Disclaimer: I own nothing. I am but a penniless amateur, aiming to please the hungry masses and hopefully feed my own demons.
IMPORTANT AUTHOR'S NOTE: What follows is a copied-and-pasted tumblr roleplay between guidebetelgeuse(same as her tumblr tag) and myself(tumblr tag: xxx-strangeandunusual-xxx). She is playing as Betelgeuse, me as Lydia. Because of the nature of roleplay, the point of view changes often and you will see each event as it was perceived by our renditions of these characters. Please be warned going in that this may never have a clean or concise ending as that is not the point of roleplay.
For those of you who have read my work before, please note that the Lydia I play here is nearly identical to Necromancer Lydia. You may also notice bits of writing that seem familiar. This is because I sometimes recycle parts from my fics for roleplay purposes. I apologize for the repetition of content, but roleplay is something I do for myself as a writing exercise, not something to entertain others. I am only posting this here so that I can have a comprehensive archive to look back on and reread easily rather than having to dig through tumblr.
With all this in mind, please enjoy!
Reminder that this was something that was meant to be fun, not judged. Therefore constructive criticism is not welcome.
Lydia's P.O.V.
Should she?
No. Absolutely not. Never in a hundred million years. At least, that's what Mr. and Mrs. Maitland would say if she were to ask their opinions.
Could she?
That was yet to be seen. Sweat from anxiety for what she was about to do beaded in her palms and so she wiped the damp limbs off on her dress before splaying them flat on the cool cherry wood of her vanity's surface. Her reflection looked braver than she felt; brows set in a stubborn line, eyes hard and alert with resolve.
Would she?
Oh, yes. That much was certain. "Betelgeuse… Betelgeuse… Betelgeuse."
Betelgeuse's P.O.V.
The Maitlands. Who asked them anyway?! About anything?! Oh right, King Shit and his Shitty Idea Brigade, that's who. "Look nice and stupid" did they? Right. Good. Fucking great, Betelgeuse. You were so close….
It had been a number of years in that waiting room by the ghoul's measure. Though it's honestly hard to measure at all in that place - and if the Witch Doctor hadn't been called before him his head would probably be the size of a softball still. Fortunately a good shaking out helped. It could have been a good look right? That hurt, by the way, even though it made his shoulders massive…er, well, to him anyway. Juno's sentence had been deliberate and decisive - house arrest. For /way/ longer than was fair, too. Three hundred years in a crypt?! Fuck that. But here he was, sent to his room, sulking. Stewing. He'd already cut out the newspaper obit of the Maitlands and crossed their eyes out, and drawn shitty pictures of the Deetz's getting theirs in various fashion.
Except for Lydia. That made him the angriest - the most infuriated he had ever felt in his un-life. For days and nights, he paced the floor. Sometimes there'd be two of him. Sometimes he'd argue with the insects he scraped from the floor before biting their little heads off.
"She didn't even like you," would come the well-trod self-argument.
"Well maybe if you cleaned up a little nicer she would have."
"No, idiot. If we had been /faster/ …. we should have sent those losers to … to…. Saturn was a fuckin' vacation. We should have let them be exorcized–"
"Okay, no one could have predicted the wife on a sandworm." And then he'd slump in a chair, in his velvet bathrobe, and growl.
That girl, that girl, that girl. As was his custom when thinking hard, he lit a cigarette and tapped the old moldering armchair beneath him. He can't even find work, barred from contacting the newly deceased. Or anyone, in fact. The term 'restless dead' found a new meaning in the ghosts' heart. Some nights he'd curse for hours and beat on his ceiling, the ceiling of his crypt. It was misery, it was hell. But most of all, it was ….. lonely. But who did he need? Nobody, that's who!
He was in the middle of having a good scream session, sitting on his lavish and yet disintegrating coffin bed, clutching his 'Guide' hat to his head, right at the heart of a good rant at Juno and the unfair universe, "—AND LET ME OUUUUTTA HEEEEEERE!" in a whirling, pitched shriek, when he was yanked…no, torn from his oubliette. Someone…
Someone had said his name.
