IMPORTANT, PLEASE READ! What follows is a copied-and-pasted tumblr roleplay between deetz-n-beej and myself(tumblr tag: xxx-strangeandunusual-xxx/xxx-theartofsuicide-xxx). They are playing as Betelgeuse, me as Lydia. Because of the nature of roleplay, the point of view changes often and you will see each event as it was perceived by our renditions of these characters. It's being posted here so that we can have a comprehensive archive to look back on and reread easily rather than having to dig through tumblr. Please be warned going in that this may never have a clean or concise ending as that is not the point of roleplay.
Reminder that this was something that was meant to be fun, not judged. Therefore constructive criticism is not welcome.
WARNING: The following story contains sexual content with a minor, bondage, strong dubcon, underage consumption of drugs and alcohol, heavy suicide talks, mentions of past child sexual abuse, and depictions of violence.
"I woke up mourning,
I woke up dead today,
I aged a thousand years or more."
—Angels Fuck & Devils Kiss
Jack Off Jill
The Winter River cemetery was still and bright, lit brilliantly by a beaming full moon. There was no need to use the flashlight she had taken with her on this late night trek to read Adam and Barbara's matching headstones, with their identical dates of death and epitaphs:
Not even in death did they part. Taken too soon from a world too cruel.
Jane Butterfield may have been a righteous bitch, but at least she had given them a decent burial. The bare minimum, as far as Lydia was concerned. The Maitlands liked it alright, at least. Nevertheless, the knowledge that their spiritless corpses were rotting far beneath the ground and out of sight from what was going to occur in the necropolis this night did nothing to assuage Lydia's sudden guilt.
They didn't need to see this. She moved several rows down, closer to an opulent mausoleum that belonged to a Mister Bartholomew Brewster III. It was built of precious stones and metal, a ghastly, morbid show of wealth that likely could have fed the entire town for a month rather than housed this decaying, useless body. To each their own. Knowing what she knew about the Brewsters, Bart probably would have wanted it this way. Moonbeams bounced off the tomb brightly enough to make it a palace among this city of the dead, a shining beacon of affluence and abundance that outshined its stone and wooden subjects. As though its inhabitant was more important— more valuable— than the others.
Disgusting. This whole town and everyone in it was disgusting. More than the town, the whole world. It's not like New York was any better. There had to be more than this. There just had to be. Absolute in her conviction now, Lydia quit her pacing and aimed her sullen face skyward for one last search, thinking maybe she would find the answer she was looking for among the stars. She did not. Plan B it was, then.
"Betelgeuse… Betelgeuse… Betelgeuse…"
Opposed to popular belief, one could, in fact, get tired of a tomb. Most would assume that anyone housed within would be without presence enough to truly appreciate their entombment. Most people were flat wrong.
Trapped was his least favorite state of being. He'd decided this centuries ago, back when his own house arrest was in effect and he'd been able to leave the small, cramped, disgusting dirt-floored house where he'd died. It was then that he realized he never wanted to be trapped again. He couldn't allow it.
And yet here he was, back 6 feet under in a cramped grave thanks to two pottery barn idiots and a little girl who didn't understand true horror.
He paced the length of it nearly constantly these days. With nothing else to do but watch his mold grow he'd had plenty of time to stew on exactly what he'd like to do if he ever got his hands around that pretty pale neck of hers. There seemed to be conflicting opinions on that particular idea, originating in different parts of his moldering corpse he passed off for a body.
Just then, something brought him to a stop. "Oh.. ho ho. You got no idea what you're doin'." That's one.
He stretched his arms over his head, adjusting the lapels of his signature suit, preparing for an entrance. That's two.
"I'm comin' babe." Three.
As soon as the last syllable of his name hissed past her lips, a swell of dark clouds formed above, shielding her from the brilliant nocturnal light that illuminated all of her poor choices. It was dark as death now. The wind howled and thunder rolled, drawing a tingle of excitement up her spine. He was coming. He was pissed.
Suddenly, a blinding bolt of unnaturally green lightning came down from the abyss to strike the jewel-bedecked golden cross that topped Bart's grave, and Lydia jumped despite herself. As sure as she was that she wanted what he had to give her, animal instinct couldn't be helped. The entire mausoleum quivered, rattling the dirt and surrounding graves so violently she was sure the corpses below would waken. The marble gateway cracked with the lightning, and with a heavy kick from the other side, the hunk of stone was easily shot clear across the way, knocking several tombstones as it went. This made Lydia cringe more than the inevitable appearance of the striped monster that emerged from the tomb shortly after; foul and grimacing, just as molded and repugnant as she remembered.
