Then calm down. We'll figure it out." He shrugged.

Despite his bluntness, his words seemed to make your heart race. You took a deep breath.

Cartman was pacing back and forth beside the van, muttering under his breath. "This is a disaster! A complete disaster! My mom's gonna get upset!"

"You mean because you stole her credit card?" Kyle asked dryly.

"Shut up you Jew!" Cartman snapped.

Stan kneeled down to check under the van, using one of Cartman's almost out of battery flashlights to light up the underside. "Looks like something's leaking." He pointed out, frowning.

"Oil?" Kenny asked, crouching beside him.

"Maybe. I'm not a mechanic."

"Well does anyone know how to fix it?" Clyde questioned, looking around hopefully.

You all glanced at each other, standing in complete silence other than the chirping crickets.

"Nope." Craig answered bluntly.

"Great." Kyle muttered, running a hand down his face. "Just great."

...

With no immediate solution, you all settled into an uneasy silence. Cartman sulked by the driver's door, muttering about how unfair the universe was. Stan and Kyle debated whether they should try to call for help, although they doubted anyone would come this far out. Tweek leaned on a rock near the edge of the road, his knee bouncing nervously.

You sat down beside him, staring at the van and the rest of the group, who were arguing like crazy. You still felt a little nervous, despite Craig's attempt at calming you down earlier. "How you holding up?" You asked.

"Better." Tweek admitted, though his voice was still shaky. "But this sucks."

"Yeah... It really does." You agreed.

For a moment, the two of you just sat there, watching the sky change from orange and pink to a depressing gray. Despite your situation, there was something oddly peaceful about the quiet.

"Thanks for earlier." Tweek mumbled suddenly, his voice softer than usual.

"For what?" You glanced at him, surprised.

"For, you know... Helping me calm down." He rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze. "That was pretty nice of you..."

You felt your cheeks warm up, but you quickly brushed it off. "Well, you've got my back too, right?"

Tweek smiled, the corners of his mouth twisting up in a way that made your heart skip a beat. "Yeah. Always."

You all gathered around the front of the van, flashlights in hand. The hood was popped open, revealing the engine that looked like it hasn't been properly maintained in decades.

Stan squinted at the mess, raising an eyebrow. "Okay, so... What exactly are we looking at here?"

"An engine." Craig replied, arms crossed.

"Yeah, thanks, genius." Kyle muttered, rolling his eyes. He leaned closer, frowning at the faint puddle forming beneath the van. "Something's definitely leaking."

"Maybe it's ghost juice." Cartman suggested, snickering at his own joke.

"No one asked you." Kyle snapped, shining his flashlight on the engine.

You sighed, leaning against the side of the van. "So... Does anyone actually know what they're doing?"

Everyone exchanged awkward glances, shrugging at each other.

"Not a clue." Clyde admitted.

"Fantastic." You muttered, your palm coming in contact with your forehead.

"I've seen my dad fix stuff like this before." Stan spoke up, though his tone wasn't exactly confident. "But we need tools."

"Tools?!" Cartman exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. "What do you think this is, a Home Depot?! Where are we supposed to get tools in the middle of nowhere?!"

...

"So, what's the plan?" Clyde asked, leaning against the van.

"Plan?" Cartman scoffed. "The plan is you idiots fix the van while I supervise."

"Yeah, that's not happening." Kyle dismissed flatly.

"Wait..." Tweek spoke up, his voice slightly hesitant. "Does anyone have duct tape?"

You turned to him, furrowing your brows together. "What for?"

"Well..." He started, shifting nervously under everyone's gaze. "If it's just a leak, maybe we can patch it up enough to get moving again?"

"That... Actually might work." Stan nodded slowly.

"Great idea!" You praised, smiling at him.

Tweek blinked, his face turning a faint shade of pink. "Uh, thanks..."

"Fine. Who's got tape?" Cartman groaned.

...

After a bit of rummaging, you all managed to find duct tape in Kenny's backpack. You wouldn't dare ask why he had that on him, and it would be better if you didn't.

"This is ridiculous." Craig muttered, watching as Stan and Kyle debated the best way to 'fix' the leak.

"Do you have a better idea?" You asked, raising a brow.

"No. But this still feels stupid." He shrugged.

"Stupid or not, it's all we've got." Stan interrupted, crouching beside the van. "Alright, someone hand me the tape."

Kenny passed the roll as the rest of you watched Stan carefully tape over the leaking spot. "This should hold for a little while. Hopefully."

"Hopefully?!" Cartman exclaimed. "That's the best you've got?!"

"Unless you want to get under there and fix it yourself, yes." Stan shot back.

As Stan finished his makeshift repair, you leaned back against the van, glancing at Tweek. "I didn't expect you to figure out a solution."

"What do you mean?" Tweek tilted his head to the side, confused.

"I mean, that was a pretty great idea. You're full of surprises, huh?" You smiled, nodding towards the engine.

"I just... Didn't want to be stuck here all night." He replied nervously, rubbing the back of his neck as a smile tugged at his lips.

"Well, great job." You muttered.

Tweek chuckled, his usual nervousness temporarily forgotten. "Thanks."

"Alright!" Cartman shouted, clapping his hands. "Is this thing fixed or what?"

"Fixed enough." Stan replied, standing up and dusting off his hands. "But we should probably get moving before it gives out again."

"Great." Cartman said, already climbing into the driver's seat. "Get in, assholes!"

...

You all piled back in the van, the air still tense but slightly more hopeful. The engine came to life as the van moved forward, resuming its journey down the dark, lonely road.

"See? I told you we'd fix it." Cartman bragged, a smug grin on his face.

