Betelgeuse's P.O.V.

Betelgeuse's face is mildly sour as she interacts with Bub. He was supposed to be terrifying. But Lydia, of course, never saw a scare in anything or anybody. Except maybe his snake, and that was only once. "Yer gonna make 'em soft," he reiterates to no avail.

He finally just gives up being too terribly upset over it and takes her by the shoulders, one arm looping around them affectionately. "We'll go to the property office. I'll just…." he wriggles a finger around, "….take us there real quick, we can see what all they've got. It'll be a quick trip, promise."

They take another step forward together and suddenly step off from the sidewalk into a cloud of suddenly swirling paper, which blows around them like a small tornado to reveal that they've transitionally entered into a small cramped office. Behind the desk sits a strange fishlike creature with yellow bulbous eyes and fin-like hands. It moves slowly without blinking, surrounded by great mounds of paper. The office itself is bathed in a greenish eerie light, and everything inside of it seems dreadfully old and musty. The windows that comprised most of the office's walls had collected a good sheen of dust on most of them, though some remained relatively dust-free. It was enclosed on all sides except the pained door, which Betelgeuse slid closed.

"See, this here is the central parcel processing office, Lyds. We made it. If you wanna piece of the Neitherworld, y'gotta come here first. And this here, this is Jim Slake," he indicates the fish, which stares blankly at him.

Eventually, in a low bubbling voice that creeps from its vocal cords as slowly as it moves, the fish replies. "Bbbbuuurrtllejuiiimmccee! Tooooo wwwhhhaaauut dooooo I oooowwwweee tthhhbbllplleeaaaaaasssurre?"

Betelgeuse helpfully maneuvers Lydia right, then left, then back a bit, and then settles her right in front of Jim's desk. "You can see the pictures perfectly from right in this spot, Lyds. Don't move. Jim is going to show us everything he has."

And the fish does so, slowly, painfully slowly, pushing forward a tome of bound photos at Lydia. They aren't new looking, but the fish taps some of them with a fin as he carefully begins to flip through them. In that garbled, bubbly low voice, he begins to entreat her on the finer points of the properties in the photos. Some including graveyards, some including mud ponds, some including swamp views or right on the edges of cliffs and some halfway sunk into the ocean. As Lydia attempted to politely remain interested, Betelgeuse quietly backed up behind her, as if looking over her shoulder.

But he wasn't doing that. No, he was leaning as far back as he could to peer past the windowed wall of the office as if checking on something. He squinted, and then, finding the objects of his interest he zeroed in.

Unbeknownst to Lydia, past this office sat the main office, and past that was the waiting room. And inside the waiting room, he could easily see Barbara and Adam Maitland, bored out of their skulls but waiting ever so patiently. He leaned just enough so they could see him, and waved his arm, suddenly back in the black and white striped suit they must so fondly remember. It takes a moment, but they see him. Barb almost punches Adam's arm, and flails a finger in his direction. The look on her face alone is beautiful, outrage and shock already plastered on it. Adam has to adjust his glasses but once he does, he stands directly out of his chair, mouth agape. Beautiful.

The fish drones on. To make sure her attention is still focused, the ghost leans back in briefly to mention to her, "You know Lyds, I really like that one with the swamp view," he gestures at Jim, "Can we see that one again?"

Lydia is so patient. Trying to be so charming. Jim seems to like her, he's telling her about his spawning grounds up in the Skeletal Highlands and he slowly, painfully slowly, flips back to the swampland property. Betelgeuse leans back again to wave once more at the Maitlands. They're still staring, shocked, and then he points dramatically at the girl in front of him. Their attention shifts and they see Lydia. They see Lydia. Barb practically claws into Adam, shaking him roughly, and pointing. Already, they're agitated. So agitated. Adam and Barb march up to Celeste's window and peer past her. The green woman is doing her nails and can't currently be bothered to stop them at the moment it seems.

Now they can see better, good.

He's going to have some fun. As they press in, just far enough to never be able to get to him and his bride, he points again to the girl and immediately makes the finger-in-hole motion to indicate sex. He points to himself with a surprised expression, and then back at Lydia. Oh yeah, we're doin' it. Barb looks like she's going to have a heart attack. With a smug smile, the ghoul immediately ups the ante, curling his fingers around an invisible phallus and pantomiming something enormous going into his mouth, making the grossest blowjob face he can, eyes rolled into his head, tongue out like a panting dog. He points at Lydia once more and makes an Italian air kiss. Bellisimo. She sucks my cock like a whore. His attention returns to Lydia briefly to ensure she's not seeing any of this.

Fortunately, Jim has her attention. He puts a finger to the back of her head and tilts her forward to look at the book far more closely, leaning over her shoulder firmly for a moment and tapping a photo. "See that feature? I fuckin' love those things. It gets the slime right between your toes," and then he leans back up, leaving her bent far over Jim's desk, desperately trying to see the feature the ghoul could possibly mean.