Would he do it? She wasn't sure what options she had left if he wouldn't. Game face on, Lydia proceeded with the show before he could take over, well aware of his penchant for theatrics.
"I'm not sorry," she lied, her soft, feminine voice taking on a metallic edge that seemed wrong on such a young, sweet thing, "and I'd do it all over again if I had to. You're gross, and ugly, and old, and I wouldn't marry you if you were the last man on Earth, alive or dead."
The proverbial noose was tightening with each unwarranted insult, each mean-spirited barb. It physically pained her to be so outwardly cruel to another person, especially someone she had wronged. Lydia remembered how he pushed her out of the way of the sandworm's hungry teeth when he could have just as easily taken her with him. She was being awful. He didn't deserve this. He deserved her down on her knees begging his forgiveness.
Maybe he would be willing to take an apology after she was dead.
"So there," she finished, crossing her arms childishly as though she had reached the pinnacle of some great argument and made her point beyond a shadow of a doubt. "Oh yeah, and your suit looks dumb."
"Lydia Deetz... as I…You know. Nevermind on that one actually, babes." His smile was lecherous as he climbed from the tomb, taking his sweet time in approaching the young woman. He couldn't help but rake his eyes over his would-be bride. She was such a pretty little thing. And there was that lovely throat he'd thought so much about down in his decrepit cell.
He watched as she spoke, not really processing the words until she'd made it through all she wanted to say. His head tilted off to one side, nearly flat to his shoulder as he stared, now only feet from her.
"Is that so? This suit? Huh… " He snapped his fingers and the burgundy velvet of their wedding day replaced the black and white. It had gaping holes ripped into it where the damn worm had sunk its teeth into him.
He knew this girl. Had watched her every day for months from his model of Winter River as she studied in the attic. This girl… his Lydia… didn't have a mean bone in her little lithe body. Then it hit him. She was working an angle.
"Now why would you disturb a guy's eternal rest just to call him up and degrade him! That's not nice, kitten…. Talk to me. What's wrong, eh?" He reached for her on instinct, ready to wrap a hand around that little neck and squeeze, if she didn't move out of the way fast enough.
No. No, no no no no, this was all wrong. He wasn't supposed to still want to marry her. Why would he want that?! She sucked! She was scrawny, short, far, far too pale, and a backstabbing liar to boot. She was supposed to be dead by now, damnit! That large, calloused hand came for her, but this time she was able to tamper the instinctual impulse to flee. It landed firm on the column of her throat, easily encompassing the expanse of milky flesh there. He didn't squeeze, but the ragged claws that tipped each of his filthy digits did dig in right up to the precipice of pain, giving Lydia the impression that there was still hope for her plan.
She glared right into those wild jade eyes, attempting with all she had to muster true malice for him— but the passion fell flat.
"I won't say 'I do'," she muttered quickly, craning to meet his gaze under his superior height, "and there aren't any witnesses." There. Maybe that would get any crazy ideas out of his head.
What's wrong? Everything, she wanted to shout, to crumble the stone walls that held in her wealth of tumultuous emotions just as surely as he had crumbled Bart's tomb, to spill her black little heart out all over that equally tacky suit and let him just carry it all. He could probably take it better than her anyway. But she didn't, because she knew he didn't care, and it would only make her look stupider than she already felt. Instead, she fed him more lies.
"Nothing." Her throat shuddered beneath his grasp as she swallowed the acrid taste of deceit away. "I just—"
The facade faltered. His eyes were so feral, so intense. Lydia was a terrible liar, and currently, it felt as though he was seeing right through her. Dedicated to the cause, she pushed through the uncertainty to give it another shot. He was already in position. Strangulation wasn't the worst way to go.
"I just really… really fucking hate you and wanted you to know."
Ah.. there she was. Pale, soft and warm, her pulse sounded under his thumb in an intoxicating way, the grin on his face spreading further as she sputtered in his hold.
"There's witnesses all around us, sweetheart. Don't know why you're pretendin' you can't see 'em little medium mine~"
He hummed softly and tilted his head one way and the other as he looked at her, his hand just tight enough that if she tried to look down the sharp talon of his thumb may make contact with her jugular. He raised an eyebrow as his inspection continued.
"You hate me that much, huh? Well, then I suppose you were hopin' for… what? That I'd kill ya?" His hand tightened where it sat on the column of pale flesh he'd spent so much time thinking… No. Not now.