"You didn't do anything." Kyle pointed out.

"I supervised." Cartman shot back. "That's the most important part of any operation." His words earned a middle finger from Craig, which he of course, didn't ignore.

The van came to a stop just outside the towering DeLacroix mansion, and the sight alone was enough to make everyone fall silent. The place looked like it had been ripped straight out of a gothic horror movie. The iron gates creaked as they swung inward, revealing a front lawn with trimmed edges and a path of cobblestone leading to the massive double doors of the mansion. It looked and sounded like hell. No, seriously. The hinges of the gates screeched like tortured souls.

"Wow. They weren't kidding when they said they were loaded." Stan let out a low whistle.

Craig crossed his arms, unimpressed. "Looks like something out of a vampire movie. I'm expecting Dracula to pop up any second."

"This house is awesome!" Kenny beamed, his face lighting up. "It's like something out of those haunted mansion tours!"

"Yeah, well, it's probably just a glorified dust trap." Kyle shoved his hands in his pockets. "Rich people are weird..."

Cartman turned to glare at Kyle, pointing his thumb toward the mansion. "Rich people are our clients you fucking asshole! Now shut the fuck up and try not to embarrass me."

"Embarrass you?" Kyle snorted. "That's rich coming from the guy who got us abducted by aliens yet they still sent us back to Earth because of you."

"Okay now you're pushing it!" Cartman interrupted. "Face it, you're embarrassing all of us."

"Fuck you, fatass!"

Cartman ignored him, puffing out his chest and leading the group up the cobblestone path as if he was the CEO of some multimillion dollar ghost hunting operation.

Before anyone could knock, the heavy front doors creaked open as an elderly woman stepped out onto the grand porch. She was dressed elegantly in a deep emerald gown, her pearl necklace glinting in the fading sunlight. Her husband followed close behind. His tailored suit looked expensive, and his sharp features carried the kind of sterness that could make anyone feel like a misbehaving child.

The woman's eyes scanned you all, her expression both relieved and suspicious. "Oh, thank goodness you're here!" She exclaimed, her voice trembling as she hurried down the steps. "You have no idea how much time we have been waiting for a certain individual to assist us!"

The old man, however, was less excited. He frowned, scanning the group. "You're the ghost hunters?" He asked, his tone doubtful as he eyed you all. "You all look... Very young."

"Thanks, I moisturize." Craig spoke up.

Cartman stepped forward, giving Craig a glare before plastering a fake smile onto his face. "Youthfulness is what makes us the best in business." He replied, his tone was supposed to sound professional, but came off more like a used car salesman.

The old man remained unconvinced, his eyes narrowing as if he were searching for a hidden adult supervisor. "Are you even qualified for this?"

"Qualified?" Cartman repeated, placing a hand on his chest as if he was personally offended. "Sir, we're professionals. We've been in the business for years! Licensed, insured, you name it!"

"Insured against what? Getting caught in your lies?" Kyle muttered under his breath.

Cartman shot him a warning glare before turning back to the couple. "Now, why don't you tell us exactly what's going on, and we're gonna take care of it faster than you can say 'check, please'!"

The woman squeezed her own hands, glancing nervously at her husband before speaking. "It's been terrible. Absolutely terrible. Every night, we hear whispers in the halls. Sometimes it's a woman singing... So soft and yet so haunting... It feels like it's coming from nowhere and everywhere at once."

"And the doors." The old man added, adjusting his tie. "They slam shut on their own. Sometimes in the middle of the night, sometimes when we're standing right there. It's like we're not welcome in our own home."

"Maybe it's just bad hinges or the wind?" Keny tilted his head to the side.

The woman shot him a sharp look. "Does the wind whisper your name?"

"Depends on how much I've had to drink." Kenny muttered, earning a snicker from Craig.

The man's frown deepened. "This isn't a joke. Whatever is in that house... It isn't natural. And it's just getting worse."

"Don't worry, sir, ma'am." Cartman stepped forward with false confidence. "You called the right team. We've handled cases way scarier than this."

"Name one." Kyle challenged, crossing his arms.

Cartman ignored him, turning his attention back to the couple. "Now, let's talk about payment. We'll need half upfront for, uh, operational costs."

The woman's brows furrowed together. "Operational costs?"

"Yeah." Cartman replied smoothly. "You know, equipment, transportation, ghost insurance..."

"Ghost insurance?" The old man repeated, raising one of his bushy eyebrows.

"It's standard practice." Cartman said, waving off their confusion. "Ghost hunting is dangerous work. There's always a risk of possession, attacks, or ectoplasmic goo. We can't exactly do this for free, can we?"

"Oh my God Cartman, stop scamming people." Stan groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Scamming people?" Cartman repeated, acting offended. Technically, he was. "This is a legitimate business transaction. Now, if you're done interrupting, let the professionals handle this."

The woman sighed, clearly too exhausted to argue. She reached into her purse, pulling out a checkbook. "Fine. You'll get $100 now and the rest when the job is done."

"Pleasure doing business with you." Cartman smirked, snatching the check before anyone else could.

The man gestured toward the house, his expression grumpy. "Do whatever you need to. Just get rid of it."

Cartman turned to the rest of you, clapping his hands together. "Alright assholes, you heard the man! Gear up and get to work!"

Craig rolled his eyes, fighting the urge to flip Cartman off. "I'm only doing this because I need the money."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." Cartman waved him off. "Now let's get moving! Time is money!"

As you all started gathering your 'equipment', you exchanged a glance with Tweek, who was fidgeting nervously.

"Come on, I'm sure it's fine." You cut through the silence, making Tweek flinch.