Someone had said his name three times.
And with that he found himself thrown directly from his imprisonment into Lydia's bedroom like a straight shot. He came from seemingly nowhere…maybe the mirror? Maybe simply the ceiling? But he came at great velocity, slamming straight downwards from that location, tumbling like a great mountain of crypt-dusty clothes and smoke from his somehow still-lit cigarette. It took the ghost a number of seconds to collect himself onto his butt.
"Woah," he said quite seriously, holding his hands out, his back still towards the girl. His nose twitched, and his face wrinkled. This place… smelled familiar. Really familiar. His lips curled to expose his stained teeth in a suspicious frown.
Slowly, the shock of greenish, moldy blond hair turned and caught sight of a face he thought he'd never see again. The grin that split his face was unmistakable, impish and gloatingly glorious - without missing a beat he offered, "Babe - ya miss me or what?"
Lydia's P.O.V
As soon as the soft hiss of the last syllable of his name evaporated into the air, energy crackled through the atmosphere. The hair on the back on her neck stood on end and her spine hardened. Then, her vanity began to tremble. Her hairbrush and a bottle of perfume rattled over the wood until they could clatter to the floor. Clouds of black ink swirled across the mirror's surface, drowning out her reflection. It was time to move. Struck with a sense of deja vu, she scrambled out of the way in the nick of time, just as a heap of mold and stripes catapulted through her looking glass.
His entrance was not nearly as grand or intimidating as the last time she saw him, but Lydia was daunted all the same. Nearly two years had passed and yet he was untouched by time. She had no place being surprised by this, she knew, but that did nothing to lessen the surreal nature of the situation. Finally, jade eyes turned on her. They were just as wild and burning as she remembered them- and thankfully lacked the bite of malice she was expecting. When that horribly charming grin revealed his teeth and his whiskey-stained greeting scratched at her ears, her mind went blank. The speech she'd been mentally and vocally rehearsing for weeks fled, leaving her with nothing but blunt honesty and the gut impulse to tell him that;
"I didn't think you'd come."
Betelgeuse's P.O.V.
At that, up he goes! Quick, in a swift movement, he pops up from his indignant spot on the floor smoothly. His head ducks and those jade eyes flash…dangerously? It's unclear - the distance between Lydia and himself is closed almost instantaneously as he crosses the room, immediately invading her space. His intentions are less than clear and his movement is without hesitation, which would generally make almost anyone uncomfortable. Closing in, he doesn't smell…..good. And it isn't as though he's gotten any prettier, though he absolutely remains physically the same.
Those eyes burn holes into Lydia the closer he gets, and his expression, smiling, fierce, overly friendly, twisting into almost a grimace now. It definitely indicates he's the same ghoul that he always was, something malicious always churning beneath the surface, but it seems …. tempered, at least, by the fact that, unbeknownst to her, she literally just rescued him from three hundred years of agonizing entrapment.
He hesitates there, almost…almost touching her. He looms, leans in. Of course, it isn't like he hasn't dreamt of her. Thought of her. Cursed her name. But being back here in her actual presence is enough to keep him from misbehaving momentarily. "We had a deal," he says, slowly, his breath ghosting the poor girl's cheek, one brow twisting up, "Change your mind…?"
Lydia's P.O.V.
Each of his forward steps was met with a proportionate step back until, inevitably, she was crowded against the wall in the corner of the room. The acrid scent of burning tobacco itched at her nostrils, followed by an undercurrent of grave dirt and something unmistakably damp. From this close distance, she could make out the fine details of the moss that kissed his gums.
You can do this, she resolved, standing a bit straighter and willing her knees not to buckle beneath her nightgown. You have to. It's the right thing to do.
"We did," she agreed, voice soft, incapable of tearing her gaze from his. They had yet to unlock since meeting. There was something dark there, twisted and aching to get out. Would he unleash it on her? She certainly deserved it. "And I fucked you over. And it was wrong."