His eyes flickered from her own over her body. He had time now that he hadn't before. Out here in the graveyard, there was no one to stop him from taking his fill of her soft curves and…
"Ooh. Ya've you always had these, baby? Or are ya showin' off for me?" His free hand quickly came up to caress her right breast, his long tongue rolling out of his mouth to wet his lips. "Bad news, kitten. I ain't gonna kill you. Got a better plan…"
A cold fear washed over her as his words registered, that filthy hand groping indulgently over the top of her shapeless black gown. Lydia had never feared him before. Not in the way she should have, the way Adam and Barbara would have liked her to. In an instant, her poorly constructed bluff of nastiness shattered. She went very, very still, icy countenance softening and twisting into one that begged for mercy.
"Don't—" she choked without any help from him, barely audible. Please don't. Not that. Anything but that. Fight or flight instincts were at war with one another, but neither saw fruition. He found her nipple beneath the lightweight, shadowy cotton, the sensitive bit of flesh having quickly been drawn to its peak by his frosty touch. Then, he pinched, making her flinch back and cry out involuntarily, forcing the palm around her throat to squeeze to keep her in place.
"I'm sorry!" She shrieked in sudden panic, all pretense dropped, finally giving him the apology he deserved. "I didn't mean it! You're right, I just wanted you to kill me. Please… please just kill me. Don't— please stop—"
Sharp green eyes flew to her face as she went still in his hands. Suddenly the confidence she'd been trying to put on had vanished entirely, leaving her once again nothing but a scared little girl.
Unlucky, really.
He liked scared little girls.
A hissing chuckle left him as the sounds of her panicking picked up in earnest, his thumb rubbing slowly over her pulse as it quickened.
"Well if you aren't the prettiest little thing, babes." Neediest, tastiest… His mind supplied. The grin on his face only grew, and he leaned close, breathing in the scent of her hungrily.
"Ya know most dames'd kill to get me alone like this. You're lucky, little girl. But not that lucky." He pressed a filthy kiss to her temple, holding her even closer. "'M not quite sure I'm ready to accept your apology, kitten.." The hand on her throat loosened, his thumb coming up to trace over her full lower lip. "Do better."
Icy pink lips trembled beneath his caress, and unable to stop herself her tongue darted out to dampen them once he was done. The remnant of his touch tasted like tobacco, like the cigars she stole from her father on the occasion. It was obscenely comforting, as was that profanely soft kiss. Pretty. What an ugly little lie. She wasn't pretty. Then again, Lydia wasn't about to debate the fact with this moldering, bug-eating fiend who was hard-pressed to meet anyone's standards of attractiveness, no matter how low.
He pulled her forward by the throat until their fronts were flush, thankfully deigning to leave her more delicate bits alone for the time being. Whether this was a move of his own choosing or acquiescence to her begging was unclear. Eager to sate the savage beast while he was in a somewhat agreeable mood, Lydia obeyed the gruff order with swiftness.
"I'm sorry," she repeated, whimpering, tears rising unbidden to kiss the thick layer of dark lashes that bordered her overly large eyes. "I was wrong. We were all wrong. You kept up your end of the deal and I didn't— and— and it was so fucked up what happened to you. But— but Adam and Barb thought they were right, and they're—" Adult. Authority. Conveniently absent from her life to keep her from making mistakes like this. "What could I do?"
The poltergeist's unfortunate fate never sat right with Lydia, but the subject of it was off-limits in the Deetz-Maitland household. Lydia was never allowed to voice her feelings on the event and process it normally, share her opinion and receive others in return. It was no wonder that guilt was allowed to fester in the back of her ravaged mind until it came to a head. In truth, Lydia knew that Betelgeuse was well within his rights to take whatever he wanted from her. Deals with the dead were not meant to be broken. But for her to call him and berate him? Try to manipulate him into bending to her selfish, suicidal whims?
She was the worst. Tears fell harder and Lydia swallowed the awful, embarrassing sob that wanted to escape, eyes clenching shut to avoid facing his judgment head-on.
"I'm so sorry," she parroted once more, feeling very much like a broken, useless record that should just be thrown away already. "I'm sorry."
Oh, now she was going to cry. How sweet. His eyes never left her as she broke down in his hold. The mention of the Maitlands made him growl, low in his throat.
"They're fuckin' idiots is what they are, Lyds. But you know that now, don'cha?"
