Betelgeuse's P.O.V.
Alright?! JUST alright? Was she getting bored that quickly?! He thought that was pretty GOOD, thank you very much! "Everyone's a critic," comes the grunt from beneath her as, once released from him, Lydia is quick to a blasé assessment and a hasty exit.
"Once in a while huh?" he grumbles as she disappears into the bathroom, retrieving his head and crunching it back onto his shoulders grotesquely. "I'll once in a while you." The insult made little sense, and as he waits for her he fiddles with the little watch on his wrist idly. That is, until the insulted shriek that comes from the other room, arresting his ears. Ugh, full name usage, too. Yikes.
"Oh eeeh heh," Betelgeuse sounded vaguely apologetic as he called back to the girl, "Sorry babes! You know how messy these things can get…!" blowing smoke out of his nostrils, he finishes off the offending cigarillo, grumbling to himself as he fixed the white dress and laid it out for her in a snap. Women. So fussy. "Ash is uh… great for your skin! 'S like an exotic treatment in some cultures, y'know? Just lookin' out for ya…"
Lydia's P.O.V.
"'Exotic treatment' my ass…"
Lydia pouted all through her shower and redressing. She had come to him in immaculate order, ready to exchange gifts and embark on a romantic date, and in true slob-fashion, he sullied her from toe to tip. It was exceedingly annoying that she had to restyle her hair, redo her makeup, and in general repeat every step she had taken that morning to pretty herself up for him. It was even more annoying considering she knew for a fact he could have her restored to her pre-ravaged state with nothing more than a simple blink or wave of his hand. Nevertheless, pride kept her from asking.
Once she was done with the tedious process, she strolled up to the edge of the bed where he was still laying out— fully nude and content— and stole the blunt he was smoking right from his filthy mouth.
"So?" She began after taking a deep hit, hips cocked and arms crossed in the universal position of 'miffed wife.' She wasn't truly upset with him, but he deserved a little shit after that entire fiasco. "Are you going to take me on a date, or are you done trying to win me over? Since, you know, you've already succeeded in seducing me…"
Betelgeuse's P.O.V.
"Heeeeeyy!" comes the obstinate whine as Lydia plucks the blunt straight from his lips for herself, looking sulky. "Was smokin' that!"
His expression changed once she took a relatively annoyed stance. She was asking him for performative goods. He twined his fingers across his chest and looked up at her miffed body language with a guilty, but rat-like face, scowling. If there was one man you didn't ask for these sorts of things, it was Betelgeuse. Especially after he's gotten exactly what he wants, and especially after being insulted. Drama queen.
"Ooooh, so, you're seduced," the rest of what she says goes fully unremarked upon, and while she did provide implied air-quotes around the word, Betelgeuse is perfectly content to ignore that completely as well. "Well, I mean," he gives Lydia a once over, crossing his bare ankles and legs. She was tremendously, stunningly beautiful, though he never got enough of the rumpled look of her after a tryst, either. "I don't know. What would a girl like you be doin' hangin' around a guy like me anyway?" he inspects his nails, leisurely-like and clearly putting on an act before those jade yes flit up to his wife again with intensity. He grins.
"Sure. C'moooon. I promised you Vincent Prince, ain't gonna back down on it. Even after that three-star review of makin' ya scream like a banshee twice," his voice shifts to something English and proper, mockingly, "Dear Neitherworld Gazette - I find Betelgeuse to be lacking in bed. Even after he made me orgasm twice, the entire experience was, shall I dare say, lacking. His giant cock is thoroughly boring, and even thou he is dashingly handsome and can take off his own head to provide me with oral satisfaction, I am, to-wit, unsatisfied. Please inform his manager post haste, for I am quite over the experience. Yours truly, Lydia."
A quick snap of his fingers provides clothes as if he'd never been lying there naked at all, the familiar striped suit appearing in a blink. So too, appears a black rose, which he passes over to Lydia like a smug reptile. "Unfortunately where I'm from babes, they don't accept returns of the used merchandise. You look amazing."
Lydia's P.O.V.
It wasn't fair that he could go from absolutely infuriating to devastatingly charming in the span of about thirty seconds. Lydia filtered through a variety of expressions all through his speech, starting with a seething deadpan and ending with a pretty blush and smile once he passed her the ebony rose, thorned and in full bloom. He even went as far as to top it all off with a frank compliment, lacking any of the usual sleaze that made everything he said sound like a lie.
"Awww, Beeeeej," she drawled with sugary sweetness before landing a crimson kiss print on his stubbly cheek. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. Don't be so sensitive. You know I love your 'giant cock'." Miraculously, she managed to hush out that last part without her already flushed cheeks deepening in color. Moments later, he was bedecked in familiar black and white stripes, and Lydia wasted no time in stringing her camera over her neck— the digital one, his gift to her— and hooking her arm in his. "And I love that suit."
She did love his giant cock, and his suit. For such a self-assured guy, he certainly required a lot of reassurance. In a flash, they disappeared from the lighthouse and rematerialized before an opulent mansion somewhere in the Neitherworld. The solid gold gates that lined the property, which Betelgeuse promptly shoved through without heed to the locks or PA system, were decorated with two letters; V. P.
Lydia's heart jumped up into her throat, and her palms were suddenly soaked with sweat. "Uhm… Beej…?" She questioned smallishly as he soldiered them on toward the front door without any kind of hesitation, completely confident. Had he bothered to contact the dead star at all before bringing her here? Or was this going to be a rude surprise for poor Vincent Price? "Are we… allowed to be here…?"
Despite her misgivings, her steps didn't dither on their way up the curly walkway. However, her previous blush had definitely faded to a ghastly, mortified white that rivaled her husband's deathly pallor, stuck somewhere between starstruck and terrified even though she had yet to sight her childhood hero. As they reached the steps, her stomach lurched in revolt, and she was ready to go back to the lighthouse and spend the rest of their day fucking.
"We should just go," she chickened out midway up the steps, forcing Betelgeuse to pull her the rest of the way. "He's probably busy. He has better things to do than deal with fans— this is embarrassing—!"
Betelgeuse's P.O.V.
Betelgeuse grumbles pleasantly as Lydia kisses his cheek. That sort of made it better. Her compliment to his suit, too, eased whatever sting she might have incurred with him. He was, after all, immensely easy to please, and anything that Lydia liked about him was something to be proud of altogether.
He did need a lot of reassurance, specifically from his Lyds – mostly because her opinion had become exceptionally, and surprisingly important to him. Not just on a superficial level, either. For Betelgeuse, this has been a bit hard for him to reckon with…but he was doing his best.
Marching up the expansive and twisting driveway with his gal, the ghoul seemed perfectly unworried as far as what reception they may receive here. They're almost to the front door when he feels his lovely companion startle, and resist going further. Suddenly, he's all too aware of her poor sweaty palms in his, and the light on the expansive porch throws her pallor in sharp relief. Oh, that's adorable. She's nervous.
"Baaaabes," he drawls, wrapping a strong arm around her back and ushering her to the door unrelentingly. "This is his afterlife. Man's got nothin' better t'do than this! What I wouldn't give to have adorin' fans showin' up at my door at all hours, I tell ya."
The ghost rings the doorbell, confident enough for the both of them it would seem. "'Sides, we go way back, he'll be happy t'see me, y'see, I did him a few favors n' well, he's been chasin' after me for years to help 'em out here n' there, y'know how it is, you do a guy a couple good turns and-"
The door opens to a surprised Vincent Price, dressed impeccably in a suit and wide tie. He looks much like he did at some of the peak parts of his career, perhaps a little older, his hair carefully groomed back. His eyes were rather sunken, a bit like Beetlejuice but less dark purple. Upon taking in the striped man at the door, those dark eyes narrow. "You." It is not a fond greeting. It is vaguely accusatory, actually.