The last word wavered on her tongue and she finally found the motivation needed to avert her eyes, clenching them shut before reopening and settling on the tie knot below his Adam's apple. It was taking everything she had to stamp down the instinct to run, to duck beneath his arm and put distance between them. He needed to know that she wasn't going to fight him.
"So… I guess the answer to that question is… yes."
Betelgeuse's P.O.V.
The looming spirit could tear this house to pieces. He could ruin the lives of this poor girl's parents and banish the Maitlands off to some nowhere where only nightmares remained. His possibilities were endless now, and they clamored and cluttered his brain as Lydia opened her mouth to speak. Oh, he was angry all right, but something about her stopped him. Something about this girl, this stupid, beautiful little girl, left him yearning to understand. Why? – it was a question he had asked her and it almost set him off track once. He wouldn't let it happen again.
He stopped there, listening to her, his face still frozen in a questioning frown. Listening to her apologize. Wait —- apologize – yes. And, after all that, she confirms that she is still willing. Oh, this is too much. The ghost's face crumples in a frustrated anger, and he pops the cigarette between his fingers into his pallid lips and takes a long hard drag.
"Fucking… teenagers," he spits over her shoulder, pulling himself back from where he's crowded her. He then walks back on his curse immediately, whirling his back to her, gesticulating as he paces away for a moment. "Okay, okay," he seems to be trying to get a hold on how to make this situation work for him – in genuine disbelief, and he stomps over to her bed, walking directly onto it, his dirty black boots leaving muddy dark prints all over her nice comforter. It makes her bedsprings groan under his weight. "You're serious?"
He doesn't wait for an answer and pushes forward as he's accustomed to doing – running over people until they do what he wants or at least until he can talk them into it.
"Why—" he starts, and then stops, "Babes," he holds out his hands, inquiringly, "Why didn't you ask earlier? Do you have any idea—" he pauses, putting his fingers to his lips as if steeling patience within himself before finishing his thought. He flicks the cigarette off onto the floor beneath him and takes a hard jump off her mattress, making the springs nearly scream as he lands with a solid, well-positioned thud onto her floor. He looks like he's about to close that distance again to wherever she's moved. "What the hell happened then? Huh?! Where were you?"
Lydia's P.O.V.
Lydia stood frozen in the corner all throughout his tantrum, spine plastered to the wall vertebrae by vertebrae, spiced honey eyes widening a fraction with each abrupt movement. She cringed at the tracks he left on her comforter but shelved the petty mess away to be dealt with another time. It was entirely too soon to start nagging him. The ghoul moved so quickly and his line of questioning veered paths so rapidly that Lydia could hardly make heads or tails of exactly what he was asking her.
Suddenly, he made a daring leap from her mattress to the floor, a guttural sound tearing from his throat. Lydia spared a moment to glance at the door, concerned that the ruckus might attract unwanted attention. As it was, Mr. and Mrs. Maitland were running an errand in the Neitherworld and hadn't been seen for several weeks, Delia was dosed up on valium, and her father was passed out drunk at his desk. No one would interrupt them tonight.
"What the hell happened then? Huh?! Where were you?"
Oh.
He wanted to know what took her so long to nut up.
"Where were you?" She bit back with a suicidal acidity, experiencing a stab of indignation she knew she didn't have any right to feel. It was quickly tampered with a single deep breath. "I didn't. Think. You would come." She repeated slowly with careful, even pauses. "I thought… I thought that I was calling for someone who wasn't there anymore."
Betelgeuse's P.O.V.
It doesn't seem as though the poltergeist is particularly concerned with who he wakes up – but his eyes track hers to the door in a brief flicker before returning to her face. At her response, he squints, and blinks. His lips pull into a strange grimace.
"Where was—- oh, I'm sorry," he drawls facetiously, drawing himself up, "I thought you were there - are you blind? You didn't see me get eaten by a sandworm?! Thanks for the fuckin' help with that by the way, those things are like a thousand feet long and it takes two months to go through 'em – and let me tell you, it isn't pleasant, they try and digest you from the head first," the ghost yanks on his jacket in irritation.