He cranes back to see Barb and Adam's horrified, infuriated faces once more and proceeds to air-hump the bent over girl, air-slapping her ass, smiling the biggest, brightest dirtiest smile he can at the Maitlands. This does it for them. Barb is trying to climb through Celeste's window, Adam is red-faced and shouting. Betelgeuse holds up his hand as if telling them to chill out or to slow down, be reasonable, and they stare at him briefly….only to have him hold up his hand and waggle his fingers. His wedding band catches the light, and he points directly at Lydia once more. Married her.

Hell breaks loose outside Jim's office. It's a silent display from within, Jim's office is made of very thick pained glass and Betelgeuse knows it. Five or six workers rush towards the front, Celeste is trying to hold the Maitlands back inside the waiting room, and the ghost seems entirely satisfied. Adam is trying to fight anyone that will catch his fists, Barb is flushed and sobbing, wailing. With a sniff, Betelgeuse adjusts his jacket and performs the coup de grace, pulling Lydia back away from Jim's desk to be in full view of the waiting room window, turning her around towards him despite her absolutely confused look, and giving her the most passionate kiss he can at the moment.

"Sorry babes. All this domestic shit has me hot. Maybe we'll think about it for a while, huh? I don't wanna rush you. Did you see any you like?" one eye catches even more chaos in the waiting room. He has very clearly broken the Maitlands, reached inside their hearts and crushed them like paper. "I just wanted you t'see the possibilities. Wanna go get some ice cream? I'll let you meet my brother Donny."


Lydia's P.O.V.

Lydia, as usual, remained oblivious to her husband's ill intentions, choosing instead to see some modicum of virtue in him.

As fascinated as she was by Jim- he had interesting things to say provided one gave him time to say them- and the properties he had to show her, she couldn't help but notice that this was… boring. Exceedingly so. The office itself reminded her of the rundown, dilapidated buildings in New York her father used to gut out and make his own; peeling paint, stray roaches, rife with spirits. The similarities were endless.

Nevertheless, the mundane nature of this monotonous task only served to warm her heart to Betelgeuse further. She knew him enough by now to know that he would never have even considered voluntarily sitting through something this dull were it not for her. He was serious. He meant what he was saying. He really, truly, genuinely wanted them to live together one day. Lydia had never done anything so adult her entire life, including their heated makeout session. This was positively, wonderfully tedious! It was enough to put her on the verge of bubbliness.

The houses themselves were marvelous. Some were little more than one-room shacks surrounded by filth and detritus. Lydia didn't pay much attention to those, though she knew they were more up Betelgeuse's alley. Others could only be described as castles, shadowy monuments that reminded her of dark medieval tales; vampires, curses, and ill-fated maidens.

"Oh," she gasped in delight on the next page flip, eyes brightening, ignorant to the lewd gestures taking place right under her nose. "I like that one. This is tar beach, right?"

"Thhhhhhaaaaaaaat'sssshhhhhh riiiiiiiiiiiiggghhhhhhht, Miiiiiiiissssshhhhhhhuuuuusssss Juuuuuiiiiiiiiimmmmmccccceeeee," Jim answered excruciatingly slowly, before proceeding to give her a number that might have meant something if she knew anything about Neitherworld currency. That glow in her chest hummed at the title he gave her, sluggishly as it was given. Mrs. Geuse. That was the first time she'd heard it aloud from someone else. According to him, that wasn't his last name, but apparently, this wouldn't stop other people from addressing her as such.

The house that drew her attention wasn't a downtrodden hovel or an extravagant palace. It was a beachfront cottage with a decidedly eerie twist. The architecture was Gothic in style; sloping, rounded roofs that came to sharp pinnacles at the top, stained glass windows that depicted macabre scenes, three towers all of varying height that were constructed in such a way that Lydia just knew the staircases inside them had to be circular. The room at the top of the highest tower gleamed brightly within the photo, illuminating the elaborately designed windows, and it occurred to her that she was looking at a lighthouse.

It was time to turn the page. She was getting too attached. It was much too soon to be doing things like this anyway. Besides, who knew if this place was even still standing? That hurricane was vicious. The cottage was probably long gone by now. Before she could flip to the next page and burn the image of the dream house from her mind, Betelgeuse had bodily turned her around and was kissing her like he really meant it. After making a tiny surprised noise into his mouth, she melted, her arms coming up to wrap around his neck. It was long, deep, and full of passion, neither of them really wanting to let go but needing to so she could breathe.

"Sorry babes. All this domestic shit has me hot. Maybe we'll think about it for a while, huh? I don't wanna rush you. Did you see any you like?"

"A couple," she answered vaguely, grinning. It wasn't a lie. Her arms stayed wrapped around his neck as their lips unlocked. When he stood up straight, she had to go up on her tiptoes to maintain the embrace.