What could I do? Her sweet, soft voice was going straight to his head. What could she do? She could hold up her end of the deal. She could have said 'I do' all that much quicker and get him the fuck out of his damned prison. Could have blushed and cried on their wedding night… like she was doing now… But she hadn't done any of it. Not a bit.
His head tilted as he studied her crying. He was used to tears of fear. He thrived on them. This was somehow different. She was being honestly, overwhelmingly repentant. But she hadn't truly paid, now had she? The monster deep in his chest clawed at him to get to her. Hurt her. Make her feel his rage.
But he tamped it down, instead putting a painful grip to her chin and tilting her face to look at her.
"I'll forgive ya, kitten. We're engaged after all… don't wanna start off a marriage on the wrong foot. But rest assured… You'll make all this bullshit up to me. Sooner or later."
They're not, she wanted to defend the absent Maitlands, but held her tongue. They were imperfect, like everyone else in the world, but Betelgeuse had the right to hate them as much as she had the right to hate Claire Brewster. This logic didn't do anything to dampen the sudden fire that lit up her tearful gaze. The punishing grip on her chin made her wince, but she didn't dare fight him.
Engaged.
Fuck.
How had this backfired so poorly? Lydia had never entertained the idea that he would still desire her for a bride. It was such a foreign concept. No one, not anyone ever— with the exception of her current company— had ever shown any sort of romantic interest in her. She was ignored and shelved and pushed aside by the general breathing populace. It was easier to pretend she didn't exist than to acknowledge the off-putting aura she was apparently born with. He was powerful enough, right? He could muscle anyone into this position, really. Why her?
"You don't understand," she attempted to reason, reject the assumed proposal without outright rejecting him. "I have to die. It's important. If… if I marry you, will you kill me then? You can do it however you want, dealer's choice, I don't care."
Offering her spited fiancé the right to take her out the slow and painful way if he so chose probably wasn't wise, but Betelgeuse was going to do whatever he wanted anyway.
"That gets you what you want, right? Isn't that enough?"
"It's important that I die!" He mocked her in her own voice. "Toots, everyone thinks it's important to die. They all think their lives are this big deal! That they're changing the course of history! Bullshit." His free hand was creeping toward her, sliding onto her waist almost tenderly.
He licked his lips, fully invading her space now. "But I still don't get it… why do you wanna die so bad? Teenaged angst? Daddy was mean to you and you hate your step-mama? Hmm?" He snickered, tightening his hand at her hip until he was sure it would leave bruises on the pretty white skin beneath her dress.
"If you're really that desperate to strike up a deal… then fine. If you marry me I'll be the one to do you in. But you just remember that it's gonna happen on my terms, princess. That means however I want…" He licked up her jaw, nipping at the soft, supple, sweet skin behind her ear. "When I want."
"No," she bit back bitterly, pulling legitimate attitude with him at his insulting derision that she had come to this morbid conclusion of her life for an escape from common adolescent drama. "You don't know me," she spat, glaring through the quickly drying remnants of her tears. "You don't know anything about me."
Lydia never labored under any delusions that she was special. Just strange, which was an entirely different thing. If she were in a less dismal mood, she might have been willing to disclose her motivations to the filthy ghoul, but this wasn't the case. She was even less amenable once his grip on her hip tightened with bruising force and he came to sample a taste of the goods. A shock of something pooled in her belly, warm and not entirely unpleasant. A sharp gasp penetrated the air courtesy of the molested girl.
This kind of attention was similarly foreign to her. She'd never even experienced a first kiss, much less anything as advanced as he likely had in mind. This was the price she had to pay. He wanted his consummation, and really, it was a fair stipend considering what she had done to him. Could she pay? Could she actually go through with it? Did she have a choice?
"Deal," she finalized, cringing away from his coarse, moss-besotted complexion as it brushed along her baby soft flesh. "However you want. Whenever you want."
Would he marry her here tonight? Right there in the cemetery? That would be best. The sooner this was over, the sooner she could reach the other side and access to the information she needed.
Oh ho! That got her going. He liked a little bit of fight in his women. He hummed, cheek to cheek with the young woman that would soon very soon be his wife. "Deal~" He grinned a moss-covered and decaying smile, the hand on her waist sliding to the small of her back.
He could tell from her reactions that his little kitten was all but untouched. As much as she was disgusted he could see her pressing into him, her soft gasp was like a trigger being pulled. He held her to him, the hem of her skirt jerking up with nothing more than a wink so that he could press closer still, one thigh slipping between hers.