"And then, and then, miss Lydia, Lydia Deetz, my darling, little Lydia Deetz," his lips pulled into a snarl, "After I survived that I had to talk to my caseworker and that took three years. So I was a little….just a little….TIED….UP!" the last comes as a roar, accompanied by flailing, frustrated arms. The ghost doesn't mention the resulting house arrest …. no need to give away more than he needs to. He then gestures dismissively, "You've read the handbook. The only way for a ghost to die is by being exorcized. If you say my name three times I show up. That's how this works." His fingers spread, "Now you know." The fierce grin that follows isn't ….nice, per say, but at least it seems he's calming down. Sort of.
"And I'm here now," he adds, lighting another cigarette casually, "And I'd say we should finish what we started, but ah—" he looks around, and gestures to the room containing only them, "—-no witnesses." His grin is almost… mean? The last is said dripping with huffy bitterness. If he's noticed her weird, slow, trembling tone he hasn't reacted quite yet, instead, he throws himself into a chair nearby and glowers at Lydia, studying her. His eyes have still not peeled away from her face. After a long note of silence, he finally asks, in a voice resembling the one that asked her why she wanted to be dead so long ago, "So, what's the real reason I'm here, babes?"
Lydia's P.O.V.
Lydia shrunk further into her corner the angrier he grew, willing the wall at her back to just swallow her whole. It was deserved. He was right. She didn't have any right to have hurt feelings over his extended absence, especially when she wasn't even able to summon the courage to attempt reaching out to him until tonight, until now.
The nightmare that woke her had been particularly vivid. In this one, he held her close instead of pushing her away when the sandworm came crashing through the ceiling. "If I'm goin' down, you're goin' down with me," the apparition drawled in her ear right before a striped serpent careening toward them, row after row of jagged unsightly teeth ready to be coated with her blood. His explicit testimonial of being eaten alive- so to speak- by one of these vicious beasts brought the still fresh images from her night terror to the forefront of her mind.
She did that to him.
There were several moments during his fit where she opened her mouth, yet another apology aching to tumble from her trembling lips and put an end to his furious rant, but there was no room. He either wasn't ready or didn't want to hear it. Once he finally settled into her reading chair in the opposite corner, the mental restraints that kept her chained in place dissipated. Without his animated form flitting from one side of the room to the other, invading the entire space, it was deemed safe to retreat from her crevice.
"So, what's the real reason I'm here, babes?"
"Because I'm stupid," she hissed without even the slightest hint of malice, turning her back on him to crouch beside her vanity and collect the items that fell to the floor during his abrupt entrance. With shaking hands, she put them back into place, honey eyes settling on the spot in her mirror where she knew he would be had he a reflection of his own- maintaining eye contact without having to actually be subjected to his judgemental glare.
"This was a bad idea," she muttered, bowing her head so that a curtain of inky black could hide her face from view. He would never give her the atonement she needed. "I shouldn't have called you- no," she corrected herself harshly. "I should have called you a long time ago. I should have kept my word. I shouldn't have left you to rot-" this word dripped with self-loathing. Tears pricked the back of her eyelids, but she refused to let them fall. Not now, not in front of him. She probably looked weak enough, with her stuttered words and trembling limbs. Tear stains running down her cheeks would only be the cherry on top of that humiliation sundae.
"I'm sorry," she concluded simply, defeated, well aware that it was not enough. "If you still want my help getting out, it's yours. If you don't, that's fine too."
Betelgeuse's P.O.V.
It wasn't as if he hadn't had his own nightmares. Ghosts aren't really supposed to dream, or so it's said. But his in the past few years, when they've come, they've come vivid and terrifying. Nothing scares the spookster easily – least of all silly dreams – but these….these have been different. Intense and leaving him in the equivalent of a cold sweat, they've only added to the blackness of his house arrest. If he could have seen Lydia's dreams, they would have most likely left him similarly frightened…but perhaps for different reasons.