"I just wanted you t'see the possibilities. Wanna go get some ice cream? I'll let you meet my brother Donny."

Ice cream for breakfast? Betelgeuse had a brother? There was only one good answer to questions like those.

"Absolutely," she breathed, stars in her eyes. Then, she took the initiative to push herself up those last few inches, pull him down to meet her, and plant one on him that demonstrated that while Betelgeuse was an excellent teacher, Lydia was a quick study.


Betelgeuse's P.O.V.

There was no virtue to be had here. No, there was only Betelgeuse, who only knew one thing: and that was how to be a monster. He loved Lydia to pieces, which itself was a tragedy in virtue – she was purely good, and he was the exact opposite. He was disgusting inside and out, and he reveled in it. And at the moment, he's gotten his way twofold – the girl is happy, the Maitlands are having an aneurysm on top of a foaming conniption fit, and the ghost was standing on top of the world. God, it made him horny as hell, and the kiss he's entangled with Lydia within is only making it worse, so his statement wasn't entirely inaccurate.

As she continues to hang around his neck as he straightens up, he smiles down at her, ever so pleased. He likes it when she has to stretch to get at him – it reminds him of how petite she really is. As she so breathlessly and joyfully agrees to the latter suggestion, looking so eager regarding the deadly boring place he had brought her to look at property, there's a tiny, teeny, itty pang of guilt as he meets those sparkling eyes of hers. It's gone in a puff of smoke though as she pulls him down to meet her lips once more, doubly ensuring the Maitlands are getting an eyeful of his affection reciprocated. He thrills, double coup de grace – and he actually gathers her directly up into his arms in a strong sweep, lifting her off the decrepit floor and slowly twirling her around in Jim's office. He does want to live with her, the poor thing. He'll call Jim later about the lighthouse she hovered over. It was still standing, he knew, because the Neitherworld doesn't really work as the girl imagines – his destructive abilities were usually reversed by an entire team of individuals called The Beetle Busters or the Anti-Ghoul Squad. It took them a while to clean up after him, sure, but that's the most frustrating part of the Neitherworld – nothing ever changes. It all molders, timelessly but aging slowly and surely, and it creeps behind the real world like a dying but never fully deceased sloth. His powers were most effective in the real world where nothing was ever reversed and his actions were permanent and disastrous.

The kiss and subsequent twirl-around transitions them out of Jim's office within another small tornado of paper. After their departure, Jim's glassy eyes watched the panic and disorder continuing outside his office blankly, before bubbling dreamily out to himself, "Wwwwhaaaaabbbthbhtttt aaaa niiiicccceee ccoouububbbbluubbble." If the Maitlands had ever made it to his office, they would have found Jim as calm as ever and upon demanding answers from him he would have asked them plainly, "Wwwwwhhhooooobbb?" as if Betelgeuse and Lydia had never even been in his office at all that day. Jim was a fish. Jim was the best. The ghoul could always count on him to forget.

Girl and ghoul found themselves outside the very quaint Uptown Ice Scream Shoppe after dissipating from Jim's office. Betelgeuse lowered Lydia down and gestured towards it pleasantly, keeping one arm wrapped around her shoulders affectionately. The building itself was actually quite bright in comparison to its neighbors, like something from a different era or place altogether. Creamy white paint coated the façade that remained clean amongst all the decay that ate at everything. It was relatively spotless if a little cracked in places, this place was very obviously maintained. Two thick stately candy-striped columns framed the doorway, which itself appeared almost dwarfed by them. Cheerful and exceptionally large pained windows bathed the outside with a warm yellow light, and inside were white metal tables and chairs from another time. It didn't seem much busy, but there were a few of the deceased inside, helping themselves to sparkling glasses filled with sugary cold treats.

The ghoul led Lydia inside, asking her about the properties she had seen, but particularly the lighthouse. He was in a position to obtain a free flow of Neitherworld money, and cost was genuinely no object to Betelgeuse anymore, a position he very much enjoyed indeed.

A very cheerful, southern twang greeted them upon progressing through the door. In fact, it turned into an overjoyed twang as it realized who had entered. Emerging from behind one of the large soda pulls was a slim, spotlessly clean individual. He was tall, with a nose that looked vaguely similar to Betelgeuse's, and blond hair – but everything else was markedly not alike. Handsome on his face, he had straight bright white teeth and he almost looked …. well, alive. He had no dark rings under his eyes, no moldering hair. In fact, his hair was very politely styled with gel into a classic men's taper haircut with precision cut sideburns that gently flowed into pale stubble on the sides of his face. He was cleanly shaven on the whole and much younger in appearance than Betelgeuse – somewhere between his mid-twenties and early thirties. His eyes, in contrast too, were a happy grey-blue. He wore a white apron – clearly pressed and almost too clean, along with well fitted red and white striped pants. His arms were slim but muscular, and he had colorful tattoo sleeves down each one, the only thing that contrasted with his otherwise neat-as-a-pin squeaky-clean appearance.