"Vincey!" Betelgeuse exclaims, arms opening wide, "Hey listen, me n' the wife were in town, thought we'd drop by—"
The striped monster was already halfway through the door before Lydia OR Price could protest, "- figured I'd check in, see how you n' Coral were gettin' on—"
Before either of them could figure out what happened, Betelgeuse was inside, standing in the entryway, "—know it's short notice, but I know how much y'love meetin' yer fans and Lydia here," he firmly plaps his broad hands on her narrow shoulders, "Is probably the biggest one."
There's a beat before Vincent Price vaguely lifts his arm and shuts the door. As if belatedly accepting his fate, he mutters in vague irritation, "Oh, come inside Betelgeist, make yourself at home, not like I have a choice, do I? Anyway, you and I have some things to discuss and have for some time now." At the mention of his fan, and the horrified look on poor Lydia's face, Vincent immediately softens. "Oh dear, I am sorry – your husband is a terrible troublemaker. It's enchanting to meet you…er, Lydia?" he hesitates as if ensuring he'd heard correctly. "That's a beautiful name."
Lydia's P.O.V.
Vincent freaking Price was saying her name. Complimenting her name! Looking her in the eye and complimenting her name while she stood in his foyer gaping like an idiot.
"Uh…" Was she allowed to talk to him? Surely there was some sort of whacky Neitherworld law against this sort of finagling. This couldn't be legal. Long, horrible seconds crept on without anyone speaking, and just when Lydia was certain that she would either burst into flames or turn to stone from the sheer crippling mortification, she took a deep breath, started talking, and couldn't stop.
"I— uhm. Lydia! Yes, that's my name. Lydia is me. I am Lydia. It's really not that great of a name— I mean, of course it is because you said it is, and you're—" Vincent freaking Price "— you… Also… have a good name."
Previously pale, ashen cheeks were now radiating heat. Big, honey eyes were surely on the verge of bursting from her skull with how widely they had sprung once landing upon the esteemed star. Lydia always assumed he was tall given his imposing presence on film, but now that his spirit was standing before her in all his dark, dignified glory, she could see that he towered. Taller even than both Betelgeuse or the Prince, forcing her neck to crane to maintain eye contact. Nervously, she fiddled with the camera strapped about her neck, needing to do something with all that jittery excess energy, only to drop it like a hot potato once she realized what she was doing.
Great. Now he probably thought she was some kind of obsessive stalker freak out to harass him for an autographed photo. "You also have a good name." Fucking brilliant, Lydia. Smooth.
"I'm… so sorry, Mr. Price."
Lydia wasn't sure what exactly she was apologizing for, but a thorough acknowledgment of guilt and inferiority seemed necessary before she could continue on existing in his presence. So many lines had been crossed, trespasses made against the revered star. They had just burst into his home that he shared with his wife— on Valentine's Day no less— without any sort of invitation or warning, all because she had been selfish and thoughtless enough to give her beastly husband permission. Betelgeuse couldn't be blamed for trying to please her. This was all her fault. All this in mind, the poor girl was ready to crawl out of her skin and run away with her skeleton and the last shreds of her reputability.
"We can leave right now— as soon as you want, obviously. I— I didn't think— you're absolutely right, Beej has no manners whatsoever, and it's Valentine's Day so you probably want to be alone with Mrs. Price and— and— it's awful of us to intrude, I just— Beej said he knew you and I got really excited because you're just… amazing— but you know that." A stream of unnaturally high-pitched, nervous giggles interrupted her embarrassing rambling. "Of course you know that, you're Vincent freaking Price." The last was mumbled pitifully into her sweaty palms while Lydia did her best to shrink into the floor.
"Happy Valentine's Day. Every movie you've ever touched is a masterpiece. Seriously, just say the word and we'll go, this was really stupid."
Betelgeuse's P.O.V.
"Oh," replies Vincent genially, "Coral never did take my last name, did you happen to take ah…" he looks vaguely at Betelgeuse, hands clasped in front of him politely, "…nevermind. Anyway, it's a pleasure to meet you, Lydia. And no, no, I always make time for my fans. I'm very flattered that you like my work."
The smile he gives her is genuine and he gestures smoothly into the rest of the house, every bit as calm and collected to Lydia's nerves, "Let's stop standing in the foyer, though, hm? If you come inside, I'm sure my wife will fix us something – I can show you around and we can chat." He points at Betelgeuse then, "You are to behave yourself, do I make myself perfectly clear?"
Betelgeuse holds his hands up to his chest, affronted – offering a perfectly innocent shrug at Lydia. "Hey hey, I had no plans to the contrary, Vincey, whaddya take me for?"
"A poltergeist. Specifically, a bio-exorcist – isn't that what you labeled yourself?" comes the snapped reply as Vincent Price leads them all into the larger portion of the house, "At least your brother has more manners by a hair. You're not off the hook by a long shot, but we'll discuss it later."
Betelgeuse was internally having a near conniption anyway. Lydia had never been so excited to see him, had she? The ghoul was nearly ready to roll his eyeballs so hard they flung off a cliff at her stuttering and stammering, annoyed that he could never elicit that sort of shy, blushing, divine nervousness within her. Betelgeuse was fixing up a tremendous sulk in response, his posture was already hunched and irritated as he trails them both into the house.
Vincent finally comes to a pause in the living-room, and as the better light from within this room illuminates all three of them, the master of dark cinema suddenly hangs his gaze on Lydia quite intently. "Good heavens," he murmurs in a hush, "My dear, you're still … alive?" he hesitates, "And…very young— Betelgeuse… what have you done?"
The reality of the situation is quite stark – and suddenly seems like something out of one of his movies. The plot hits all the right notes. Jamming his hands in his pockets, the only thing Betelgeuse offers is a serpentine grin, head ducked impishly.
Lydia's P.O.V.
"I-if you're sure…" Lydia wasn't about to object to Vincent freaking Price's insistence that he always made time for his fans. Every disclaimer and opportunity needed for him to politely boot them back out onto the street if he wished had been provided, but he didn't. To the contrary, he was ushering them further into his home, making promises of chat and snacks. The warning he gave Betelgeuse was rightly firm and apt, and Lydia punctuated it with a look at her husband that was ten times as severe as Vincent's passing words of caution.
The dead star's easy acceptance of their intrusion, not to mention his gentle, kindly demeanor absolutely helped to placate some of Lydia's irrational anxiety, but only just so. An inkling of dread managed to creep its way back down her spine once they reached a grand living room and he finally came to notice her status as a living, breathing fan.
"Oh! Yes, well," Lydia was back to stammering again, focusing her gaze bashfully on the floor, "I am, aren't I? To be fair, I proposed to him, but— it's complicated—"
Suddenly energized for reasons beyond her comprehension, Vincent drew himself up to his full height and let loose a joyful call down a nearby corridor. "Coral! Come, my love, you simply MUST hear this!"
This must have been the wife he and Betelgeuse had alluded to. Lydia was properly embarrassed to not know very much about his personal life outside of his film career and was terrified that this Coral woman might be insulted by her lack of prior knowledge. Moments after being summoned, a sleek, stylish woman in a cocktail dress smoking a cigarette carried by a long, thin-stemmed holder made her appearance through a doorway. She had short, dark hair and was un-classically attractive, with strong features that would have been deemed too much for the silver screen at the time of Vincent Price's peak. She appeared to be of a similar age to her husband, maybe a few years his junior, obviously wearing the same youthful glamour
"You rang?" She drawled, quirking an elegant eyebrow over their guests.
"My dear, please," Vincent escorted Lydia closer to his wife with an arm around her shoulders that made her blush flare all over again. "Tell my wife how old you are."