At the moment though, the way she says what she says is terrifying enough. It slices a cold, steely blade through his blackened heart like a knife through butter without pause. She isn't lying to him. She isn't trying to trick him. In fact, she's stuck to her story the entire time he's stomped all over her bedroom. The clamoring noise for fire and death and revenge in his mind shatter. She's genuine. She's really…completely genuine…. "Oh….geez," he yelps - the realization hits him like a freight train. Faster than a hungry sandworm. You stupid, stupid….stupid….stupid….
He's up in an instant, again, his hands stretched out, doing that awkward side-to-side quick walk like he's trying to avoid stepping on snakes all over the floor. "No, no—no—-" he croons, acknowledging his ridiculous mistake in the repetitive word, waving his arms in front of his face. His hands find placement on her crumpled shoulders, his grip is firm, insistent. It lifts her to him slightly without asking because he never does. Maybe there was an actual part of him that genuinely thought….well it was just a scheme wasn't it? He wasn't supposed to fall in love with her. And she wasn't supposed to fall in love with him – it was just to achieve the end goal. But something went wrong. Something went so….sideways.
"We can still—" he hesitates, "I still need your help, yes. Getting out," it's a sort of weird admittance, and he hastily almost mumbles it, "But babes…you…I'm sorry I got angry. I was waiting for a long time, and I just got—I got—I don't do well in confined spaces— look it isn't your fault, it's…. it's my fault, okay? I should have written, or called, or something—" he's rambling now, knowing full well he couldn't have done any of those things whatsoever. His facial expression goes from placating to scrunched to furrowed, and for the first time he actually looks at her, really takes a good, searching look now that she's been almost pressed to his face. He blinks a few times as if seeing her for the vulnerable little girl she really is – and realization dawns on his face. "Babes….are you….okay?"
He intones it wrong, of course, like she maybe has something on her face…but he means it.
Did the Maitlands do something to her? Something dark twists deep in his chest at the idea of it. They're too stupid, right?
Lydia's P.O.V.
Lydia was still reeling from his rapid change of tune when he hit her with the unexpected inquiry as to her wellbeing. No, she had the insane impulse to say. I'm really, really not okay.
"I'm fine," she answered instead, numb and dry, giving her first lie of the night. His large, filthy hands easily spanned the length of both her shoulders, their fingertips digging into the muscle there uncomfortably but without intent to cause pain. At this proximity, his superior height forced her to crane her neck back to keep eye contact. Uneasy with such close male contact- nevermind who the male in question was- Lydia squirmed, but did not make any attempts at escape for fear he might misinterpret them and descend into another furious tirade. His unpredictable disposition called for a cautious approach.
"Haven't been sleeping well," she conceded after another beat, sensing that her previous lie was not satisfying, and threw a brief glance at her disheveled bedclothes. They were already twisted about and out of order before he stomped all over them. An alarm clock on the nightstand glared the time back at her; 4:00 a.m. School started in three hours. It appeared tonight would not be the night she got her much needed rest.
"You're really not mad at me?" She needed to hear it again, needed the confirmation that everything really was okay. "I didn't mean to," she explained vaguely, avoiding eye contact again. "I didn't understand. I thought- I thought you meant later. That you would come back when I was older or- or- have me sign a marriage license or something. Everything happened too fast and I panicked."
Given the opportunity to speak uninterrupted, it was the girl's turn to ramble on awkwardly, desperate to smooth out any residual negativity. The rabid fury that minutes before had radiated off of him in waves still stagnated the air, choking the deeply empathetic Lydia.
Betelgeuse's P.O.V.
The ghost continued to inspect her, expression one of obvious doubt – his eyes roving as if to scry the source of this strange behavior. Betelgeuse was always one to sort of take things at face value; the idea of him being emotionally in tune with anyone else on its face was ridiculous. But here he stood, trying to figure out the girl who wasn't flinching or tensing under his demanding grip. If he can unlock this weird teenager puzzle he might indeed be able to complete this deal, this marriage of inconvenience – and being dead will no longer trouble him. He'll have fully exited the unfair, stratified, rules-based system that has tortured him for millennia. If he plays his cards right…. But what cards are those, exactly? Expressing feelings? The thought made his stomach churn. Gross.