"Mah big brother!" He crowed from behind the counter, dutifully wiping off his hands and hurrying around behind the counter and then out of it, towards them, "And a beaaaauut-eee-ful lady!" He was almost breathlessly happy, it seemed, to see them.

Upon reaching Betelgeuse, he stuck a finger against the nonplussed chest of the ghoul with a bright smile, "Now listen here, mister," he said, in a playful, ever-cheery huff, "You have been misbehaving lately around this here Neitherworld and the Mayor himself asked me to tell you to knock it the big hecky off, alright?" he leaned back then, and wiped his brow, "Gosh I'm sorry to tear into y'like that though. Let's forget I said anything, okay?"

Betelgeuse's eyebrows raised slowly. "Okay. Sure thing, Donny boy," he grunted, noncommittally.

The much slighter ghost turned to Lydia then, clapping his hands together and looking star-struck, "But what have we here, BJ? Who is this beaut-ee-ful companion? He never brings anyone here. He says I'm bad for his image," Donny air-quoted, then, and rolled his eyes with a very humored smile, "But he loves his little brother, doncha BJ?"

Placing a heavy hand on the much cleaner shoulder of his sibling, with pain his voice that appeared to be ever-long-suffering, Betelgeuse looked seriously at him as if ready to disclose something very truthful. "Donny…. kid," he said, slowly, "You are absolutely killing my boner, man."


Lydia's P.O.V.

"Beej," Lydia chastized lightly, embarrassed, squeezing his hand to show her displeasure. Having just met his brother, she didn't want him to get the wrong idea about her. Betelgeuse didn't seem like the type to care one way or another, but she would prefer for his family to like her. Donny seemed like a genuinely nice guy, a soft-hearted foil to Betelgeuse's darkness. It wouldn't do for him to think she was that kind of girl– whatever that meant.

"Hello," she greeted, warm and shy, politely extending her hand for a shake. "I'm Lydia, it's nice to meet you. I'm, uh… well, I guess I'm your sister-in-law." In case her word wasn't enough, she tilted her hand just so, letting him catch a glimpse of the silver band on her ring finger.

"EEEK! BJ, YOU DIDN'T!" Donny suddenly screeched like a girl, ignoring the hand completely to sweep her into a bear hug. Lydia squeaked and tensed, squirming until she was released. Like most people, Donny was taller than her, though not as tall as his brother. "Oh, I'm sorry, hon," he gushed, grabbing up both of her hands and bending his knees slightly so he was more on her level. It appeared both brothers had trouble grasping the concept of personal space. "I just got so excited! I been waitin' for mah big brother here to find a nice lady n' settle down for a long time now. Gosh," he sniffled, genuine moisture gathering at his tear ducts, "I'm just so happy! Oooooh I've always wanted a sister!"

Lydia's eyes grew wide. She was carefully leaning back, putting subtle distance between them, deeply uncomfortable with the emotional display- but flattered, nonetheless. Clearly, she would not have to worry about Donny disliking her. "I'm an only child," she offered simply, wisely choosing not to add that she had never, not once, desired siblings.

"Not anymore, you're not, sis!" Her husband's clean, slim, kept look-alike reassured, nearly driven to excitable tears. He glanced over her shoulder and whatever he saw on Betelgeuse's face must have given him a signal to back off. Like a light switching on and off, he changed. In a split second, his eyes were dry, he was standing behind the counter- all business- salesman's grin plastered across his face, rattling off the names of all the different 'eye screams.' Free of charge, of course, for his newlywed brother and sister-in-law. "We have rotberry sneezecake, cooties n' scream, malted roach crunch, snail slime ripple, death by chocolate-"

"That one!" Lydia pounced on the first safe-sounding option. "I'll have that one, please!"

"Nuh uh uh," Donny denied patronizingly, reaching across the counter to pinch her cheek like she was a toddler who had just said something adorable. "BJ would absolutely have a fit if I letcha have that one, my bloody, breathy, fleshy lil sis!"

His smile was too wide. He was too happy. Lydia's spine tingled, the animal part of her giving warning that despite his cheery countenance, Donny potentially had a darkness inside of him that rivaled his brother's. It was profoundly unsettling. Lydia liked her evil right out there where she could see it, the way Betelgeuse wore it. Donny kept his hidden beneath layers of sugar, spice, and everything nice.

She flinched away from the touch. "Cooties n' scream, then," she decided, smile gone, wary honey eyes locked on the doppelganger.

"Tripple scoop cooties n' sssscreeeam sundae with extra everythin' for my beaut-ee-ful baby sister- eeek, just gives you chills, doesn't it?!"

It did, but not in the way he meant. After taking Betelgeuse's order, retrieving their respective sundaes, and setting up camp in a corner booth- far away from Donny, at Lydia's quiet insistence- she allowed herself to speak freely.