"Y-Yeah, I'm sure it's alright... But this place gives me goosebumps..." He replied, his voice shaky as his eyes darted everywhere.

"We can use Cartman as a shield." You shrugged, looking over your shoulder to see Cartman shouting at everyone.

Tweek chuckled, his shoulder relaxing a bit. "I-If it's an actual ghost, I'm running back to the van and leaving without the rest of you."

"You're leaving me behind?" You raised your brows, gasping dramatically.

"I'll take you with me." Tweek shrugged, the corners of his lips tugging upwards and forming a shy smile.

You could feel your pulse quickening, but you chose to ignore the feeling and hurry up, since Cartman was already fuming.

...

The old woman held the door open as you all stumbled inside, the creak of the heavy wooden door echoing around the mansion. The interior of the DeLacroix mansion was just as massive as the exterior, if not more so. A huge chandelier hung from the high ceiling, its crystals catching the light from the several candles on numerous shelves. The walls were lined with dark wood, and a thick red rug stretched across the polished floor. Everything about the place screamed wealth, but there was something... Off about it.

You couldn't put your finger on it. Maybe it was the faint mouldy smell, or the way the shadows seemed to stretch a little too far.

"Well..." The old woman started, folding her hands in front of her. "We'll let you get to it. My husband and I will be in the kitchen if you need anything."

"Tea." The old man added, narrowing his eyes as they scanned over the group once more. "We'll be making tea. And don't think for a second we won't notice if something goes missing."

"Sir." Cartman started, putting a hand to his chest. "I'll have you know that we run a very professional operation. Stealing? That's beneath us."

"Uh-huh." The old man replied, his tone still doubtful as he ran his eyes across you all with a suspicious look. He turned to his wife. "Come on, let's leave them to it before I change my mind."

As the couple disappeared down the hall, Cartman turned back to you all, his fake professional demeanor dropping in an instant. "Alright, listen up fuckers. Rule number one, nobody wanders off alone. Got it?"

"What are we, five?" Craig raised an eyebrow.

"No!" Cartman snapped. "But you all have the attention span of toddlers, and I'm not gonna lose my $200 payday because one of you morons gets lost or spooked and runs screaming out the door."

"Oh, please. Nobody here actually believes in ghosts. Right?" Kyle crossed his arms.

"I don't know, dude. Places like these always have weird vibes." Kenny shrugged.

Tweek shivered, glancing around nervously. "I mean... It's just a house, right? A really big, creepy, probably haunted house, but still... Just a house."

"Exactly." You cut in, offering him a reassuring look. "There's nothing to be scared of."

Before anyone could respond, a loud SLAM echoed through the mansion. The sound came from the second floor, sharp and intentional, like someone had thrown a door shut with all their strength.

Everyone froze, exchanging uneasy glances.

"Uh... What was that?" Stan asked, his voice low.

Cartman let out a nervous laugh. "Probably the wind. Or, you know, old houses make weird noises all the time!"

"Yeah, sure." Kyle muttered. "Because the wind totally sounds like a fucking door being slammed shut."

"Great plan, genius." Craig interrupted, looking at Cartman. "Let's all just split up already and investigate the creepy murder mansion."

"We're not splitting up!" Cartman snapped. "Were you not listening five seconds ago? We stick together and do this room by room. Now shut up and follow my lead."

"Your lead?" Kyle scoffed. "Oh, this is gonna be good."

"Would you just shut your damn Jew mouth and grab your flashlight?" Cartman shot back, ready stomping toward the huge staircase.

As the rest of you followed, the harsh silence of the mansion seemed to press in from all sides. The only sounds were the creak of the floorboard beneath your feet and the occasional drip of water from God knows where.

You glanced at Tweek, who was clutching his flashlight as if his life depended on it. "You look scared. Are you okay?"

"Yeah!" He replied, his voice toi high pitched to be convincing. "Totally fine. Just, uh... Keeping an eye out for... Y-You know, ghost stuff..."

"You sound just like Cartman." You pointed out, which made Tweek shoot you a glare.

"Don't compare me to that fatass." He mumbled under his breath.

"Yeah, I probably shouldn't." You shrugged, continuing to step beside him.

Tweek's eyes darted around, examining the place. "That slam... It was definitely the wind..." His hands trembled as his grip tightened on his flashlight.

You couldn't help but smile at his attempt to convince himself. "Right. The wind. Because the wind definitely has the power to slam a door with enough force to rattle the whole house."

Tweek groaned, running a hand through his hair and fighting the urge to pull on it. "Okay, fine, i-it was weird. But it's probably nothing. Probably..."

"Exactly." You agreed, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "No need to panic. Not yet, anyway."

As you reached the top of the stairs, Cartman stopped abruptly, causing everyone to nearly collide into each other.

"Alright." Cartman started, pointing toward the hallway ahead. "Here's the plan, we check each room, starting from the left, and work our way down. Got it?"

"Who died and made you boss?" Stan muttered.

"My superior intellect did!" Cartman shot back. "Now shut up and start looking."

The first few rooms were uneventful. A guest bedroom with dusty furniture, a study filled with old books and strange ornaments and a bathroom with a cracked mirror. Everything looked like it hadn't been touched in years, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

"See?" Kyle said as he gestured to the very normal surroundings. "Nothing spooky. Just a big, creepy old house."

"Yeah, because ghosts totally introduce themselves on the first time." Kenny teased.

As you passed what appeared to be another bedroom, something on the nightstand caught your eye. It was a small, golden music box. You almost entered the room, sitting right by the door. You wanted to reach out and touch it, but before you could even fully step inside, Cartman's voice cut through.

"Don't touch anything!" He barked, making you jump.

"What? Why not?" You questioned, turning to glare at him, stepping away from the door.