"Sixteen." The answer came about hushed and wary, its giver unsure as to where this conversation was going.
"Sixteen!" Vincent parroted, glee mounting with each passing moment. "Did you hear that, Coral?! Sixteen!" Coral seemed vastly unimpressed, which did nothing for Lydia's nerves. "And young lady, what year is it now? They don't tell us these things."
"Uhm… 2019?" She replied with furrowed brows, just as perplexed as ever, but smiling now, unable to keep from picking up on Vincent's sheer joy.
"Thirty-years!" The dead star crowed, finally releasing the girl so that he could grasp his otherwise aloof wife by the head and kiss both of her bloodless cheeks. "Nearly thirty years since my death and I have teenage fans, can you believe it?!"
"Of course I can, darling, you're fabulous," Coral answered smoothly, returning his affection with a posh air kiss and wink. "This is going to be one of those nights, isn't it? Cocktails anyone?"
Betelgeuse's P.O.V.
In the meantime, Betelgeuse had lit a cigarette. Sulkily, he gave Coral the hairy eyeball, and she scowled at him in return – she was no fan of his either, but it seemed that Lydia had been determined a delight as always and he was being tolerated for her presence…again. Lydia's glaring did nothing to help. He hadn't even done anything yet except bring her here! No respect for the dead, hmph.
"Wait a moment," Coral remarked as she glided off to fetch cocktails, "Does that mean you married a sixteen-year-old living girl…? Betelgeist…?"
"Hey, it's the only way to get outta this hell-hole, Coral, you read the handbook lately?" came the swift and sulky reply.
"Of course I've read the fucking handbook," came the light response from the woman as she poured them drinks, "Reads like…damned complicated stereo instructions. Almost impossible to wade through. They really need to update that awful thing."
Vincent Price was willing to entirely wave the situation off. "Oh come now," he chided, "She's our guest, and we shouldn't pass judgment on an unusual arrangement or any marriages of convenience eh, my love?"
This caused both Coral and Vincent to suddenly laugh loudly. This compelled Betelgeuse to only sulk harder, and he rolled his eyes. Ugh. The un-classic beauty that was Coral had mixed them all Manhattans. "I suppose I shouldn't be giving you a drink, Lydia dear, but this is a different time and place than when we were alive. And I mix a pretty mean one of these if I do say so."
"Oh! I have just the ticket," Vincent suddenly perked up again, "We could … we could re-enact some of my best films!" Coral and Betelgeuse both groaned. Fully undeterred, Vincent shone bright eyes upon Lydia, "Would you enjoy doing that with me, Lydia dear?"
Lydia's P.O.V.
Lydia readily agreed with Coral's derisions of the handbook. The first time she read it, she gobbled up every line with vigor, fascinated by what she had assumed to be a complex, well-thought-out work of fiction. Then, everything changed. It was easy to see how a scared, freshly dead ghoul would have a more difficult time absorbing the information therein than a bored, morbid teenager with nothing better to do.
Despite how much she agreed with the notion that the handbook could use a rewrite, the way Betelgeuse so casually dismissed their marriage as a simple means of escape stung. Hopefully, the swell of sudden hurt didn't show on her face. She was being silly. Overly sensitive. He didn't mean it like that. Still, the pain lingered through cocktails, and Lydia couldn't bring herself to meet his gaze while she sipped down her dark, bittersweet cordial.
Only once the Vincent Price was engaging her in conversation again, actually offering to act with her was her ache forgotten. So taken aback was she by his offer that neither of their spouses' shared exasperation at Vincent's suggestion even registered.
"Oh—" she gasped, cutting off the no that instinctively wanted to tack itself on at the end. Such a blatant rejection would be far too rude for Lydia's proclivities. "I couldn't! I mean, I could. Technically. I have a lot of scenes from your movies memorized. But— really, I'm a terrible actress, Mr. Price. You wouldn't want to—"
"Nonsense!" He nipped that train of thought right in the bud, waving off her insecurities with a grand, smooth sweep of his long arm. "Anyone can act! Contrary to popular belief, a flair for the stage is a skill that one can hone, regardless of natural-born talent— and something tells me you are a talented young lady." Lydia's cheeks were on fire again. In the background, Betelgeuse seethed and lit yet another cigarette at precisely the same time Coral did. For the moment, it was as though Vincent and Lydia were the only two in the room; the master of horror and his number one fan.
"And please," he added, cocking a grin while a twinkle of life filtered through his cool blue eyes, "call me Vincent. I must insist."
"O-okay… Vincent." As many times as Lydia had spoken his name throughout her life, it had never felt so unnatural and forbidden as it did now.
"Atta girl!" He praised, rising up to his full height from the chaise lounge across from her and offering his arm. "Come, let me show you to my personal theater. I do hope it is to your liking. Now, now, don't be shy," he tutted light-heartedly when she hesitated, the picture of gentlemanly charm. "We'll start with something easy. I know! You're familiar with House on Haunted Hill, yes?"
This was all the invitation Lydia needed. In an instant, she was standing, her arm was hooked within his, and the two of them were heading down a lavish, dark corridor. Both Coral and Betelgeuse were forgotten in the wake of Vincent's glamorous charm and the hypnotic effect it was having on Lydia.
"It's one of my favorites!" She gushed as they walked, torn between ogling the dead star or his richly decorated home. There were more doors than she could count, the halls twisting and turning endlessly. She would surely get lost if she tried to navigate back the way they had come without a chauffeur. "Next to The Pit & the Pendulum. Or The Fly." Still blushing girlishly and overcome with sudden giggles, she kept pace with him even as he quickened just so— as if eager to get to the show. "On our first date, Beej took me to the drive-in theater to see The Abominable Dr. Phibes."
Vincent was astounded that the deplorable poltergeist had succeeded in taking this delightful young woman on a date anywhere, but was much too tactful to say so. Eager to leave the subject of her moldy husband behind in favor of more interesting pursuits, he ushered her through a drawn velvet curtain that led to the previously mentioned home theater. It was unlike anything Lydia had ever seen. She was expecting grandiosity, but certainly not on this scale.
Mr. Price's "home theater" was an amphitheater. Not as large as ancient Roman and Greek monuments, but every bit as beautiful. An opaque cloud of mist blurred the ceiling, obscuring any potential existence of a roof, but Lydia suspected that the lighting would change to suit their needs just fine. Rows and rows of lush crimson seating circled the large crater-like stage at the center of the room, a shadowy abyss that seemed to suck up any stray beams of light that hit it.
"All excellent choices, my sweet," Vincent murmured gently so as to not startle the dazzled girl at his side as he led her down an aisle toward center stage. "However, I think I have just the scene in mind to get you warmed up. There aren't even any lines! All you have to do… is be scared." Some of that syrupy, sinister energy he was oh-so-famous for crept into his tone here, and Lydia felt it vividly. "I have no doubt you're capable of producing bone-chilling screams. You've certainly studied all the necessary material."
"I can scream," Lydia insisted just a tad too quickly, keen to please.
"Lovely," Vincent purred and with a flick of his wrist, a vat of— harmless— acid bubbled up from the void-like stage. "I've always been fond of the murder of my fictional wife Annabelle, likely due in part to the fact that Carol was insufferable. She wore white for this scene as well if you'll recall. Though I can assure you, dear, she was nowhere near as pleasant to be around." A sly wink accompanied his praise, and Lydia's pulse fluttered against her will. "And only half as pretty."
Betelgeuse's P.O.V.
Indeed, Betelgeuse's abrasive brush-off of their marital vows was purely to make a statement and avoid any kind of critique on their relationship. Not that he wasn't proud of her, or proud to be with her – it was just an arrangement that he was tired of discussing with anyone who might balk at it, especially his fellow deceased. Especially with someone Lydia admired, so he put it into terms he knew they'd understand.
