"Some people say that I want you for your money,
but I really want you for your body.
Pleased to meet you, baby, I want to be your honey,
so let's go tell your Daddy and Mommy."
—Lights On
The Pierces
As they both tipped over the edge he moaned, murmuring out loud about how much he loved her and how good she felt. She collapsed against him and all he could do was lazily wrap his arm around her waist, panting into her hair.
He rubbed slow circles into her skin, reflecting on the day. It had started off so different from now. He'd nearly lost her, emotionally and physically, and he found that for the first time in his afterlife, he was exhausted.
He cracked an eye open at her words, smiling softly. "I think so too."
And it was, for him anyway. Come morning he'd carefully extracted himself from his sleeping wife, made a pot of coffee and set about fetching her things from her parents' house. If Delia woke up to her curlers turned into chunks of snake, then it must have been a coincidence.
He was standing in their foyer, looking over her meager belongings when he decided that she definitely deserved some spoiling. Percy came meowing at him, rubbing between his legs and purring. Apparently saving his mistress has endeared him to the cat.
"I know, I know. I want her to wake up too. Be patient."
Lydia was kept insnared in a deep, dreamless sleep for the better part of the morning bleeding into noon. She didn't wake when her bed partner roused beside her and quietly departed, she didn't wake when he came back with all of her belongings from the living realm, and she didn't wake for several hours after that. When she did finally creep back to consciousness, it was with a profound sense of contentment. Indulgently, she remained bundled up under the covers in for the first few minutes after stirring, enjoying the rare peace. Betelgeuse had drawn the canopy before he left, leaving her warm, protected, and sectored off from the rest of the world. She could get used to this.
Eventually, she roused fully to crawl from the safe haven of their marriage bed and don the robe she'd left in a crumpled heap on the floor the previous night. Then, she pulled back the canopy drapes and took the time make it, folding the sheets and fluffing the pillows until it was picture perfect again. This was her room now, wasn't it? Their room. This was the bedroom of an adult, not a silly teenager. She was going to make sure it stayed looking like one. After brushing her teeth and washing her face— the brand of soap and toothpaste she preferred were already there waiting for her— in the adjoining master bath, she checked the set of French doors next to her vanity that looked like a closet to see if that too was stocked to her tastes.
She found a closet, alright. It was expansive, bigger than her bathroom at her parents' house, and already held all of her clothing from the closet there. Her entire wardrobe barely put a dent in the space, the armful of black dresses, skirts, and blouses hanging in the shadowy corner in an easily missable lump. A column of drawers lined the walls, mostly empty except for the one that had all her underwear. Betelgeuse had been busy.
She fell back on an old favorite; a worn, oversized black sweater that slipped down off of one shoulder and hung nearly to her knees. When Lydia wore it, it was a dress. Ordinarily, she would pair it with leggings to preserve her modesty, but such a concept seemed like a waste of time here. The rich scent of coffee pulled her faster down the steps once she emerged from their room, dressed and ready for the day. She'd even taken the time to apply some mascara and lipstick, and style her hair into one of her signature, messy updos, though most of it still escaped from its binds to fall rebelliously down her back and over her shoulders.
"Beej?"
She hadn't seen him yet, but he was around here somewhere. It was a big house.
Betelgeuse had decided that he'd wake his wife with breakfast in bed. The problem being that he didn't know how to cook, or what she liked to eat.
When she called to him he was trying to get an omelet to fold, cursing at it when it just stuck to the pan. At least he'd managed coffee.
His ratty bathrobe was hanging open over his undershirt and boxers, making him look every inch the disgruntled old man he was.
"What!? No. Go back to bed I'm makin' ya breakfast. If this shit would stop sticking!"
The kitchen was a war zone. Eggshells and broken yolks covered the floors and counter, evidence of the many attempts it had taken Betelgeuse to find the right pressure and strength to crack an egg without completely obliterating it. There were three pans piled up in the sink already, their bottoms blacked. He'd been at this for a while, then. The sight of smoke rising up from yet another skillet spurred Lydia to action.
"Beej," she laughed light-heartedly in contrast to his tangible frustration, gently shooing him out of the way to take charge. Hopefully, he didn't see it as mocking. It was sweet, honestly. "You have to melt butter in the pan first." The soiled skillet was added to the others, then she adjusted the dial on the stovetop to bring the heat down low. He had it on full blast.
"But I appreciate the thought." His attempt earned him a prolonged good morning hug and kiss. "Here, I have an idea. Make me a cup of coffee and clean up this mess, and I'll show you how to make an omelet. Deal?"
Lydia was getting better at negotiating.
He grumbled as she took over, but easily acquiesced to the deep kiss he received for trying. He sighed softly, but agreed to the deal, pouring her a cup and adding her required cream and sugar.
He slid in behind her as she scrubbed at the pans, resting his chin on her shoulder and kissing her neck gently. "I tried. Sorry it didn't work out."