"Because." He started, puffing out his chest. "This is a delicate operation. We can't have you breaking stuff and getting us kicked out before we get paid."

"Or..." Craig interrupted. "Maybe he's just scared you'll unleash a ghost or something."

"Shut up, crooked teeth!" Cartman shot him a dirty look.

"I had braces you fucking fatass." Craig shouted, yet somehow his voice was still monotone.

"Well maybe you should consider getting them again!"

Before anyone could argue further, another door slammed somewhere in the house, but this time it was much closer.

"Okay, that's it!" Tweek spoke up, his voice shaking. "I don't care i-if it's the wind or a fucking ghost, I-I don't like this!"

"Relax." You replied, trying to sound calm even if your pulse quickened. "It's probably just... I don't know, the house settling or something."

"Sure." Kyle interrupted sarcastically. "Because houses totally 'settle' by slamming door randomly."

Cartman turned to the group, his face slightly pale but his voice firm. "Alright, new rule, nobody touches anything unless I say so. Got it?"

"Just lead us to the next boring room so we can get this over with." Craig rolled his eyes.

As Cartman reluctantly led the group out of the bedroom, you couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching you.

You all stood in the barely lit hallway of the second floor, the air heavy with the scent of old wood and dust. The mansion's silence was brutal, broken only by the faint creaks and groans of the house settling. Several doors lined the hall, their chipped paint adding to the unsettling vibe.

Cartman pointed to the nearest door, puffing out his chest like he was a drill sergeant. "Alright pussies, we're hitting this room next. Be ready for anything."

"Yeah, like the world's most haunted dust collection. Can we just get this over with?" Kyle sighed, crossing his arms.

"Don't be such a fucking buzz kill!" Cartman snapped. "This is serious business."

Before anyone could respond, a faint whispering sound drifted through the hallway.

"D-Do you guys h-hear that...?" Tweek asked, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes darted around, his grip tightened on his flashlight.

"Stop messing around." Kyle glared at Cartman, his tome stern. "It's obviously you trying to scare everyone."

"Me?!" Cartman yelled out, clearly offended. "I'm not wasting my energy on scaring you losers. I've got $200 on the line here!"

The whispering grew louder, clearer nos, although the words were impossible to make out. It was like a dozen voices overlapping, murmuring in a language none of them recognized.

"Okay, who's doing that?" Stan asked, his voice shaky. He glanced over his shoulder, his flashlight beam darting across the empty hallway.

"It's not me." Kenny said as he stepped closer to the rest of you. "That's creepy as hell..."

"Very funny, Cartman." Kyle pinched the bridge of his nose, his voice sounding irritated. "You can cut it out now."

"For the last time, it's not me!" Cartman practically hissed.

The whispering came to a sudden stop, leaving a sinister silence in its place.

"See?" Craig broke the silence flatly, flipping Cartman off. "This is why I don't do this stupid ghost hunting crap. It's always the handsome guy who gets killed first in horror movies."

"Oh, please." Clyde interrupted, his voice slightly trembling. "If anyone's dying first, it's probably me. I'm the perfect victim for a true crime documentary."

"Shut up, Clyde!" Cartman shouted, but his voice sounded nervous.

Before anyone could laugh or argue, the overhead lights flickered once, twice, and then went out completely.

"Holy shit!" Tweek yelped, grabbing onto your arm.

"What the hell just happened?" Kyle asked, his voice tense.

The hallway was swallowed by darkness, the only source of light coming from the faint beam of your flashlights. Then came the sound of floorboards creaking, slow and careful, as if someone or something was walking toward you.

"Who's there?" Stan called out, his voice cracking.

No one answered, but the sound grew louder and closer. Then, soft singing began to echo through the hallway.

It was a woman's voice, melodic and haunting, the kind of sound that made your stomach drop and skin crawl. The song was low, the words incoherent but the tone sorrowful.

"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God..." Tweek muttered under his breath, his nails digging into your arm.

You tried to say something reassuring, but the words stuck in your throat. Your flashlight beam darted around the hallway, revealing nothing but empty space.

"This... Isn't funny." Kenny spoke up, his usual tone replaced by genuine fear.

"Okay, everyone stay calm." Cartman said, trying to sound reassuring and professional but failing miserably. "It's just... It's probably just... Uh..."

"Yeah, fatass." Kyle snapped. "What's your brilliant explanation for this one?"

Before Cartman could answer, the singing stopped as suddenly as if had started, and the lights flickered back on.

You all stood frozen, your breaths coming out in short, shaky gasps.

"What the actual hell was that?" Stan asked, running a hand through his hair.

"I don't know." You admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

"I'll tell you what it was." Cartman straightened up, trying to regain his composure. "It was nothing. You guys are just freaking yourselves out for no reason."

"Nothing?" Kyle repeated, his eyes wide. "The lights went out, we heard footsteps and singing, and you're calling that nothing?"

"Yeah." Cartman nodded, crossing his arms. "Because ghosts aren't real. And even if they were, they're not screwing up my $200 payday. So, suck it up and get back to work!"

"Screw this." Craig cut in sharply, turning toward the stairs. "I'm out. I've seen enough movies to know where this is going, and I'm not sticking around to be ghost bait."

"Oh, great idea, Craig." Cartman scowled. "Run off and leave the rest of us to deal with it."

"You're acting like I care." Craig replied, flipping Cartman off again. "Have fun getting haunted."

"Wait for me!" Clyde rushed by Craig's side. "I am not dying in some cursed mansion. Do you know how many unsolved mystery podcasts start like this?"