As the night proceeded, however, and he was conscripted to best behavior, he saw fit primarily to glower at the master of horror that was actively charming the pants off his beloved wife. Smoking was the only solution, and he and Coral were soon left to their own devices.
"I'd begrudge 'em more if I didn't like his movies," the ghost mutters, "He's almost as good as I am at that," he gestures after them with annoyance, "It's impressive."
Coral chuckles gently and regards the ghoul through lidded eyes, "You have no idea. We were always a bit adventurous, but I didn't like any woman taking too much of his attention, you know. We haven't seen a living soul since we died, I'm sure it's refreshing. But Vincent has always been dreadfully charming. You mustn't take his affections to heart. I think he's probably just excited he hasn't been forgotten – you know how it is when you die."
Betelgeuse couldn't help but agree with her, frowning distinctly. "Yeah, yeah," he murmurs, "I think the last time someone was that excited to see me I had a ten kilo delivery of raw Columbian, y'know?"
This made Coral laugh merrily, "I'd be about that happy to see you too, with that kind of gift!"
Lydia's P.O.V.
Lydia could scream alright, and for Vincent Price, she would have screamed all night long. They ran through scene after scene after scene, feeding off of each other's enthusiasm. Vincent said "jump" and she leapt, falling gracefully into every role he cast her in. Any nerves and insecurities she might have held onto at the beginning were washed away in the vat of non-corrosive acid when they re-enacted the murder of Annabelle. Gasping, she had emerged splashing after holding her breath as long as she could— for dramatic effect— only to be met with applause from all those in attendance. With surprising strength and effortless grace, Mr. Price lifted her from the pool with a single arm, magic'd her back to a state of dryness, and assured her that her performance was "exquisite."
Time flew by while they tossed lines back and forth, neither requiring a script. The further on the night crawled, the more complex the scenes he chose became. Was he testing her? If so, Lydia had come prepared. The sets and costumes changed rapidly at his whim, and each time Lydia rose to the occasion, often recognizing which film and which scene they were about to depict by ambiance alone. In turn, Vincent was enthralled. After the third scene or so, Betelgeuse and Coral stopped clapping. When her vocal cords began to ache from her numerous "murders" and she thought to glance out to the audience, her heart stuttered.
Her husband and Vincent's wife were seated rather comfortably near the back of the arena. Both drinking, both smoking, devilish smiles curling both of their lips while Coral laughed at something Betelgeuse said. Immediately, searing jealousy reared its ugly head. He wasn't that funny.
"Vincent?" Lydia inquired tentatively but without any shy hesitation, much more comfortable with using his name at this point. "Would it be alright if I chose the next scene?"
"Anything," he promised rapidly, stopping the formation of the next setting in its tracks. His every motion crackled with excited energy, lightning flashing across those pale blues whenever they landed on her.
"It's… different from the ones we've been doing." His brow quirked with interest and he nodded his ascent once more. "Also, I've only ever practiced by myself, so I might not be any good."
"Insanity!" He decried, increasingly restless the longer she played coy. "Oh, that I could have worked alongside you while my heart still pumped blood! I wouldn't have been nearly as successful for the world would surely have fallen in love with you instead! You would have stolen every scene! 'Terrible actress' she says, 'might not be any good.' Pft. You are magnificent! A true diva!"
"Vincent, stop," she dithered as he took the top of her hand in a gentle, yet passionate kiss, and once more scanned the audience for her husband. He was watching her again. Good. "I was hoping maybe— if you're up to it— we could do the dance between Vulnavia and Dr. Phibes. It's just such a beautiful scene—"
This time around, it was Mr. Price doing the jumping. "Done."
In seconds, they were both clothed appropriately. The stage swirled and reformed to meet their needs, dual staircases emerging at opposite ends that met a floor with twining, art-deco engravings. Once more, she wore all white in stark contrast to Vincent's black. The effect was just as striking now as it was on film.
"Beej?" She called out loudly enough to get her husband's attention before Vincent could conjure the music for their waltz into existence, voice echoing. "Would you pretty please come take pictures? If you don't mind, of course, Vincent." He did not. "My camera's in this seat down here."
Betelgeuse's P.O.V.
Betelgeuse had the modicum of capacity for crude, offensive wit, the sort that Coral liked it would seem, and she was apparently willing to put aside any disgust for the ghoul in lieu of entertaining herself. Never one to miss an opportunity, Betelgeuse had seized on the moment. Coral wasn't half bad, really, though she had far more class than he would ever have in her tiny pinky than he did in his entire vile body. What Lydia failed to realize was it was only a matter of time before the ghoul said something horrendous and earned her ire – he just hadn't done it yet, and so, Lydia was left to view them as getting along fabulously.
Jade green eyes, however, catch the amorous kiss placed upon his wife's hand. Lydia can see his expression change, briefly, but he doesn't move from his seat – apparently, he is letting it slide as his wife seems to be having the time of her life…that was the point of this, wasn't it? Surely, if this were Pamela Anderson, Vincent would be slobbering all over her, too…right? Maybe.
He was only sort of paying attention to what they had been saying on the stage, besides. He had been busy with Vincent's wife, though his eyes would scan for Lydia's precious imitation of one scene or another. As Lydia called for him though, the ghoul was quick to stumble over Coral clumsily, making her titter, and out of the row of seats. High-stepping quickly down the aisle, Betelgeuse wrapped the camera strap around his neck with a bumbling, rushed, "Sure sure, yeah, I can uh, do that, no problem."
He hadn't even caught what scene they were going to do right off, immediately fiddling with the digital contraption instead, his tongue sticking out from between moldy teeth. Always over-eager, this one, and apparently oblivious to Lydia's little scheme, he sets up right at the base of the stage with enthusiasm. With the appearance of the automaton band, however, there was no question – this was from Dr. Phibes… the first thing they'd ever watched together. How strange it would play out right in front of him except with his wife as… his brain slowly clicked into place. His wife as Vulnavia, the beautiful mute assistant, there was no mistaking the outfit and strange art-deco crown. She looked a sight in such a thing, beautiful and ephemeral – especially with her hair fully tucked up into the headpiece, high cheekbones suddenly standing out. Crudely, though, the ghoul crouched at the edge of the stage could only take the appreciation so far before imagining having his way with her in such an outfit, her beauty spread out underneath him covered in nothing but that heavenly, white silken flow. Dreamy.
Lydia's P.O.V.
Betelgeuse was in place at the edge of the stage, camera in hand, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration while he fiddled with the buttons, his eagerness to get it right clear with his body language. There. That was better. With a deep breath, she closed her eyes and dropped into character. She wasn't Lydia anymore. She was Vulnavia— beautiful, but deadly. A willing slave to her master's whims, doomed to love one who was too hungry for revenge to ever love her back. The nostalgic, familiar music began to play, and her eyelids drifted up at the same time as her arm, drawing the angular silhouette of her gown to highlight the beauty of its complex design.
Floating as effortlessly as any spirit, she descended from the top of the staircase to meet her beloved centerstage. Arms open, he accepted her with reverence. Once his large, leather-clad hand took her daintier palm, they crossed the floor together in time with the music, perfectly in sync with one another. One… two… three… four… five… six… The music dipped and Vulnavia arched with it, flourishing the train of her gown dramatically to meet Dr. Phibes face-to-face— so to speak— and properly begin their waltz. Distantly, the flash of a camera registered in the peripheral of her gaze, but nothing on her stoic expression shifted to convey acknowledgment. It wasn't real. Betelgeuse and Coral didn't exist here. Only she and her wonderful, genius Doctor.