"He's certainly… enthusiastic," she settled on politely, aiming one last apprehensive glance at the smiling spirit. He was whistling Tip-Toe Thru' the Tulips while wiping down the already pristine counter. Lydia shuddered, aiming her gaze anywhere but him. Dead people wandered past the window in droves, chatting, shopping, living- but not.

"I guess the necrophiliacs won in the end," she joked with a smirk before scooping up some whipped scream and cooties with her cherry and plopping it into her mouth. The stem was set nonchalantly off to the side, on top of her napkin. "Jeffrey Dahmer must be having the time of his life- well, you know what I mean."


Betelgeuse's P.O.V.

Lydia was right to be off-put by Donny. Betelgeuse himself was offput by Donny and he was probably the one person inside the Neitherworld who spent any real amount of time with the guy. Despite all of the people who had inserted themselves into his life under the guise of friendships, the ghost was a very lonely figure. He pushed others away and enjoyed doing so, but after a couple hundred years, it ain't bad to have some family….even if they are very dubiously related to you. And, like most siblings, the pair absolutely couldn't stand each other and yet couldn't do without each other either. Donny has buried so many bodies for him. Forged so many documents. And kept so many of his drunkenly professed secrets tight behind his pretty, tidy little lips.

He hadn't been able to tell Donny about Lydia, though. Something deep in his chest had prevented him from doing so over the course of the past few weeks – other than being simply utterly preoccupied. Maybe it was because the ghoul knew Donny's secrets, too.

As Donny swiftly goes about making his wife feel exceptionally uncomfortable, Betelgeuse lets it go on for as long as either one of them can safely stand before giving his brother a stone cold look of "back off, bud" when he knows Donny has pushed it a little too far. His brother, at least, could safely be contained behind the guise of good manners – despite his over-abundant, peculiar, enthusiasm.

He orders himself a roach malt crunch once Donny successfully if annoyingly, dissuades her from the death by chocolate. By the look on Lydia's face, he can immediately see she's picked up on how peculiar his sibling truly is behind the sunshiny, happy façade. Smart girl. He squeezes a rough hand on her shoulder reassuringly and Donny happily serves them their ice cream orders. She moves them both to a booth chosen far off from the counter afterward, and Betelgeuse already knows why.

"Babes," he says, snorting, slurping down a large spoonful of roach crunch as they settle in, "That's the nicest thing anyone has ever said about my brother in one word. Y'know, I'm not even really sure we're actually related. He just showed up one day at my front door with a stamped piece of paper from The Reconciliatory Office of Relatives & Family claiming to be my sibling. I don't think anyone would ever choose to be my brother…someone musta played some kinda trick on 'em."

At her latter commentary, he almost laughed a mouthful of ice-cream up his nose, instead managing to stop it and glurp it back down. "You're one too," he leers at her, matter-of-factly, "Fortunately for you, I ain't no stiff. But I could be, babes, if given some persuadin'." His eyes flick, too, to Donny uncomfortably – blink and you'd miss it, but it is distantly too-knowing. He laughs, again, at the Dahmer commentary that follows. "You're dark, babes. I like it." He studies her, then, resting his chin in his hand. "Death makes angels of us all, and gives us wings where we had shoulder-blades smooth as raven's claws." He pauses, and burps out, "Huurrph. That's a Doors song."


Lydia's P.O.V.

"I don't know," Lydia tentatively disagreed with his theory, daring one last shady glance at her deceptively unassuming brother-in-law. "I think he's your brother." The way she said it made it sound like she wished she was wrong. "Maybe only half, but there's something there. He's with you for a reason… and I don't think it was a joke."

"Death makes angels of us all, and gives us wings where we had shoulder-blades smooth as raven's claws."

Honey eyes closed while he spoke, savoring the poetry as it came pouring from his mouth like dark, red wine. Once opened again, they were glazed over, taken in by the romance of the moment.

"You're not going to teach me anything about The Doors," she began with a warm smile, discomfort eased by his infectious laughter and captivating verse. No one had ever truly appreciated her dark humor before. Even Adam and Barb were often disturbed by it, though they never deigned to say so. Lydia could tell. "I was raised on The Doors, mister. You might know things about Jim Morrison that I don't, for obvious reasons, but that's where it ends."

Lydia wanted very badly to argue with his assessment of her sexual profile, but seeing as she was only just learning about this side of herself, she couldn't come up with a valid counter. He might've been right. What did she know? He was the expert here. "Fortunately for you, I ain't no stiff. But I could be, babes, if given some persuadin'."

A naughty idea inserted itself at the forefront of her mind. Something wicked flashed across her gaze- her inner Jezebel fighting to make another appearance. She might pay for this later, but the impulse was too strong to ignore.