"Come on, we can't just bail. We don't even know what's going on yet." You tried to convince them, voice shaky. If you were honest, you were only doing that so you could push them into whatever's chasing you, just to buy you time.

"Exactly!" Cartman pointed at you. "Finally, someone with some common sense!"

Tweek glanced at you, his voice barely above a whisper. "You really think we should stay?"

You hesitated for a moment before nodding, even if you weren't entirely sure yourself.

‘ They can probably run faster than you... At least there's Cartman. ’

"We've come this far. We might as well see it through." You shrugged, hoping they'd listen.

Stan sighed, his eyes narrowing. "Fine. But if another light goes out, I'm seriously done."

Kyle gave you a long look, his expression unreadable. "You sure about this?"

No, you weren't sure. Not at all. But you forced yourself to nod. "Yeah. Let's keep going."

Cartman clapped his hands together, a fake grin plastered on his face. "See? Teamwork makes the dream work! Now let's move it assholes!"

As you all reluctantly followed Cartman further down the hallway, you couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching you.

And whatever it was, it didn't feel friendly.

You all lazily stood in the hallway for a moment longer, still shook after the sinister singing and flickering lights. The harsh silence of the house pressed down on you, and even Cartman's usual ramble seemed muted.

Stan broke the silence with a half hearted chuckle. "Okay, seriously, what kind of ghost sings? Is this like... Phantom of the Opera?"

"Yeah, maybe she's just auditioning for Broadway." Kenny snorted.

Cartman rolled his eyes. "Yeah, laugh it up, you pussies. Meanwhile, I'm trying to stay professional so we can get paid."

"Professional?" Craig repeated, his monotone voice dripping with sarcasm. "You've been sweating like shit and yelling at everyone since we got here."

"Shut the fuck up!" Cartman snapped. "Not everyone can be a soulless robot like you!"

Craig gave him the middle finger without even looking, his gaze fixed on the cracked ceiling. "Whatever."

Tweek tugged at the collar of his shirt, his shoulders tense. "Can we just move on? Standing in the hallway is making my skin crawl."

"Yeah." You agreed, glancing toward one of the nearby bedroom doors. "Let's check that one out. Maybe we'll find something useful."

"Or maybe we'll find more dust and spiders." Kyle muttered, though he followed you toward the door.

You all walked into the room cautiously, you flashlights darting across the space. It was a large bedroom, clearly once belonging to someone with expensive taste. The bed was massive, covered in faded sheets, the walls lined with mirrors. A heavy wardrobe stood in one corner, its doors slightly opened, a layer of dust coating every surface.

"This is... Creepy." Kenny whispered, shining his light on one of the dusty mirrors.

"Yeah, no thanks." Stan added. "This place screams tetanus."

Clyde, who has been quiet all this time, suddenly let out a blood curdling scream.

"What?!" Cartman shouted, spinning around.

"There's something on me! There's something on me!" Clyde screeched, flailing his arms wildly.

A large spider crawled up his sleeve, its legs moving across the fabric. Clyde's face went pale as he bolted across the room, swatting at himself like he was actually possessed.

"Get it off! Get it off!" He cried out.

"Dude, stop moving!" Stan yelled, trying to grab his arm.

"Hold still, idiot!" You added, but Clyde wasn't listening.

He stumbled into the wardrobe, rattling it loudly and sending a cloud of dust into the air. The spider, unfazed by the commotion, crawled onto Clyde's shoulder.

"Oh my God, it's still there!" Clyde whined, spinning in circles.

Kenny stepped forward, holding his flashlight like a weapon. "Calm down, I'll get it!"

Before anyone could do anything else, Clyde smacked his own shoulder with enough force to knock the spider to the ground. It ran away quickly, disappearing under the bed.

"There!" Clyde gasped, attempting to calm himself down as he clutched his chest. "It's gone! It's gone!"

"You're such a baby." Cartman smirked. "It was just a spider."

"Yeah, well I didn't see you rushing to help." Clyde shot back, his face still pale.

"Wait." You interrupted, pointing toward the door. "Did anyone else hear that?"

The room fell silent, everyone going quiet to listen. The it came, a faint creak, followed by the sound of the bedroom door slamming shut.

"Holy shit!" Tweek yelped, his eyes wide.

Kenny ran to the door, twisting the knob. "It's not locked." He let out a breath of relief. "But what the hell shut it?"

"Maybe the wind?" Stan sugested, though he didn't sound convinced.

"Yeah, definitely." Craig rolled his eyes, leaning on the wall with his hands shoved in his pockets. "The wind. In a house with no open windows. Makes total sense."

"Okay Mr. Unfazed, then what's your brilliant explanation?" Cartman snapped.

"Ghosts." Craig answered flatly. "Obviously."

"Ghosts aren't real." Kyle sighed, knowing damn well that he was just trying to calm himself down. "We've been over this."

"Then why are you sweating?" Craig shot back, a rare smirk on his face.

Kyle glared at him, but didn't respond.

"Can we please just investigate and get out of here?" You spoke up, breaking the tension.

The group hesitantly agreed, spreading around to search the room. Cartman stayed near the door, muttering to himself about 'stupid amateurs ruining his paycheck', while the rest of you examined the furniture and walls.

As you ran your flashlight along the far wall, you heard a faint knocking sound.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

You froze, your breath catching in your throat.

"Did you guys hear that?" You asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Hear what?" Stan asked, looking up from the dresser he was investigating.

The knocking came again, this time louder.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"It's coming from the next room." Tweek noted, his voice trembling.

"Great." Clyde muttered. "More creepy noises. Just what we needed..."

Then, faint but unmistakable, came the sound of singing.

It was the same voice from before, soft and melodic, the kind of sound that made you shiver.