"Can't wait for the weddin' night, Lyds… you're gonna be so good for me. Ain'tcha?" He nipped at her jaw, keeping her tight against him as he worked down her neck.
As much as he'd like to rush the wedding and get to the good part, he knew that there was bureaucracy to go through. More red tape than the first time, even, seeing as she'd technically performed a jailbreak by calling him here. Still, he made a mental list of everything that needed doing before they could really seal the deal.
"Well then, shall we hit the courthouse? Or you wanna spend the night first? I got a real nice grave with our names on it, wifey."
Everything he was doing made her want to crawl out of her skin in anxiety. Her flesh was stuck in a seemingly permanent flush, her pulse fluttering rapidly beneath his grimy teeth. To be fair, it wasn't necessarily him that garnered her revulsion so much as the act itself. The thought of letting another man take her like that— holding her down, grunting, thrusting, pain— brought a rush of acidic bile up her throat to kiss her tonsils before she managed to swallow it down.
"Sure," she conceded weakly to his assumption that she would be good, once the words registered. The longer he held her like this, pawing and squeezing and taking little tastes, the more her mind worked at separating from her body. The way it had taught itself to in moments such as this.
"I won't be any good," she warned in a last ditch effort at dissuading him of the idea. Her lifeless gaze— as though the deed was done already, the bargain fulfilled— was locked passed his mass of matted white-blonde hair on Bart's demolished mausoleum, focusing intently on each minute, detestable detail. It was preferable to paying attention to the way his thick leg had rudely shoved its way between hers. The hand keeping her steady at the small of her back pulling until she was off balance and had to grip the lapels of his maroon tux for purchase, her most sensitive place nestled firmly against his thigh.
"You'd be better off with someone—" anyone "— else."
The witching hour was upon them. Lydia, with her flair for the dramatics, had considered this the most appropriate time to summon the harbinger. She had fantasized of how her father and Delia would awaken to find her gone, how the news of her mangled corpse being discovered amongst the lathe of tombstones would spread like wildfire, how they would mourn her for a week or two at most before upending their roots and moving past this morbid chapter of their lives called "parenthood." Would she ever see them again? Unlikely. Her closet sadist reveled that they might never find her body and the mystery would haunt them. It wasn't as though Lydia would.
"The courthouse. Tonight. As soon as possible." Just get it over with.
"Hey! Old dogs can learn new tricks. And you're barely a pup." He left her with one last nip to her ear, his hands each taking hold of her pert ass. "Mm. That's nice, Lyds…"
Something was off here. He could see it in her eyes. She was drifting, trying to leave the situation so that he could just… take her. How thoughtful. Where the fuck'd she learn to do that? He bristled at the thought of another man's hands on his wife. Well. They didn't need to worry about that anymore, now did they.
In a flash, they were no longer standing in the graveyard. In fact, they didn't seem to be in Winter River at all, but rather a seedy Neitherworld city. Left and right strip joints and brothels lined the street on either side of a tiny Vegas-style chapel. WEDDINGS. FUNERALS. DIVORCES. was plastered across the door.
Betel turned to his bride with a smile. "Now don't go diss-associatin' on me now, beautiful… Doncha wanna remember this day for the rest of your life?"
He pulled her back into his arms, less driven now, merely keeping his hands on her. He wasn't lost on the way that the ghouls around him had all turned to look at the breather. She was his dammit. He had to make that clear, obviously.
With a disorienting flash, her stomach bottomed out and they were gone from one necropolis to another. Bewildered, she clung to him from the sudden change, vision adjusting from the pitch black of the shadowy cemetery to this neon-lit strip of life. If it weren't for the strangely colored sky and the many deceased inhabitants littering the street, Lydia could have mistaken it for any other sleazy corner of the living realm.
This was the Neitherworld! Adam and Barbara always refused to tell her anything about it when she asked, fearful of her suicidal tendencies, but they weren't here to stop this. Lips parted and eyes alight with wonder, she would have drifted away from him mindlessly to sate her fascination, were it not for the heavy arm slung around her shoulders keeping her petite stature anchored to his side.
Doncha wanna remember this day for the rest of your life?
Not at all, but Lydia was done insulting him for now. As he steered her toward a chapel, robbing her of all the enchantingly morbid sights and sounds— a mermaid sitting in a kiddie pool on the corner of the street, waving a wet cardboard sign with prices that had blurred with the water had the majority of her attention— they were both distracted by the call of a curvaceous, horned red-headed prostitute. She waved down at them enthusiastically from the balcony of a nearby brothel, a lit cigarette resting between her claws and a toothy grin widening her fanged mouth.