"I don't think you need a lot of persuading," she determined- audaciously accurate- before licking the last of some melted cream from her spoon, maintaining eye contact, well aware of what she was doing. "But, since you asked so nicely…" Not slowly, but not quickly, she dropped her spoon back into the half-eaten sundae and nudged the bowl toward the edge of the table, signifying that she was done. Then, she retrieved the forgotten cherry stem.

"We can't all have giraffe tongues like certain individuals I know." Deliberately, she placed the red, pliable, little twig on her tongue, letting him see. Her cheeks hollowed and her lips puckered while she performed for him, still holding his gaze, confident in her abilities. She knew this trick would pay off for her one day. In under a minute, Lydia had a neat, tight little knot to present for him. She appraised it proudly, holding it pinched between black-painted nails. "But I can still do some things."


Betelgeuse's P.O.V.

"Doors fan? Good choice Lyds. We'll have to see how much you know later." He itched the soft curve of his cheek vaguely. She gets his attention though, quite quickly with the tone of her voice and what she says next. Oh. Oh really?

That was it. That was the last straw. As Lydia licks her spoon suggestively and neatly places the cherry stem, tied with a skillful tongue down onto the table, the ghost carefully and silently pushes back his chair. He wipes his mouth on a sleeve, jade eyes burning fire at the poor girl.

"Ice cream over," he grunts, voice low, husky. He grabs Lydia up into his arms as if she weighed nothing, hauling her over a shoulder like a sack of flour. The shoppe itself has cleared out by now, Donny having gone to a room in the back to fetch something perhaps, so Betelgeuse is inclined to much more dramatic action in the face of this challenge. "Yer comin' with me," he growls, in a voice that indicates that's that. He grumbles the whole way out, one of his meaty hands gripping Lydia's ass to keep her in place as he carries her along.

Off he marches to a back door, cheerfully marked 'exit - alley'. He kicks the door open easily with a solid thud from his boots and ambles down two moldering wooden stairs into a small brick alley. Neitherworld vermin of unknown sort scatter from in front of him with small hissing sounds. It's dark, but neon lights from above illuminate the space in sickly greens and purples, some pink light splashing across an enormous metal dumpster that leans against the brick. He carries her to the other side of the dumpster, which hides them both from view of the main street in a dark shadow. The ghoul's eyes glittered.

"Try n' take you on a date n' do everything all above bar," he grumbles heatedly, "fucking behaved myself n' everything—-." He did not behave himself whatsoever, but Lydia doesn't have to know that. He drops her from his shoulder carefully and easily despite his growling and posturing, maneuvering her body around his easily with his strong hands, veritably panting down her neck as he does so. Lydia finds herself with her back pressed against the sturdy brick, her legs rucked up on either side of the ghoul's hips perversely, his loins pushing deep into her skirt. He pins her like this, his hands supporting her weight by her thighs, which he grabs and gropes lustily, snaking his hands right up the bottom of her pretty clothes.

"Sly lil' minx," he purrs grittily, leaning in, "Let's see how talented that tongue really is…"

He was going to have some fun in this greasy, nasty alley, it seemed and he was done waiting patiently to slake himself. He kissed her, passionately then, and she could feel him shudder with barely contained need, his tongue searching hers. Her lips and mouth were as delicious as ever and all he wanted was to drown himself there, at least for a while. He was going to mark her and this time he was going to be there to enjoy the results.


Lydia's P.O.V.

When Lydia was very, very young- little more than a toddler- she wanted to learn how to cook so that she could make a witch's brew like the characters in her stories made. With the coordination and strategy skills of a small child, this meant she often hurt herself. Be it by playing with knives, touching the burner, or falling from the stepping stool she used to reach the forbidden items. Over and over again her mother would warn her of the dangers, and over and over again Lydia refused to listen.

Apparently, she still hadn't learned her lesson.

There was no ignoring the hand on her ass this time, not like on the beach. There might have been an initial struggle when he first flung her over his shoulder, but she surrendered so quickly it couldn't possibly count. What did she expect, honestly, provoking him like that? Hadn't he warned her? She knew what this was. As they descended into the grime and shadows of the back alley, a spark of fear hit her. The fun kind, the thrilling kind. The kind of fear where one didn't know what was going to happen next, rather than being assured of their own certain doom.

He was so strong. He handled her like she was made of paper and he didn't care if it ripped or not. She knew now that the derisive words he said to her back on the beach were a ruse, a trick to lower her self-esteem and make her more vulnerable to him. Once again, she couldn't bring herself to feel the rage she knew she should. A different kind of fire was raging, leaving no room for silly things like indignation and hurt feelings. He pressed her into the brick, not even allowing her legs to touch the ground before wrapping them firmly about his hips. Ragged claws and calloused fingertips dug into her thighs, sinfully experienced hands finding the opening to her skirt in the short time it took him to position her to his liking.