"Okay, nope." Clyde shook his head, backing toward the door. "I'm officially done. Screw this!"

"You're not leaving!" Cartman snapped, blocking the exit. "I don't care how scared you are. We're staying until we figure this out."

"Easy for you to say." Stan muttered. "You get to stay far away from the sound. You're not the one who has to listen to this creepy ass singing!"

You all fell silent again, the singing growing louder. It seemed to echo through the walls, wrapping around you like a cold but invisible hand.

"Alright..." Kyle broke the silence, his shoulders tense. "Let's just finish checking this room and move on. The faster we're done, the faster we can leave."

You nodded, though your hands were shaking slightly. You continued your search, but the tension in the room was evident and uneasy, every creak and whisper sending chills down your spine.

The hallway leading to the next room seemed suspiciously quiet, almost as of the house itself was holding its breath. You all hesitated in front of the door, your flashlights waving around.

"This is the last door on this side." You broke the silence. "Let's get this over with."

Cartman groaned, stepping forward with exaggerated confidence. "Step aside, amateurs. Watch the professional work."

He grabbed the doorknob and twisted, but the door didn't budge. "What the hell?" He grunted, twisting it harder. "It's stuck!"

"Maybe it's locked." Stan suggested, leaning closer.

"It's not locked!" Cartman snapped. "It's just being a piece of shit!"

"Let me try." Kenny offered, stepping forward. Together, the two of them pushed and pulled on the door, but it refused to give.

"Move." Craig warned, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. He gave the door a single hard kick, and with a loud creak, it swung open, revealing a barely lit room.

"Damn." You whispered, biting your bottom lip for a quick second as Craig just raised an eyebrow at you.

"Remind me not to get on your bad side." Clyde muttered.

Craig shrugged, his flashlight scanning the room. "You'd have to actually interest me for that to happen."

The rest of you stepped inside cautiously, your flashlights lighting up the room, revealing dust covered furniture and faded wallpaper. The room was large but cluttered, with a table, a tall wardrobe, and a canopy bed draped in pretty curtains. What caught everyone's attention, however, were the framed photos scattered across the room.

"Whoa..." You whispered, picking one of the many pictures up from a shelf. The photo was black and white, the edges yellowed with age.

The woman in the picture looked elegant, her hazel eyes shining even through the faded photograph. A small mole under her left eye added a touch of uniqueness to her already stunning features, and her smile was warm and inviting.

"Is that her?" Tweek asked, leaning over your shoulder to get a better look. "The ghost?"

"Probably." Kyle shrugged, picking up another photo from another shelf. "She looks... Different than what I expected."

"Yeah." Stan agreed. "Not your typical creely ghost lady."

"Don't let the pictures fool you." Kenny informed, smirking. "The nice ones are always the scariest."

Cartman snorted, shoving past everyone to examine the photos himself. "You bitches are so easily impressed. It's just a bunch of old pictures. Big deal."

As if on cue, a soft melody began playing from the corner of the room. Everyone froze in their spot.

"What the hell is that?" Clyde whispered, his voice trembling.

You turned toward the source of the sound, your flashlight landing on a small, golden box sitting on the nightstand. The same one you so badly wanted to touch earlier. Its lid was open, revealing a delicate ballerina figure spinning slowly to the tune.

"Nope." You sighed immediately, shaking your head. "I am not doing this."

Before anyone could stop you, you marched over to the music box and snapped the lid shut. The melody stopped abruptly, leaving the room silent.

"[Y/N]..." Kyle started, his tone cautious and soft. "Maybe you shouldn't-"

The lights went out.

A harmonized gasp filled the room, followed by the sound of stumbling feet and hurried whispers.

"Who turned off the lights?" Cartman demanded, his voice high pitched with panic.

"No one!" Stan hissed. "Just stay calm-"

A blood curdling scream tore through the darkness, so loud and piercing that it felt like it was coming from inside your own head.

"WHAT THE HELL?!" Clyde screamed, practically climbing onto Kenny for protection.

The floorboard beneath you groaned, the heavy and slow footsteps closer. Then came the banging, loud, frantic and relentless, echoing through and off the walls as if the entire house was alive.

"Get me out of here!" Tweek shouted, his voice cracking as he clung to the nearest person, which happened to be you.

"I can't see anything!" Kyle yelled, his flashlight flickering wildly in his hands.

"Move bitches, move your fucking asses!" Cartman screamed, his usual confidence and braveness completely gone.

Just as suddenly as it had started, the chaos stopped. The lights flickered back on as everyone stood frozen, your breaths coming out in ragged gasps.

"Is everyone okay?" Stan asked, his voice shaking.

"I think so..." You mumbled, your hands trembling. "But what the hell was that?"

"Uh... Guys..." Kenny trailed off, his voice unusually serious. "Look at the mirrors."

You turned slowly, your heart thumping in your chest as you took in the sight. Every mirror in the room was cracked, crazy and uneven lines scattered across their surface.

And then you saw her.

She stood near the music box, her once beautiful face twisted into an expression of pure rage. Her white dress was stained with dirt, her hair a tangled mess that hung over her milky white eyes. The pearl necklace from the photos was now dangling loosely around her neck, cracked in several places.

No one spoke. No one even dared to move.

The ghost's gaze scanned over each one of you, her presence suffocating and cold.

"Oh shit..." Clyde whispered, his voice barely audible.

Cartman, of all people, was the fist to completely break the silence. He pointed an accusing finger at you.

"[Y/N], you dumb bitch!" He shouted. "I told you not to touch anything!"

...

Cartman took a cautious step forward, his flashlight flickering as he raised it toward her ghostly figure. His confidence was shaky at best, but he puffed out his chest in a pitiful attempt to seem in control.