Bouncing and twirling, they replicated the scene in perfect harmony as light and shadow personified, two sides of the same coin with differing motivations toward a common goal. At one point, he released her and she whirled for him, neck snapping to use the focal of his beautiful mask as a spotting point like any ballerina worth their salt. One way, then another she turned, the sharp edges of her gown flurrying like daggers of ice through a gentle blizzard.
Eventually, as all dances must, it came to a close. One last time, he released her from his spell-binding hold and arm outstretched, Vulnavia departed for the staircase opposite the one she came down. There was a layer of quiet pain marring her aloof mask that bespoke a deep desire to return to her master's arms. Instead, ever-obedient, she paused on the balcony and offered him a still wave in a bittersweet gesture of parting and mutual understanding. The salute was returned, Vulnavia exited through the doorway, and just like that, Lydia was back.
The amphitheater was heavy with silence in the wake of their performance. Listless, overcome with an emotion he couldn't quite place, Vincent waved an arm to return the stage, Lydia, and himself to their usual trappings.
"Lydia," he breathed, eyes wide as he stared from the other side of the now barren arena, "… thank you."
Betelgeuse's P.O.V.Betelgeuse idly wondered where Lydia learned such a trick, or at least, how to waltz. Dutifully, he futzes with the camera and plugs away at …well, hopefully getting good photos. The ghoul isn't much of a photographer, and a lot of these are probably going to be blurry or potentially focused on the particulars of Lydia's assets that he likes the best. But he tries!
After a number of flourishes though, Betelgeuse's brain kicks in somewhere along the midway point. The black cloaked Vincent was, perhaps, holding a little too enthusiastically, perhaps the pair enmeshed a little too realistically and perhaps flawlessly for his liking. Something in his belly twists, and coils, and has turned thoroughly sour. Jealousy? Perhaps. He wasn't thinking clearly. Was that his Lydia after all? She fell into these roles so easily he hadn't noticed. An actress, clearly, she was – a performer. Betelgeuse knew something of performance, the art of the beguile, and as Lydia perfectly reenacts the last portion of the scene, jade eyes searched mightily for a hint that it was still his sweet wife somewhere in there.
He could find none. So given to the role she had rendered the mute Vulnavia complete, and off she goes into the stage partition. Lydia herself returns afterward of course, but something nags at the ghoul deep, deep in the pit of his throat. She could lie. She could, she could lie and play a role and go through the motions of something – appearing to mean it, appearing, by all rights, to enjoy it. If he had the capacity for goose-flesh, he'd probably have it, and while he very much appreciated her talents…they clawed at his side. Was she lying about other things…? Him…?
He was grateful when it was all over and clutching the camera, he was at a loss for a moment – but only a moment. Time to cover up those feelings – bury them, for now. Vulnerability wasn't something he shared with others easily if at all, it was time to put on his own performance. The silence was interrupted suddenly after Vincent's heavy appreciation by Betel's rude and loud clapping, an oafish, greasy smile on his features.
"Eeey! Great. Y'looked just… hot as hell in that white dress honey, we'll see if the pictures come out," he hands Lydia back her camera enthusiastically, wrapping an arm around her shoulders bombastically and perhaps a little too tightly. "Well, what time is it anyway? Y'know, I haven't been keeping track n' well, breathers have this thing they do called sleep, they actually need it," he rambles, wildly, "Ain't it precious? Anyhow, we oughtta probably be hittin' the ole dusty trail, she's gotta do things like eat n' the lizards in my pockets ain't a treat for her, really, I've tried but they squirm too much for her likin' I think. Ah look, she can barely keep her head up, poor thing…" Lydia, in reality, seemed fine, if a tad sleepy. "So, y'know! 'S been swell, but the swelling's gone down—"
Lydia's P.O.V.
Vincent and Lydia both had immediate negative reactions to Betelgeuse's slimy slithering onto the stage and subsequent insistence that her mortal coil required they cut the night short. So what if it was true?! She was having fun! The night couldn't end yet! This was a once in a lifetime opportunity and Lydia had no intention of squandering it, not when she and her hero were getting along so swimmingly.
"Beeeej," she pouted, squirming, trying and failing to extricate herself from beneath his heavy arm. "I'm not tired!" A lie. "I can eat later!" A truth, but the ill-timed hungry growl that echoed from her belly right after saying this worked effectively to undermine that.
"Coral can cook something… appropriate for the young miss, isn't that right, my love?" Vincent's suggestion was only slightly less desperate than Lydia's childish whining, the old-Hollywood star having the experience and poise to disguise his inappropriate excitement, but only just so. The pleading look he aimed up the rows at his aloof wife was comical nonetheless. The indifferent Coral was sprawled elegantly across her seat in the back row, long legs crossed and propped on the back of the seat below her, watching the scene play out with an almost amused glint in her dark eyes.
"I suppose," she sighed her consent with dramatized exasperation after a long moment, before taking a savoring drag from her perpetual cigarette. With leisurely, syrupy slow motions, she gathered herself and made to leave from the room. Just before passing through the velvet curtain that made up the exit, she aimed a severe back glance over her smooth shoulder. "You owe me, Vincent." Immediately following her vague warning, dark lips curled into a barely-there smile and she aimed a saucy wink right at Betelgeuse. Lydia did not like it. Then, she was gone.
"It's settled then!" Mr. Price clapped his hands together, the smack echoing with finality throughout the space. For Betelgeuse, there would be no scheming his way out of this torture of his own making. He had presented his wife to Vincent Price on a silver platter, and it was quite clear that the Master of Horror had every intention of enjoying his meal. "You're staying for dinner!"
Betelgeuse's P.O.V.
Betelgeuse had the good sense to adjust his wrinkled tie after the look Coral throws him before she leaves, and he stares after her in a vague sense of surprise and perhaps shock. His tongue swipes his suddenly dry lips, and he is rendered mute for a number of moments. What was THAT?
In another time and place, he would have eagerly made a hot mess out of Coral Browne. She was a steamy piece of work and he was a horny, desperate ghoul. But in the current moment, the situation that was evolving was one that involved Vincent Price's sloppy seconds, his wife, and perhaps a pair-off that … yet again, in another time and place … he might actually accept. But not with Lydia. No. No amount of sex with other dead women could hope to touch the honey succulence of everything Lydia Deetz was. That was no trade-off to Betelgeuse – that was almost being cheated, swapping a dead woman for his live one. But…perhaps, he was jumping too far ahead. He did, after all, have a suspicious mind.
So, it seemed, they were staying for dinner. The clap of Vincent's hands, all too happy and eager, was a further irritant. Even as Lydia squirmed, he held her closer, even going so far as to plant a big, wet smack on her temple.
"Well, looks like I'm outvoted," the ghoul remarks, "They didn't tell me marriage was a democracy, but here we are, right?! Wild times, I tell ya. Well kitten, we'll burden Mister Price for as long as he'll have us, huh? Howabout that?"
Slimy, covering up his own discomfort and thoroughly laying it on thick for his wife, he releases her so she can walk with her idol. The truth was, he owed Vincent, though what kind of price he was going to attempt to extract was … troubling to consider. Maybe it was nothing. Still, this was a terrible idea. "Don't ever say I never did nothin' for ya," he murmurs at Lydia's nape almost under his breath, dropping back behind her as all three of them exited the theater.
Lydia's P.O.V.
Despite all blustering and objections to the contrary, Lydia barely made it through dessert— a heavenly chocolate soufflé that Coral claimed was a "secret family recipe" when asked. Vincent and Lydia spent dinner much as they had the previous part of the evening; gushing over each other, chatting excitedly, scarcely sparing a moment for either of their annoyed spouses. However, the girl was only human and could only keep up for so long. She drifted off on one of the cushier couches in Price's lounge in the middle of one of his stories.