He listens as she only part-way describes what is going on with her, his mind unable to stay in one state for too long, drifting to more carnal thoughts briefly as he held her. She smelled good. She smelled alive and breathing, and he was free. But he had to stay focused. Focused, focused—he swallows, audibly.
"Well, I mean," he mutters, trying to come back from that overwhelming temptation to indulge. Patience is not one of his fortitudes, either, "No need to delay a deal when it seemed so—" close, "—convenient, we had our witnesses, we had the outfits, I had the ring—" where did that ring go? "You were there, I was there," he chuckles brusquely, "I said I was only gonna do it once babe. Once and only once, with you." That last part was true. What other young, nubile, teenage girl with pale, soft skin would—FOCUS.
"I'm not …I'm not—" angry? Talking about feelings is … not his thing. "No, no. Look, you had some bad dreams and so you….you called me—" Fucking teenagers, "Why wait till you were older?" there goes that weird, breathy chuckle again, "You can handle this now, I'm the world's most eligible bachelor babes, I get to look this good forever. We can find some witnesses. We can still do this, together— I didn't mean to get so angry, it's just been a … but that doesn't matter—" The plan could still work. His freedom is so close, if only he doesn't blow it—- "You got cold feet, everyone gets cold—cold feet, you know, that's why I answered for you during the vows, remember, babes?" Come on…..
Lydia's P.O.V.
Lydia, inexperienced and unaccustomed to attracting male attention, was unable to recognize the signs and therefore remained entirely oblivious to the poltergeist's internal struggle.
"I remember," she answered, lips twitching with something that might have been a smile if one were to tilt their head and squint. "You won't have to do that again… but-" Placated by his reassurances, she smoothly slipped from his grasp and crossed to the edge of her mattress to begin collecting besmirched sheets and blankets. "I'd really prefer if we could find some witnesses that aren't Adam, Barb, or my parents."
It was painfully embarrassing how easily he had seen through her ambiguous admission. Shit, he probably knew damn good and well that the nightmares were about him. After tossing the bundle of fabric into the corner and disposing of the stray cigarette butt he left on the floor earlier, Lydia gave her room another cursory once-over, searching for any further evidence of his presence. It wouldn't do for either her living or deceased parental units to discover her treason. They would never understand. Everything would just go to shit again.
The heavy curtains that dressed her window were drawn back to reveal that the sky was a rich royal blue, signifying the sun would be rising soon. She pulled the glass halfway up the pane and lit a stick of dragonblood incense. Hopefully, this would cover up the cigarette smell. Her father and Delia were not prone to snooping, but she wasn't about to take any chances.
"I have to go to school soon," she offered, gazing out to the horizon. "Not for a couple hours, but…" She trailed off, unsure where this left them. Did he want to do this now? Like last time? She didn't, but also didn't consider herself in a position to be the one setting terms. Not with her history of betrayal.
Betelgeuse's P.O.V.
As she pulls back he easily releases her as she confirms acquiescence to saying her vows this time. The ghost still has his suspicions but it seems as though she is actually…really going to go through with it. He watches her move around the room in her nightgown and wipes a hand down his face, running it through his hair afterward. He's never really stopped from pursuing women physically, even those not exactly consenting to his advances, but in this instance, he must. Maybe. For now. Maybe. As she leans over to pick up the cigarette butt he leans full back though, trying to get a sneak peek of those legs and … more. She's so fresh. He's been so pent up. He swallows again and internally curses every deity he can remember, trying not to growl aloud. He's not sure if he's successful.
He is distracted from his lusty reverie by three names: Deetz's, Barb, and Adam. His attention snaps-to and makes a face as though he's sucked on a lemon, crouching instinctively, eyes flicking at the ceiling suspiciously.