He surged against her, pressing something unmistakably big, hard, and familiar between her legs. The hands beneath her skirt were greedy; scratching, squeezing, searching. It didn't take them long to find the cushiony flesh of her ass. She wore a tiny, lacy, black thong today- the sexiest pair of underwear she owned. Precautions had to be taken, after all. It wouldn't do to be caught in a position like this while wearing her silly bat-patterned briefs. Despite the significant size difference between them- he was so tall, so solid, so bulky- they fit together so easily.

Again, his hips pushed, sliding her a bit further up the wall and sending waves of hot, aching pleasure that pulsated from her core throughout her entire body, down to her toes and fingers. She slid up, he bent down, and then their lips were locked together again. She tried to keep up, she really did, but he was so much. Soft, fleshy, untoned legs tightened around him. Clunky black boots dug into his backside. The only layers between their most private places were a barely-there scrap of lace and the rough fabric of his trousers. It was so good- so fucking good- it had to be wrong. She tried to cry out, but her pleas were lost into his mouth, garbled by his unyielding tongue. Finding a sliver of mercy within him, he moved his sloppy attention down her neck, leaving one last sharp bite on her bottom lip before making his descent.

"Please," she begged, unsure of what she was asking for. "It's- it's too much- I can't-" Again, he sunk his fangs into her, right on the fading pink mark she'd been showing off like a tramp all week. It hurt, and she shrieked, but the pain was so intermingled with euphoria she could hardly tell them apart. "Please!"


Betelgeuse's P.O.V.

She was wearing a thong. It was lace, he could feel it, and it left her bottom as bare as the day she was born. If the flirting wasn't provocative, this absolutely was. She knew this might happen to her today, or at least, some part of her wanted it to, clearly. It made heat surge through his chest, especially as she practically molds to his body, arching, lifting towards him as he pushes against her. He grunted, almost overwhelmed at how easily and readily she responded to him, thrilling at the idea that she wanted this as much as he, her fires burning, stoked to rise so quickly. She was beautiful like this, helpless in his wave of lust, so desirous but so perfectly worsted, too.

At the sensation of Lydia's thick boots digging into his backside, the ghost huffs, unable to stop a groan from escaping his lips and into her mouth, her warm and soft thighs tightening around him. It was enough to make him crazy, and it pushes his thundering arousal up against her even more firmly, the sensation of that tiny, increasingly heated and wet scrap of lace hitting him quite completely now. He can almost feel her plump, juicy labia there, the ridge of his thick cock working rudely up between them, rubbing the fabric of his striped suit against the barely covered excitable flesh. She makes a noise at that, a muffled cry into his lips, and he has to brace himself from the edge, only barely managing to avoid ending their encounter far too soon.

Whatever she considered about herself, she was a natural at this. Everything she did in response to him only made him wilder for her, and he would have had her then and there if it wasn't for being directly next to a battered and leaking Neitherworld dumpster. With any other partner, the ghost would have never stopped his indulgence, finding the disgusting atmosphere of a back alley dumpster fuck exactly to his tastes. But with Lydia, it halts him, keeping her from further gross degradation at his hands. This was just as horrible as she could probably safely stand, and he would want her first time to be….well. Not this.

As for now, though, his animalistic lust is being satiated fairly enough, perhaps even better than if he'd indulged. Just the very imagining of dropping his zipper and nudging away that fabric to stretch her wide around his cock and then not doing it was a perfect state of agony. Already, she was breathlessly pleading with him, and he moves to ravish her neck, teeth digging in to previously marked, sensitive places. It elicits such a good noise from her, that shriek, it sings in his ear and she can feel his trapped cock twitch hard against the fabric of her thong in response. The front of his trousers are hopelessly wet by now, having drenched them between her juices and his over-eager responses. He apologetically, slimily licks the bite mark, growling against her skin. He desperately wants to slide his fingers inside of her, but he holds off, instead noting that her sweater has rucked up just enough to see the bottom of those sweet, luscious little breasts of hers. Little devil.

"Please what?" He murmurs, voice a heavy gravelly rumble, moving from her neck to pull back just enough to push her sweater up a bit further. He exposes her to him, letting the snowy mounds of her breasts free, the cooler breeze through the alley brushing over them. "No bra, and a thong, you know what you want. Daddy's werkin' on it," he pants, breathily, "I'm gonna give you every inch of this thick dick deep into that tight little pussy of yours when you're ready, dove. I ain't gonna do it here, but I'm gonna make you scream for me." He grunts before dipping his head down and capturing a sweetly pink nipple into his lips. Lydia can feel the moss of his face and his stubble brush against her, and he noisily slurps at her breast, pulling her up against him to do so. Her skin is soft as velvet his mouth and against his tongue, and the noises it elicits from her are beautiful. He can't stay like this for too much longer, every part of his body screams for release.


Lydia's P.O.V.