Percy came running at the sound of his mistress's voice and Betel scooped him up, turning him on his back to rub at his soft tummy. Percy purred. They'd come to an understanding.
"Don't bother your mother. She's cleanin' up my mess."
"He can bother me," she smiled sweetly over her shoulder, heart melting at the sight. Where did he get off being that cute with her cat? "I don't mind. He knows not to do the whole needy-baby thing when I'm cooking." She stepped on his tail once and after much pampering and apologizing on Lydia's part, Percy forgave her and learned his lesson.
Once she had a clean skillet, she settled it on the stovetop and cut off a generous hunk of butter to begin melting at the bottom. The rest were left for Betelgeuse to take care of. While butter melted, she went on to demonstrate how to properly crack an egg every time, dropping half a dozen into the mixing bowl without dropping a single bit of shell. Then, she graded cheese— what was an omelet without cheese?— added salt and pepper to her tastes— because Betelgeuse said he didn't care one way or the other— and whisked until it was frothy and homogenous.
"People say to add milk to it to make it better, but really," she clued him in conspiratorially, "water is the trick. When it heats up, it has a steaming effect and makes the omelet nice and fluffy. It's all science. You only need a little bit, you don't want to water it down. "
Lydia couldn't remember the last time she talked this much for this long and someone actually listened, didn't lose interest or tell her to shut up. It was probably all going in one ear and out the other, but for all intents and purposes, Betelgeuse seemed genuinely interested in the art of omelet making.
He was happy to snuggle into her back, kissing over her neck while she instructed him. He wasn't really interested but he liked the sound of her voice.
He nodded when she glanced at him, pretending interest. "Yeah yeah… water. Great stuff. Got it." He nuzzled into her, pressing up against her.
His fingers found the edge of her sweater, teasing along it gently. "This is a good look, baby… I like it. Did ya see your soap and stuff? You were almost out at your parents' place so I replaced it for ya."
… okay, maybe he wasn't paying that close of attention. Still, he let her talk and bothered to feign interest, which is more than anyone other than Adam or Barbara had ever done.
"Mmm," she murmured, tilting her neck just so to offer him further access, and continued teaching despite the knowledge that it wasn't sinking in. "I'm not adding any fillings other than cheese because I don't feel like it, but if you do you have to cook those separately. I know it seems like common sense, but Delia once made me an omelet with raw mushrooms in the middle, it was gross."
She poured the eggy mixture over the simmering butter, watching with satisfaction as it instantly began to settle and lighten in color as it cooked. No smoke rose from the pan, only steam and the delicious, nostalgic scent of breakfast. Taking a fork to the middle to keep it from cooking unevenly, she listened as he described his exploits while she was asleep.
"I saw, thank you," she acknowledged his favor with genuine gratitude, though a seed of unease was creeping back into her voice at the confirmation that he had visited her parents' home while she slept. An unsupervised Betelgeuse was a dangerous Betelgeuse. "Did you see my parents again? Did they say anything?"
He busied himself kissing along the offered skin, mouthing over soft skin and pausing where he could feel her pulse pounding beneath his lips. She was so alive. He loved her. He told her so, softly.
He watched her pour the eggs into the pan, taking a momentary step back so that she wouldn't get burned. He kept his hands at her waist, having no desire to actually clean up his mess.
"Nah. I didn't see 'em. Didn't wanna wake them. Poofed in, poofed out." He watched at the eggs started to puff, a skeptical look on his face. "You ever think about how weird eating really is?" He grinned as she moved the food aside, his hand easily resuming its fondling under her sweater.
He ran his fingers up the inside of her thigh gently, not pressing her for anything but definitely suggesting. He found the seat of her panties easily, sliding his clawed finger over the seam of her. "Ya know I think you should have the omelet I got somethin' else I wanna eat…"
After adding another generous bit of cheese to the center and folding cooked egg over to trap the cheddar in a melty pocket, Lydia tilted the pan around, satisfied as the omelet slid over the smooth bottom of the pan effortlessly with a nice sizzle. Then, she tilted it forward and down, rolled her wrist in a carefully practiced motion, and flipped. It stuck the landing perfectly.
"Eating is weird," she agreed, placated by the affirmation that Charles and Delia Deetz were living to see another day. "Especially with some of the things people eat… Why do you eat bugs?" This was a conundrum that had often plagued her. Usually late at night, when she couldn't sleep and couldn't stop her thoughts from drifting away from her and toward her ex-fiance turned husband. "I have a theory, but I don't think you'll like it."
His finger found her panties then— caressing, growling filthy suggestive things— and Lydia faltered over sliding the finished omelet onto her plate, almost splattering her hard work all over the egg-smattered floors. It was not escaping her that he hadn't held up his end of the bargain. She didn't really care about the mess, but she wasn't a pushover either.