Coral had long since retired for the evening, having grown weary of company. Watching her husband fawn over the adorable breathing ingenue had ceased being amusing, and quickly became boring. Since it was quite obvious that Betelgeuse was more interested in watching after his wife— understandably so— than entertaining her, there was nothing left for her there.
Now, only the dead men were left to tell their tales.
"I must say, Betelgeist," Vincent began, lighting up a cigar for himself and for his guest, then pouring out some aged cognac from a decanter into two crystal glasses, "when I saw that it was you who had come to darken my doorstep, I had no idea I was in for such a delightful evening. Consider your past sins… forgiven." Some of Lydia's bountiful mercy must have rubbed off on the star.
"She's much too good for you— as I'm sure you're aware." A lesser ghoul mightn't have had the audacity to insult Betelgeuse so openly and shamelessly, but Mr. Price was confident enough in himself and his status to speak freely. Even more so now that the charming mortal girl was gone from the waking realm and oblivious to their talk. "Please do let me know if she ever tires of your tricks. From the looks Coral was giving you, I'm quite confident she'd be amenable to a…" He paused for a moment, considering what might be the most tactful way to phrase his suggestion. "Gentleman's swap."
A decidedly ungentlemanly emotion darkened Vincent's baby blues as they swept over the sleeping Lydia. Ignorant and innocent to the goings on in the parlor, a gentle girlish snore crawled up her throat and she snuggled deeper into the cushion she was cuddling.
"Though I wouldn't fault you for wanting to keep her all to yourself," a rakish grin was aimed at the poltergeist, "greedy chap."
Betelgeuse's P.O.V.
Crossing his ankles where he sat, Betelgeuse happily accepted the cigars and cognac. This, plus a good meal, was the minimum recompense required to keep him in good humor since Vincent had very obviously taken all of Lydia's attention for the entire evening. It was a poor Valentine's Day for Coral, and a poor looking one for Betelgeuse as well – part of him almost tempted to follow her to bed as she left their company earlier in the evening. But, he remained, and at least was sipping good liquor as a booby prize. He always did like fine things just as much as he loved scraping insects off his own shoe and eating them, being a very peculiar contrast of utter slob and shabby connoisseur.
Eyebrows raised thoroughly upwards to the top of his head as Vincent summarily forgave his previous trespasses. Well, that was a benefit. His mood was improving by the second. But then… his intentions, which Betelgeuse had previously been suspicious of bubbled to the surface. Had it been any other ghoul, had it been proposed any other way – there would have been an instant, knock out, drag down, horrendous sort of fight. As it was, he glowered at Vincent for a brief moment and swirled his drink. He followed Vincent's hungry gaze to Lydia, his own jade ones hanging on her for a moment longer than his, before meeting his host's attention again. Sucking the air through his grimy teeth, he inspected his disgusting, yellowed, dirt-encrusted fingernails.
"Ah, well, that's…a helluva offer, Vincent. Don't get me wrong," he threw a sudden grin at his companion, but it rang hollow, "I personally think yer little protégé would take you up on it in a heartbeat, 'cause she still has those. But I can't just, y'know, speak for her." Certainly not! That would be … well, exactly like he did at their original wedding, and a bunch of other times, and — well, Vincent didn't need to know, did he?! "As 'er husband though, I haven't quite grown tired of my personal enjoyment – you understand. Man has needs. Right now, I think mine are about as much as the lil vixen can handle if I'm bein' honest with you. I'm a handful and a half. 'Specially with the new house," he takes a series of pleased puffs on his cigar, "Haven't even gotten t'bending her over half the furniture, and there's a couple rooms I haven't locked us both inta yet. She's got stamina, y'know, but…" he gestures to her sleeping, prone form, so innocently cuddled on the couch, "…limits."
That wasn't…exactly a lie. It was also grossly too much information, in the hopes that he'd make Vincent recoil and withdraw from the idea. "Speakin' of, I'd better be carryin' her off for home," the ghoul slaps his knees in finality, "I'll tell 'er 'bout your offer, though." So they could both laugh about it maybe. Standing, Betelgeuse gathers Lydia into his arms swiftly, the cigar still dangling from his lips. "Thanks for a helluva evening, Vincent. We should," never do it ever again, "Have a repeat performance sometime."
Once goodbyes had been said, Betelgeuse is quick to return himself and Lydia both to the lighthouse. Their love nest. His home with her. The thing that he had quelled the entire evening suddenly rent up through him like a volcano – a mixture of possessiveness, desire, anger, jealousy, and other sour, furious, entangled feelings. He had been forced into best behavior for Lydia, and now that little contract was over. He could feel the bonds of his control, the ego that he held to so tightly, needing to be strengthened after pretty much being cuckolded most of the night.
Carrying the sweet, sleeping girl straight up into the gilded cage of their bedroom, he gently laid out her prone form and without hesitating began to undress her. This was, initially, an attempt to make her comfortable… but swiftly turned into something else as his bright, intense eyes roamed each portion of milky skin he revealed. Soft breasts exposed, his mission of comfort is discarded, and the ghoul has instead gently begun to massage them hungrily as his bulky form climbs atop the petite, beautiful body that endlessly provides relentless temptation. Sloppy, wet kisses are drooled down Lydia's vulnerable neck, and without any sort of resistance from the dozing girl, the ghoul simply proceeds – he rucks himself up under the layers of her dress, barely bothering to get undressed himself. He manages to get his pants down to his knees, and Lydia's sweet little underthings down to hers before pushing up between her lax thighs.
He was going to take what was his, slake the anger and lust that had been building all evening. One hand continued to enjoy the tender flesh of her soft breast, the other drawing a limp leg around his hip as he sunk downwards, pushing the fat head of his cock inside that heat that always called to him. Like a helpless addict, he was fucking her loudly and forcefully within a few seconds, the great beastly pig grunting and heaving animalistically into poor Lydia's shoulder, his hand gripping hard at the leg that flopped lamely with his over-eager humping.
Lydia's P.O.V.
Accurate in his assessment, Vincent did indeed sneer at the poltergeist's vulgar references to his sullying of the sweet innocent laying out on his couch. In her white dress and pretty red bow, he could almost pretend she was a virgin. Nevertheless, the knowledge that Betelgeuse had already broken her in thoroughly made her no less comely in Vincent's eyes. If anything, she now more closely resembled one of the tragic damsels from his films, in need of saving. Unfortunately, poor Lydia would find no salvation here— not in the whole of the Neitherworld, not in Vincent Price's opulent mansion, and certainly not in the loving arms of her husband.
"Yesss," the star hissed, a dour expression pulling his face down. Like Betelgeuse, he was accustom to getting what he wanted, and somewhat annoyed that things had not gone his way. "Quite. Farewell then, Betelgeist. Do give sweet Lydia my regards. I believe it's time I see to my own wife…"
Lydia was having an… interesting dream.
It started off innocently enough. She and Percy were having one of their picnics. He gnawed at a fat, fresh cut of salmon while she chewed on gummy worms picked straight from the technicolor grass.
"I don't like him," the cat derided her husband, then used a rib bone to pick at stray bits of flesh stuck between his sharp teeth.
"Why not?" Lydia frowned, setting her camera to the side. "He's sweet."
"He's a monster."
Here, the girl smiled, warm and saccharine, and gathered the skinny cat into her arms. "I think you're just jealous, Percy."
"Am not," he denied, purring, leaning into her petting and scratches. She found a sweet spot beneath his chin, causing him to kick out his leg in a gesture not unlike something the slobbering hellhound that had taken his place would have done. "…maybe a little…"
Then, abruptly, everything changed.
"Get lost, wuss-puss."