"No no no no no, we don't want any of those losers at the …the wedding…" no, none of them would be there. His plans wouldn't be interrupted again. "Where ah—where do they happen to be at the current time, exactly?" that's a question he probably should have asked earlier. In his one track tirade, he hadn't been paying attention to his surroundings very well. Stupid.
Reflexively, after she lights the incense he wanders by and pinches it out, putting out his second cigarette in the incense tray. It isn't malicious as much as it is simply selfish and rude – he demonstrates these elements in his personality in so many ways just by being himself. He parks himself on the end of her bed, hiking up a knee, and flinches as she opens the curtains. Daylight was coming. How long has it been since he's seen it? He looks pale in the growing sunlight and wrong – almost bloated, washed out, the mold growing on his face an even sicklier green color.
"School?" the ghost repeats, dumbly. He jerks in realization, "Oh, right, right. You kids do that. Okay, uh," he snaps his fingers a few times trying to jog his brain into focusing again after being distracted by the daylight. He points at her, "Witnesses. I'll … go find witnesses. You know, once you …." He circles his hand around, letting the motion finish his thought. Fear suddenly crosses his face after a moment and Lydia finds herself with her hands clasped in his in a gentle, but firm and slightly desperate grip in grubby, pallid hands. He moves so quickly to her it is probably a bit of a shock. "Just—just….don't. Don't go anywhere okay? Don't say the B-word, don't tell….you know, don't tell them, okay? It won't take me long." Time equates to possibilities of all kinds messing up his plans. "I'll be gone for like, just a few hours, babes, I just gotta find us some witnesses, you know, do it the right way. You still have the ring right?" he gulps, hopefully. He genuinely isn't sure if he can find another one.
Lydia's P.O.V.
Lydia sighed airily, relit the incense right after he put it out, and shot a frown at his back. That was unnecessary.
"Delia will be dead to the world until around noon, and my father will probably trudge out of his study once she starts hacking away at some poor, defenseless hunk of marble." She paused before explaining away the Maitlands' absence, pondering how best to answer without giving away too much. "I'm not sure when Adam and Barb will be back. They've been in the Neitherworld for a few weeks."
There was something melancholic in her voice while she relaid this. Lydia both dreaded and yearned for their reappearance and the news they would bring with them. The waiting was torture.
Suddenly, he was invading her personal space again, grabbing hold of her hands- gently, she noticed, a heat she didn't quite understand settling in her belly. "I won't," she promised, eyes big, taken aback by the sheer desperation in his pleas. "But if you don't want them to suspect that you're here, you'll have to do something about the cigarette butts. And don't put out my incense," she chastised lightly, brows furrowing while a put-out frown pouted her bottom lip.
"You still have the ring, right?"
For the first time ever, she smiled directly at him. Not a teeth-baring grin, but a warm, easy smile that highlighted the way the sunrise made her honey eyes gleam gold. Without a word, she slipped her hands from his, turned to her vanity, and pulled open the bottom left drawer.
"Of course I still have it," she answered, as though the possibility of it being anywhere else was laughable to her. "A ghost gave it to me. The ghost." For fear of augmenting his already overly inflated ego, she refrained from voicing the rest of his self-proclaimed title aloud. "You can't buy that in stores."
With that, she held a simple silver band up for him to see, before slipping it onto the ring finger on her left hand and splaying the digits wide appraisingly. This was a thoughtless, automatic gesture, repeated countless times before. There was a sort of fondness in her gaze as the band caught a sunray, showcasing how very polished it was.
Betelgeuse's P.O.V.
Good. That crosses off the problems on his list. The problems on his list primarily comprise of "Barb, Adam, and the Deetz's". Internally, he checks those off. It still leaves open the possibility that the Maitlands will return at any time, but if he's quick and sneaky enough they won't have the chance to stop him like last time. Plus, he has other ideas to keep them away…just in case. If Barbara hadn't found that sandworm, he would have been golden. But fortunately, it seems Lydia has changed her mind about the entire idea and is willing to literally seal the deal. For that, he is her lapdog as of current.