Her underwear was soaked through. Her breasts were bared and under attack. Anyone could walk by and see them if they really looked. Daddy. It was all so filthy and wrong and humiliating and so, so right. Lydia was operating on pure instinct, undulating her hips like a seasoned whore, pushing harshly against his damp, clothed cock, meeting him thrust for thrust like they were already fucking. She couldn't remember why she wasn't supposed to be doing this. It seemed such a silly thing to be afraid of. If he had hooked a claw around the front of her crotch, pulled it aside, and sunk her down onto his "thick dick"- Lydia believed him, no visual proof necessary- she would not have objected.

It wasn't as though she was some kind of virgin who deserved rose petals and silk sheets. A disgusting, dumpster-side fuck seemed fitting to her. Nevertheless, he appeared to be in disagreement with this notion. Lydia wasn't sure if she was thankful for that or not yet. He knew what would make the horrible, wonderful ache go away and she wanted him to give it to her, no matter what it took.

"Ah!" A sharp cry echoed throughout the alley as he bit down on one of her pebbled nipples, simultaneously pinching its twin between calloused fingertips. The sting was immediately soothed away with lathing strokes of his tongue and sweet, pawing squeezes. Then, he switched, moving vicious, hungry teeth to the other, suckling and nibbling it to a similar state of redness. She was thoroughly marked, now. When she looked in the mirror later that night, she would be able to see everywhere he touched her; dark purple fingerprints and light red scratches- it was a wonder he hadn't broken skin- along her ass and thighs, vivid flowering discolorations leading a trail from her neck down to her previously unblemished breasts. Let her father and Delia ignore these like they had the others.

One itty bitty pale hand was tangled in his hair, unwillingly gripping tighter than she would consider polite while the other found its way beneath his jacket and clutched at his back. His furiously grinding hips and her own frenzied grip were the only things keeping her pinned to the brick at this point.

"Beej," she pleaded again breathily, entire body shaking from the immense pressure it was under. Sweat coated her all over, making her feel as slimy on the outside as she did on the inside. Her arms and legs felt weak, liable to give out any moment and send her crashing to the squalid ground. The logical side of her knew he wouldn't let that happen. Still, she refused to release the rigid muscles, instead working them against him adamantly, following the animal intuition that already knew what to do. "I want- oh, God please- I don't know how-" He didn't seem concerned with her begging, well invested in feasting on her breasts. "I need you," she practically sobbed, on the verge of breaking to pieces.

A savage growl built up in his chest, violent enough for Lydia to feel the vibrations over all the other distracting stimulation. He bit down on the flesh that covered her pounding heart, his greedy palms found her ass again, and then he was jerking against her, wrenching her against him, dry fucking her right into the rough wall. Surely, there would be marks on her back to match the other evidence of his abuse. She broke. Every rigid tendon in her body froze and tightened before releasing completely. A new flood of moisture soaked the front of his trousers, absolutely destroying her favorite panties, and Betelgeuse earned his scream.


Betelgeuse's P.O.V.

Oh, the noises he was eliciting from her were beautiful. Her tiny hand tangles in his unruly shock of hair, grabbing for him, pulling him to her, the other snaking into his jacket to properly grab him, like a little rider trying to hang onto an unruly bull. It made him wild. She begged, brokenly, for him, for more, the more he knew he desperately wanted to give her. It was enough, and with that low hard growl, his teeth sinking into her flesh just enough, he has his way with her as much as he can while retaining what little dignity he could leave her.

It feels almost as close, with the way he dry fucks her, hunched over her petite body like a relentless animal. Each thrust makes her little breasts bounce, he can feel them doing so underneath the pulse of his neck. And oh yes, there's a pulse there, although there hardly needed to be. He works at her, grabbing her against him in a cloud of lust, that hard ridge pushing and straining fiercely against its constraints, threatening nearly to burst them. She felt amazing, so soft, hot, so alive, the soaked silken fabric pushed almost flat between her labia. They caress his dick with each thrust, enveloping it in that sweltering heat, and he nudges her clit over and over again with his movements. Eventually, it's all too much for her, her little body overstimulated and thoroughly abused, and she clings to him and screams for him. Sonorous, dulcet tones that echo through the alley, her orgasmic outburst is something he could bear to hear for the rest of eternity. He knows instantly it's a noise he could not tire of – her sweet sound of release is unlike he had ever heard before in all his years alive or dead. He can feel her whole body clench around him, pressing him hard against her as she soaks herself and him. It's too much for him then, too, and with a rough, growling, throaty snarl into her chest, he finally comes hard, drenching the front of his own striped suit, cock as hard as ever, twitching with each gush of his release.

In the exhausted, panting moments that follow, he gathers Lydia up into his arms and away from the wall, sinking down onto the grimy alleyway floor into his lap. When he can finally catch his breath, he slowly and softly kisses her bruises, guiding her head onto his shoulder and petting her hair gently, affectionately.

"Babes," he says, hoarsely, clearly shell-shocked, "That was the best I've had in six-hundred years."