"Hey, BJ! It's two-for-one night! Why don'cha bring yer lil friend up here so I can show her what a good time is supposed to look like?" After cackling madly at her own joke, she took a more thorough look at the girl and her expression shifted into one of a more dubious nature. "You look a lil lost, sweetie. A little young, too. BJ, I didn't know you were babysittin' these days. How cute."
Lydia's wonderment sparked an odd warm feeling in his chest. If nothing else at least she was having a good time looking around. His arm stayed firmly around her as he headed for the chapel, determined not to let eyes linger on his girl for too long.
As they passed Dante's a familiar voice called out and he grimaced at Lydia before turning to greet the she-demon, hands out in his signature showman's style.
"Trix~! You are the sweetest! Thanks for the invite but uh…. This here. Is actually my fiancee." His arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her to stand in front of him. "Hey! She's legal. For my time, anyway." He cackled and kept them moving, the smile fading as soon as they were out of sight. "Listen Lyds. That right there is why you never wanna work at Dante's. Those girls'd ruin you… and that's my job."
In moments they were arriving at the chapel where a thin, badly bruised priest was waiting at the front of the hall. "Here we go, kitten. Take two!"
He was quick to pull them away from the hooker who may or may not have been interested in her wellbeing. As if the woman— whom he was obviously familiar with— could do anything for her. This was always how it was supposed to go, wasn't it? A part of her had always known she would find herself back here, in his arms, ready to tie the knot and fulfill the bargain. Try as she might to escape her fate, this was inevitable.
It would all be over soon.
On a chilled dark night in the midst of Autumn, Lydia Elisabeta Deetz would be wed to the poltergeist Betelgeuse in a seedy chapel on the downtown Neitherworld strip. Even the chapel was compelling to the ensnared Lydia, though it was only marginally different from one that could be found in the living world. Everything was just a bit darker here. The neon red hearts that decorated the walls boasted crossed bones behind them, a romantic parody of skull n' bones. Photos of married couples past lined the wall. Lydia recognized the prostitute from earlier in an obscenely white gown, drunk off her ass, arm strung around two clowns, both of which appeared to be the groom. Wild.
Would he throw her into another dress? Like last time? Lydia didn't really care one way or another, though she supposed tradition had its values.
As he watched her explore he pulled the priest aside and filled him in that he wanted the shortest version of the rights he could manage. His little black kitten was floating around the room in such a way that he couldn't take his eyes off of her. Neither could he deny the lack of emotion behind her eyes. She really thought he would do her in.
He sighed and snapped his fingers, replacing his shredded tuxedo with a brand new one, this one a classic black with his striped shirt underneath. He snapped again to get his girl a dress. He could admit that the red had been a bit much last time. This was much more tasteful. Suddenly draped in scarlet satin and tulle he couldn't help but lick his lips at the sight of her. Where the dress was tight against her it did a fantastic job showing off her curves. He couldn't recall them being there before. That one of the joys of women her age. They only got sexier with time. He let out a low whistle, going to collect her as the priest reassumed his position.
"This'n's better, huh? Much much better…" He ran his hand up her arm, grinning. "You ready to do this right, sweet cheeks?" His hand quickly changed course, coming down onto her ass firmly. "God damn, this better be fast. You got no idea what you're doin' Lyds…."
The gown was mermaid in style, with thin spaghetti straps, an extravagant tulle skirt that flared out at the knees, and an audaciously cut neckline that dipped down to just above her navel. Her length of sable hair was left to hang down and flow about her waist. Pale cheeks flooded with blood when she looked down at herself and realized just how much skin was showing. While she had no doubt the dress was beautiful, she knew that she was not and that it was wrong for her.
Betelgeuse seemed happy enough, collecting her to his side and running his hands along her as though he already owned her. Didn't he, though? He was right. She didn't have any idea what she was doing. What was her plan after this was all over? After she had the information she needed and was loose on the Neitherworld with no one and nothing to her name? Maybe she could find Adam and Barbara again.
They would be disgusted if they knew. Best not think of them right now. She ignored his inquiries as to her thoughts on whether this wedding was better than the other, having no answer for him. He didn't really want one, anyway. A wedding is a wedding.
"Ready as I'll ever be," she imparted tonelessly, gaze focused stonily ahead as they approached the altar and the awaiting priest.
"Are we ready to proceed?"