Something nags in his brain. She doesn't call her mother by that title. Instead, she's Delia – while he witnessed their weird relationship while he had free reign of the house, this cemented his suspicions that the red-head was most likely not Lydia's biological parent. That doesn't cover Charles, that doughy putz, but he was probably the progenitor in this instance. While he doesn't vocalize this quite yet, it is something for him to chew on in the background.
In the forefront though, the girl fusses at him about something to do with behavior and cigarette butts. The ghost doesn't do rules, but in this instance, as mentioned, he is at her behest. So, in an appeasing tone, he hurries out a, "Sure, sure." – with a snap, the cigarette butts are gone and with a flick of his wrist the smell in the room is entirely incense, no odiferous leftovers to be had.
And she still has the ring.
This gives the ghost a startle, in fact. The impact that she still has it is far deeper than he could have expected – and cements the idea that she is one hundred percent for real. She fetches it, compliments his ego (close enough to the self-proclaimed title for him, the jerk) and displays it on her slim and graceful fingers. It's been polished. She's smiling. It's too good. Oh, it's far too good. His heart leaps into his throat, and in an instant, he's on her.
Whether or not she puts up resistance is apparently irrelevant, but he barks out an over-enthusiastic and probably overly-loud, choked, "Babes!" as his moss encrusted lips descend upon hers for a wet, overly emotional smack. Whether or not he actually gets to is also not apparently important – the gesture was one of emotional overwhelm. He's all hers. He's pudding in her small hands. She's going to save him. He's going to be completely, utterly free and untethered.
Lydia's P.O.V.
It was over before Lydia could even begin to process what was happening. She only knew that his lips were rough and chapped because of the way her mouth tingled afterward, as though the flesh had just brushed concrete, still somewhat moist from his saliva.
"Why did you do that?!" She gasped, slapping a hand over her mouth, scrambling back in horror and knocking items from her vanity's surface all over again in the process. "You can't- you can't just do things like that!"
Her heart hammered so furiously against her chest she was sure the ghost before her could hear it if he tried. Her cheeks burned and the fingers that blinded her lips, one of which was adorned with a shining silver band, trembled. A crushing sort of panic began to creep in as the loss fully dawned on her. That was her first kiss and now it was gone before she could even truly appreciate it. Her breaths came in sharper as the room seemed to shrink.
It was entirely too crowded in here. She needed air. She needed to be alone.
"I- I- I need to get ready for school." Not a complete truth. She still had plenty of time to sit and discuss things further if she wanted to, but he didn't need to know this. "You should go. Find witnesses, right? It's not like they grow on trees, so yeah, you should probably start looking now."
The suggestion- part command, part plea- came out jerky, borderline shrill.
"I'll meet you back here around 3:30, okay?" She finished, hoping that this would obliterate the optional nature of her request.
Betelgeuse's P.O.V.
He doesn't say it aloud, even though he could: he can, and he did "just do that". She just gave…no, the first kiss she ever had was taken by a corpse-like ghoul many years her senior. The only thing he can offer her is that classic Betelgeuse, awful, gleeful high pitched laugh – that he can't help.
"There's more where that came from, honey."
Grossing the living out is fun no matter what, even though at this point he'd do anything for this girl just to get her back in wedding clothes. He also couldn't help but notice her lips were delicious, warm, and soft – something his own desperately lacked in all measure, and almost every part of him was tempted to do experience them again. But she gets him back on track with her request, her plea, for him to go find witnesses. Her discomfort was, at this point, her own to bear it seemed … he was on a big egotistical cloud nine and didn't seem too inclined to come down off it. She'll get over it. Right? They had a deal.
"Right—" he claps his hands, "Right. I'll meet you back here. Gotcha," he winks at her and grins, "Till we meet again babes." And in an instant he disappears in a glowing flash, relinquishing her bedroom back to her as if he had never been there at all.