With that, Percy was torn from her arms by an impatient poltergeist. Hissing and spitting, Betelgeuse bodily tossed the furious alley cat away into some nearby bushes, before aiming a hungry gaze down at his wife. Before she knew what was happening, she was on her back and he was above her, ripping her dress open to molest her breasts and trailing sloppy kisses down the pale column of her throat. Her limbs were heavy. Though he wasn't holding her down, not really, she couldn't move, couldn't push him off to go check on her kitty cat.
"Percy," she gasped, in both the waking realm and the land of dreams, earning a vicious growl from her aggravated lover. He was fucking her then, rough and with unbound hunger. Very slowly, dreams began to bleed into reality. The cotton candy sky darkened but remained just as vivid, and three moons formed in the swirling bed of stars. "Percy," she called again with eyes open, whimpering, confused and scared by the jarring transition. Wild white-blonde hair tickled her chin, and a familiar pattern of bold black and white stripes caught the edge of her vision.
"Beej—" she gasped out, finally saying the correct name, but cut off from speaking coherently by his envious, lustful attention. "What— what's going on— ahh!"
Mind and body still drugged by dream dust, she was beyond keeping up with the monster above her. He had come for his prize yet again, and yet again, Lydia's agency was lost in the ferocious tide of his desire.
Betelgeuse's P.O.V.
The ghoul immediately stops in his tracks, albeit briefly. "Who's Percy?" he hisses, almost to himself, knowing Lydia was too sleep-ridden to properly answer. Impatiently, he pushes on, though, losing himself in the heat between her thighs until orgasm hits him hard, burying himself deeply inside of her in release.
The angry fog in his brain was starting to clear, just enough to think somewhat straight. Especially as his poor wife was starting to awaken under his lustful overwhelm. He could keep at her as long as he liked, but mercifully, he seems content to stand there and smoke a cigarette instead…though he doesn't withdraw, his cock still twitching as if the potential for more was still being decided on. "I'd be more angry if I hadn't been called every Dick, Larry and Moe out there." He says, aloud to Lydia's sleepy form, still gently pushing and teasing at her breasts idly, "We're home. You fell asleep. Vincent Price said he wanted to shtup your brains out but I got to doin' it first."
Lydia's P.O.V.
The last remnants of her dream were fading away quickly, forced from her with each sudden, jolting thrust. She tried to grasp onto the edges of the fuzzy images— a skinny black cat, a vivid candied landscape— but they were already gone by the time he finished inside her and she was able to realize what was happening.
"I don't…" He might as well have been speaking another language to the drowsy girl. The edge of irritation in his gravelly voice, not to mention the vicious manner with which he awoke her, belied a frustration she was beyond understanding. "What are you talking about, Betelgeuse?"
Groggy ire of her own filtered through her intonation. Vincent Price wanted to sleep with her? That couldn't be true. Yes, he was admittedly flirty, but her husband must have misunderstood something. Uncomfortable and cranky, she squirmed beneath him, trying to adjust to a more agreeable position despite the rigid cock and irate poltergeist it belonged to hindering her efforts.
"I didn't— I didn't call you anything… I didn't even know this was happening!" The more she came to, the angrier she got. She didn't particularly mind that he had taken liberties while she slept— it's not like this was the first occurence— but by the time she awoke, it was over before she could get anything out of it, and now he was making baseless accusations against her… like he was mad at her. What right did he have? Jerk! "Why are you acting so crazy?!"
Betelgeuse's P.O.V.
Frustrated, the ghost hunches over Lydia staring down into her pretty, irate face. "Ain't crazy!" he hisses, and imitates her voice distinctly. "Percy…! Percy," he drops it, then, "Always goin' on about this Percy in yer sleep—"
He stoops then, and nuzzles against her slender neck, taut with annoyance. He purrs at her, suddenly, countenance quickly shifting like the tide. "Don't be pissed," he mumbles, "But I ain't lyin'… got me real heated. Vincent fuckin' Price asked for a gentleman's swap 'fore I left. I said Coral Browne was a poor swap fer you, he didn't like that." That wasn't really what he said, but it was inferred. "Said it so smooth an' pretty I almost took him up on it, fer your sake, seein' as y'like him so much. But then, I remembered…" he squirms against her plush thighs, driving his cock slightly deeper with a low huff, "…yer mine, all the way babes."
He drags a mottled clawed hand, digging his yellowed nails up one of her thighs slowly. "I know … that he's famous, an' all, an' had it been me in yer place I woulda done the same thing, but it's… hard watchin' a man like that touch ya, lust for ya, when I knows it, an' I'm trynna be good for your sake. Y'been real good t'me, so I was tryin' to … y'know, return the favor, bringin' ya over there."
Good seems to be so arbitrary… considering he decided to forego consent entirely for this little encounter with her. Like with all things, there weren't really rules and Betelgeuse's rotten corpsey mind only vaguely recalls what is acceptable, and most of the time he simply ignores that anyway. His other hand releases from her breast to swipe a few strands of dark hair away from her face, and he leans forward, pressing mossy, dank lips to hers, whether or not she's feeling particularly receptive.
Lydia's P.O.V.
At this point, Lydia was still trying to play catch up. The mention of Percy intoned in a way that was completely and utterly wrong— in her voice no less— was enough to make her cringe and arch away from his nuzzling. Not that this in any way deterred him.
Don't be pissed. Don't be pissed?! He was accusing her of having dirty dreams about her cat! Now that he'd insisted it more than once, Lydia was a bit more willing to take stock in his claim that Vincent freaking Price wanted to sleep with her. That was… a difficult concept for Lydia to grasp, her comprehension muddled even further by her husband's thick, intrusive cock. Taken with a jealous, angry sort of affection, he remained lodged within her— stretching, fucking slowly— as if to say that this, this was her rightful place. His every word and action screamed mine! Every touch was a brand, each growling hiss a dark promise.
Surely, he was joking. He wouldn't have given Mr. Price permission on her behalf, even if what he said was true, which she sorely doubted. He wouldn't. Never. Still, the casual lie— because it had to be a lie, for her sanity's sake— that he had considered accepting Vincent's alleged proposal, even for a moment, was troubling. She wasn't anything special. She was just a normal living girl. Mr. Price was just being nice. He didn't want that. It couldn't be true. Something somewhere must have gone awry. This just had to be another case of Betelgeuse seeing adversaries where there weren't any.
"You're insane," she accused again with more conviction this time, eyes wide on his heaving form above her. It wasn't a nice thing to say, but then again, Betelgeuse didn't particularly deserve kindness from her right then. "Percy's a cat. I lost him a long, long time ago—" her voice wavered here, thick with emotion, but her eyes remained dry and harsh with something like betrayal as she gazed up at her monstrous husband. "Vincent doesn't— he doesn't want to sleep with me. His wife was right there! And she's— she's so much prettier than me and more sophisticated... and taller. Why would— it doesn't make any sense. You must've misunderstood. What did he say—?"
Betelgeuse appeared to lose interest in her stuttering, rushed monologue and took her up in a bitter kiss. His lips were cold and rough on hers, claiming her mouth with a single-minded dedication that left no room for her to reject. She didn't even try. There was no point. He would have his way. He always did.
Betelgeuse's P.O.V.
A cat? Why the hell was Lydia calling out a cat's name then, every time she'd intruded her dreams? Oh, well, admittedly…that would explain the one he threw into the bushes as he marched into her subconscious unbidden. He didn't even bother wiping his slovenly lips after such a messy, forced kiss was delivered upon his aggravated wife.
"He don't care that Coral was right there. Doncha know anythin' about Vincent Price n' Coral Browne? They were… adventurous as breathers and I can't imagine that stopped once they were dead. In fact, probably got way more interestin'."