"Alright, listen up, you decrepit old hag!" He barked, his voice cracking slightly. "I don't know who you are, but you're messing with licensed professionals here!"

She didn't react, her sinsiter and unblinking gaze fixed on them.

"Cartman, shut up!" Kyle hissed, gripping his flashlight tightly.

"No, no, I've got this!" Cartman insisted, waving a hand dismissively. He turned back to the ghost, narrowing his eyes. "You think you're scary? I've seen scarier things come out of Kenny's microwave! You look like you crawled out of a sewer and then got hit by a truck! What are you, part of the teenage mutant turtles?!"

The lights flickered violently, the room growing colder and more suffocating with each passing second. The ghost's head tilted slightly, her form trembling as if she was barely holding back her anger.

"Dude, stop!" Stan warned, his voice tense.

But Cartman was on a roll. "Oh, what's the matter? Did your ugly little music box break? Is that why you're so pissed off? Newsflash lady, nobody even uses music boxes anymore. Get with the times!"

As he spat out insult after insult, you noticed something. The ghost wasn't moving closer to Cartman despite her obvious anger. Instead, her transparent form seemed to stand close to the music box sitting on the nightstand.

"Wait..." Stan muttered under his breath, his brows furrowed together. "It's the music box, she's guarding it!"

You blinked, glancing between Stan and the ghost. "You think that's what's keeping her there?"

"She's not moving away from the music box, no matter how much Cartman screams at her." Stan whispered. "It has to mean something..."

"Cartman, keep her distracted!" Stan suddenly called out, his mind racing as he pieced together a plan.

Cartman turned, looking both insulted and confused. "Distracted? I'm trying to banish her, dipshit! Do you know how much skill that takes?!"

"Just do it!" Stan snapped.

Cartman huffed but turned back to the ghost. "Oh, so now you're just gonna stare at me like some creepy doll? You think that's intimidating? I've seen scarier things in the mirror every morning! Wait, that doesn't sound right..."

While Cartman continued judging her, Stan crept toward the music box, moving as quietly as he could. The rest of you held your breath, your eyes darting between Stan and the ghost. Her gaze remained locked on Cartman, though her form flickered as if sensing Stand presence near the box.

"Just grab it already!" Clyde whispered harshly.

Stan's hands shook as he reached for the music box. His fingers barely grazed the lid when all of the sudden the ghost's head snapped toward him, her milky white eyes narrowing.

"Shit." Stan gasped, making eye contact with the ghost as he froze completely. "Run!" He shouted, yanking the music box off the nightstand.

The ghost let out another blood curdling scream, the sound so loud and piercing it felt like it was drilling into your skull. The lights flickered wildly, sending the room into bursts of darkness and light.

"Move, bitch!" You yelled, grabbing Clyde's arm and shoving him toward the door.

You all bolted out of the room in a frantic scramble, tripping over each other as you sprinted down the hallway. The walls seemed to shake with the ghost's rage, her screams echoing behind you.

"She's following us!" Tweek cried out, his voice trembling as he clung to you arm.

"Don't look back!" Stan yelled, clutching the music box tightly as he led the rest of you down the stairs.

You all rushed into the hall, nearly knocking over a decorative vase. The kitchen door creaked open slightly, and for a split second, you caught a glimpse of the old couple sipping tea at the table, unaware of the chaos unfolding just a few feet away.

"We're gonna die, and they're drinking fucking tea!" Clyde whined, almost tripping over the rug.

"Shut up and keep running!" Kyle snapped, shoving him toward the front doors.

You all burst into the garden, the cool night air hitting your face like a splash of water. Your eyes darted around wildly, taking in the small graveyard sat at the edge of the property.

"Her grave!" Stan panted, doubling over as he tried to catch his breath. "We need to find her grave!"

The rest of you stared at the rows of headstones, the glow of the moon softly shining on them.

"There's too many of them!" Clyde cried. "We don't even know her name! How are we supposed to-"

"There!" Stan pointed to a headstone near the center, the name 'Mary DeLacroix' carved into the stone. "I saw her name on an open notebook, on the table [Y/N] found the first photo! At least I think that's her!" He panted, barely breathing.

He took a step forward but hesitated, his hands shaking as he held out the music box.

"I can't do it..." He admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I-I'll mess it up!"

Stan didn't think, he just threw the music box into your arms. There wasn't much you could say, especially because of the state you were in. You quickly bolted toward Mary's grave.

"Wait, you can't just-" Tweek shouted after you, panicking as he saw you complying instead of throwing the music box into someone else's hands.

The tiny metal gate surrounding the graveyard clattered as you jumped over it, the music box clutched tightly in your hands. Behind you, Mary's screams grew louder, her ghostly form tearing through the garden.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you reached her grave, nearly tripping over your own feet. Dropping to your knees, you placed the music box gently on top of the headstone, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Please work..." You whispered, your voice trembling. "If it doesn't, I swear I'll posses Stan and jump off a bridge..."

You turned around, seeing Mary's form exactly in front of you, inches away from you, her once beautiful face twisted with rage. Her hands were raised as if she was about to strike, but the miment her eyes landed on the music box, she froze. You swore you've seen this sight in a FNAF game before.

The air around you grew still, the harsh weight of her presence lifting slightly. Mary's angry expression softened, her ghostly form flickering as she reached out toward the music box.

Her fingers grazed it lightly. "Thank you..." She whispered, her voice barely audible.

Before you could respond, her form began to disintegrate, her body breaking apart into specks of light that drifted upward like fireflies. The garden grew silent once more, the only sound being the rustling leaves in the night breeze.

Your shoulders relaxed a bit, still sitting down on the grass, your hands trembling as you tried to catch your breath.

The rest of the group rushed over, their faces a mix of relief and awe.

"Holy shit!" Kyle panted, helping you to your feet. "You actually did it!"

"Damn right she did." Kenny teased, smacking you on the back playfully.

"Nice work..." Tweek added, giving you a shy smile.

Cartman, of course, had to ruin the moment. "Yeah, yeah, great job [Y/N]. But let's not forget who kept that bitch distracted in the first place. If it weren't for me, you'd all be dead!"

Craig flipped him off. "You're welcome, fatass."

Clyde let out a shaky laugh, his hands still trembling. "We're never doing this again, right? Right?"

"Don't bet on it." Kyle muttered, glancing back at the house as he kept his hand on your shoulder.

For the first time that night, you allowed yourself to relax, a small smile tugging at your lips. Mary was gone, and for now, you were safe.

...

You all walked back to the mansion, adrenaline slowly giving away to exhaustion. Tweek clung to you, his eyes darting around nervousness as if expecting Mary to reappear at any moment.

"Holy shit..." Clyde muttered, breaking the silence. "We just... Banished a ghost. Like, an actual, real ghost."

Kyle let out a shaky breath, running a hand down his face. "Yeah, and I'm still trying to process how any of this is real. Ghosts aren't supposed to exist."

"Guess what, Kyle?" Cartman started, his voice smug as he spun around to face the rest of you. "We're officially professional ghost hunters now. You all doubted me, but I just led us through a successful exorcism. So, you're welcome!"

"You didn't do shit." Stan shot back. "All you did was piss her off."

"And distract her!" Cartman added, puffing his chest out. "You think she'd have stood there like an idiot if I wasn't verbally destroying her? Face it, Stan, you're just mad because I'm the brains if this operation."

"Brains?" Craig repeated, raising an eyebrow. "I'd argue you're the ass of this operation." Kenny snickered and nudged Craig's shoulder.

Cartman ignored them, waving a dismissive hand as he marched ahead. "You losers can make all the jokes you want, but when people hear about our success, we're gonna be rolling in cash. And you'll all owe it to me!"

Tweek let out a nervous chuckle. "I still can't believe any of t-this. Like... Ghosts? R-Real ghosts?" He glanced at you, his eyes wide. "Did you hear her say 'thank you' at the end? Or was I just hallucinating?"

"I heard it too. She seemed... Less scary in the end. Almost peaceful." You shrugged, offering him a small smile.

"Nah, I think you're both just schizophrenic." Cartman interrupted.

"Peaceful?" Clyde repeated, his voice still shaky. "She was about to kill us five minutes ago!"

"Yeah, well, maybe that's because Cartman kept calling her Master Splinter or something." You shot back with a grin.

"It was the teenage mutant ninja turtles you fucking bitch! Get it right next time!" Cartman snapped.

He spun on his heel, pointing an accusing finger at you. "And don't act like you didn't touch the music box! If anything, this is all your fault!"

"Yeah, yeah." You rolled your eyes. "And who was it that ran straight to her grave and banished her? Oh, right, me."

The tension eased slightly as the mansion came into view. The warm glow of the windows was oddly comforting after the chilling events that had just happened moments ago.

As you stepped inside, the old couple was waiting in the hall, their expressions curious but calm.

"Ah, you're back!" The old woman clasped her hands together. "We were wondering if you left already."

"Left?" Kyle repeated, his eyes wide and voice surprised. "How did you not hear what was happening out there? The screaming? The running? The lights flickering?"

The old man raised an eyebrow, his face wrinkling into a suspicious frown. "Screaming? Flickering lights? What are you talking about?"

Cartman groaned, slapping his forehead. "Of course you didn't hear it. You were too busy sipping tea while we were out there risking our lives!"

The old woman's expression softened, her gaze darting between you all. "Well, whatever happened, it seems you even managed to get rid of her. The house feels... Lighter now. Thank you."

She reached into her purse and pulled out a small envelope. "Here's the other $100 we agreed on. And..." She hesitated, glancing at her husband, who nodded reluctantly. "Here's an extra $50 for your trouble. You've truly done us service."

Cartman snatched the envelope before anyone else could, grinning ear to ear. "See? I told you we'd get paid! This is what happens when you follow my lead."

"Dude, you did nothing." Stan crossed his arms.

"Nothing? Nothing?!" Cartman barked, waving the envelope in Stan's face. "Who do you think convinced them to pay us extra? My charisma! My leadership! My-"

"Your massive ego?" Craig interrupted.

"That too." Kenny added with a snicker.

The old couple exchanged a glance, clearly unsure of what to make of your group. "Well..." The old man cleared his throat. "We'll leave you to it. Thank you again for your help."

As they disappeared into the kitchen, Cartman turned to the rest of you, his grin widening. "You guys realize what this means, right? We're gonna be rich. This ghost hunting gig is our ticket to the big league!"

"I don't know if I'd call almost dying a gig." You sighed, shaking your head.

You pushed the heavy wooden doors open, walking outside as the cold night air hit your skin once more. The rest of the group followed along, walking back to your van.

"But it was kinda fun." Clyde admitted, a small smile forming onto his face. "I mean, terrifying, but... Fun?"

"Exactly!" Cartman exclaimed. "This is just the beginning. We're gonna take this town by storm! Ghosts, demons, you name it, we'll hunt it!"

"Please don't tell me you're serious." Kyle groaned.

"Dead serious." Cartman replied bluntly, his expression even more stern now.

Kenny leaned against the side of the van, his hands shoved into his pockets. "So, uh... Raisins?"