Betelgeuse snortles a chuckle, and pinches Lydia's cheek with a claw and a finger annoyingly, "Ah ah ah. I knew when I saw you you was somethin' real special, cookie. I have excellent taste, the best, in fact. You can keep comparin' yerself to Coral, but she ain't got your va va voom, get it?"
Suddenly, and without warning, Betelgeuse's face shifts into Vincent Price's serene, pleasant one – minus the burning green eyes that are very clearly not his at all. It isn't clear if he intends to startle Lydia, but he repeats the honeyed words the actor spoke word for word down at her. He mimics the intonation as best he can – once he's done, he shifts his face back to his own horrid ghoulish one. His dick, of course, is still deeply anchored within her, which makes the entire farce even more bizarre.
"I don't even talk like he does, Lyds, okay? I can't make that stuff up," that's a lie, he probably could if he really wanted to, but the ghoul seems insistent at least, "I'm tellin' ya, it was so god damn slick I nearly slipped on it. But," he growls, suddenly roughly jerking his hips with a ridiculous, but decidedly emphatic manner enough to make her whole body shake, "You're." grunt, SLAP "Mine." grunt, SLAP, "I won ya." grunt, SLAP, "Fair…an…" SLAP, SMACK, "Square!"
Lydia's P.O.V.
"Ah— AH— Beej—! I don't— want— VinCENT—!"
She said it like she meant it, but it was unclear as to whether or not the message got through. Betelgeuse was out of her reach.
Each thrust was vicious and deep, the jealous poltergeist throwing his entire heavy weight into them. Talons gripped tight into her hips as he lifted himself back onto his knees, digging in carelessly, drawing little pinpricks of blood as he used the bulk of his arms alone to pull her to meet him. In this position, he had a clear view of the way her soft, delicious little breasts bounced under his abuse, the way her pretty face twisted and contorted with the aching euphoria he was forcing on her. The way she called another man's name— yet again— while his cock fucked deep within her gave Betelgeuse a taste of what it might have looked like if Vincent Price was ever allowed to have his way.
Unacceptable. First, she mentions that Percy pussy, now Vincent? Only one name should be spilling from those slick, plump, petite lips of hers. Dedicated to the cause, Betelgeuse kept at her with jackhammering thrusts until she tensed with orgasm and screamed it for him, giving a name to the one who owned her, the one who was responsible for all her pain and pleasure. It wasn't enough. Growling, lost to a baser, barbaric brand of possessiveness, he pulled her prone, still-climaxing form up against him until slim pale legs wrapped around his waist and she was seated firmly on his invading thickness. One meaty hook grabbed on to her ass cheek for stability while the other tangled in her hair and yanked painfully, exposing her neck to his grimy teeth.
Gravity was on his side here, dropping her down on him until the thick base of his manhood stretched her tight little pussy painfully, bringing a deeper facet of ache to the pretty noises she was making. When she appeared as though she was ready to cum for him again, he proceeded to do something that he never had before. He rolled over, laid back, and let Lydia ride his cock unencumbered by his forceful manhandling. This was new.
Lydia was jolted by the change, big honey eyes large with confusion as she stared down at him, tiny hands curled up in his wealth of rotting chest hair. With a grunt and a meaningful squeeze of her hips, he thrust up and pulled down, giving very clear instruction on what he wanted her to do.
Okay. She could do this. She'd had more practice now. Slow and imperfect, she drew up until he was almost pulled from her slick, clenching passage, only for the monster beneath her to growl and take over again, dragging her down until he was anchored balls deep and a lovely scream filled the arboretum. "BETELGEUSE!"
That was more like it.
Betelgeuse's P.O.V.
She was a good girl, really, his Lyds. He just distinctly enjoyed giving her a hard time, especially when jealousy hit. He couldn't help it. It was just that … he'd been through hell getting this little happy scenario set up, and everyone else seemed dedicated and hellbent to ruin it for him. This wasn't surprising considering the nature of the Neitherworld, but it didn't help the precarious little slice of happiness he'd carved bloodily into the breastbone of the place for himself with a one Lydia Deetz.
So it was only expected that he throw a giant, bizarre tantrum about it, redirecting his frustration on his helpless wife. He'd be more worried if he didn't know how easy Lydia had become to accepting him, letting him manipulate her, how much of a steady grip he had on the sweet flesh of her throat, proverbially. He didn't deserve her, and it was all the more important for him to keep her under his control, lest someone expose the roach to the light in the kitchen and sends him scurrying.
She loves him. It's a sickness that he's fully prepared to plunder just as he is doing now. He growls and purrs encouragement to her as he takes full advantage of her body while he can. Everything seems so fleeting, the sands of time shifting endlessly and yet so rapidly, that it was imperative he make the most of it. Scare everyone else off. Scare Lydia into his brand of willing compliance. Secure his position as king of his own crap-heap. But, again, he's an addict too. Animalistically he stretches her, pulls at her, demands of her, unable to get enough of her living, breathing flesh.
And then of course, as if to test her, he lets go. Normally so fevered to conquer, to claim, to force his way in, he's going to let Lydia do a little work for a change. Just enough, though, enough to be assured that she's eager enough. She almost makes it one thrust in before he yanks her flat against him, her ass squeezed to his thighs, and a monstrous grin splits his lips as she finally screams just for him. No more other names in the night. Just his. As it should be.
Her orgasm triggers his own, and he cums hard inside of Lydia, gritting her name in a pleasured hiss out of his teeth as her depths are drenched anew in his sticky seed. Slumping underneath her with a final grumble, his wiry muscles relaxed, he huffs. Reaching up, he runs a thumb along Lydia's soft, sweat-sheened cheek.
"'S a good girl," he mutters, those jade eyes searching up at her pretty, exhausted face, "I don't want anybody else t'get t'see you like this. Or the way you wrinkle your nose when you think I'm nuts. Once yer gone, I can still smell you after I get t'spend the day with you. Yer the only person I like talkin' to, Lyds… I know I get angry. It's just…" pale, moss-covered hands that seem to be perpetually dirty drift up her milky thighs, "…I have so much t'lose if I lose you, kitten."
Lydia's P.O.V.
Almost immediately, the burnt out Lydia melted forward into his awaiting arms and gentle caresses, softened further by honeyed promises delivered in a gravelly baritone. No matter how mean he got, how harshly he fucked her, how much he demanded of her— he was always good to her after. Calloused hands stroked the battered flesh on her hips while he muttered praise intermittent with a half-assed sort of apology. She shifted, and his softening cock slipped from her in a way that made her next breath hitch and hiss. A shower would just have to wait for the morning. Lydia didn't currently have the energy or patience for such trivial things as cleanliness.
"I'm not going anywhere," she promised, slumped across his chest in post-orgasmic bliss, listening as his temporary heartbeat stilled back to the nothing she was accustomed to. Hers continued to pound, needing much more time to calm.
"I don't want anyone else. I love you, Beej. I'm sorry I was flirting with Vincent. It wasn't on purpose. He's just… very… charismatic." The view of Betelgeuse and Coral Browne getting along swimmingly from the alcoves certainly hadn't helped things. "What was I supposed to do? He's Vincent freaking Price. If Vincent Price wants you to act with him, then you act with him. That's just what you do. These aren't my rules."
The disclaimer was added in a teasing rush, punctuated with a little kiss to the line of his jaw in hopes to offset a possible flare in his uncontrollable mood swings. It wasn't his fault. He couldn't help it. He really did just love her that much. However, Lydia was a trouble magnet. Unable to keep from teasing him further, she dared to prop herself up on the padding of his chest, drop her expression into a serious deadpan, and ask very sincerely;
"Now that we're done, I'm going to need you to do that creepy shapeshifting thing one more time and repeat what he said verbatim. I can't believe Vincent freaking Price wants to sleep with me!"