"Ah ah ah," she squirmed and evaded until the area beneath her dress was free of roaming hands, taking her plate, utensils, and mug of coffee in hand. "Clean up your mess and I'll think about it."
With that righteous dismissal, Lydia turned her back on him to settle at the table and enjoy her breakfast. It wasn't her fault he was defaulting away from her offer of an omelet. His loss.
"Why do you eat the dead animals that you eat? Come on it's not that weird." He licked his lips, about to get a finger under the elastic of her panties when she pulled away. He groaned dramatically, kicking his feet like a toddler.
"I don't wanna clean up! Come on. It's not like anyone'll see it but us!" He grumbled but set to work on it anyway. The mess was gone with a snap of his fingers, the dishes clean and back in their places without much fuss.
He grinned, advancing on her. "All done, babes. Now daddy wants a breakfast of his own." He let her finish eating before he was slipping under the table, his hands running up her thighs hungrily.
"Mmm. My favorite."
"Because meat tastes good," she answered after swallowing a mouthful of egg and cheese, mourning the absence of bacon or sausage on her plate. "Now granted, I've never had a bug before, but I'm hard-pressed to believe there's an insect out there that tastes as good as chocolate. You could just as easily eat chocolate instead. Call yourself 'Cocoa-Juice.'" She shook her head in denial of his simple logic, stifling giggles at her own joke.
"Nope." She was using a butter knife to slice her bites off in neat, tidy little pieces like a proper, well-mannered lady. "I think," she circled said butterknife in his direction, expecting the piece of omelet pierced at the end of her fork, "you do it because you know it's weird and you like weirding people out."
Lydia was being presumptuous, she knew, but her tone was light-hearted and it was clear there was no malice or ill-intention behind her hypothesizing. He was on the verge of a temper tantrum, verily upset at the prospect of being forced to take responsibility for his own actions. The sight was only funnier once he proved that he could wave a hand and magic it all away, as she suspected he could.
"How's about this," she proposed, grinning, finishing off the last of her breakfast as he stalked forward, "you stay out of the kitchen and I'll take care of cleaning from now on. Deal?" Was their marriage going to be a constant back and forth of negotiation and compromise? It certainly looked like it was shaping up to be that way. But really, that was the reality of all marriages, wasn't it?
"Beej," she dissolved into nervous laughter once cold hands found her knees and thighs, working at spreading the stubbornly locked limbs. He was talented and all, but Lydia was having too much fun playing hard to get to give it up now. "I said I would think about it. Hmmm… let's see if you can pass a pop quiz first. What makes a better omelet? Milk or water."
He scoffed. "I don't like chocolate. It's too sweet. We didn't have none of that shit when I was alive. And you're right. People hate it… it's hilarious."
"Water. Fluffy or some shit." He pressed his lips to her knee, digging his fingers in behind it to tickle her in an attempt to get her to spread 'em.
"Come on baby…. let me in. I just wanna make ya feel good…. I know you like my tongue." He ran it up her shin as though proving a point. "I want you…. let me have ya?"
He pouted up at her as though it would make a difference. "Please?"
He was getting better at begging. Lydia scooted her chair back just a bit from the table and him— he followed, of course— so she could see him more fully.
"Not bad," she praised, smoothing her hands over the top of his matted hair. "Decisions, decisions…" she prattled, making a show of denying him, as though she was having a really hard time deciding if he would get what he was asking for. "Hmm… one more question."
Whether he knew the answer or not, he would get what they both wanted. Lydia just wanted to know how well he really knew her. It was a test of sorts.
"What's my middle name?"
He grinned at her approval, resting his cheek on her thigh. She was testing him, he knew. Well, wouldn't she be surprised to find out just how much he knew?
"Well. Your dad would say it's Eliza. But I know better." He nuzzled his face into her thigh. "You… are my wife." He pressed a kiss to her skin, preparing to work his way up as he spoke.
"Lydia." A kiss. "Elisabeta.." This was growled out of his mouth like it was a dirty word, his lips lingering longer on this kiss. "Deetz. And then my last name whatever it was."
He nipped at her skin gently, looking up at her with hooded eyes. "Is that sufficient, kotyonok?"
"Deetz is a dumb name," she breathed softly, awed and taken aback by the things he said. He knew so much. Did he learn all this in the attic? Father never could seem to get her name right. Just wasn't important enough, she supposed. Evidently, it was very important to Betelgeuse. "I think I'd rather just drop it and take yours if it's all the same."
Had she not been so young when she came to live with her father and his pretty redheaded wife, she would have insisted on keeping her mother's name, but as it was the decision wasn't up to her.
Is that sufficient, kotyonok?
Kitten. His favorite pet name for her growled out lewdly in her first language. It made her unbearably hot; breath suddenly short, a little damp spot forming on the soft cotton of her panties right where he could make out the outline of her sweet, plump pussy lips.
"Da," she gave in finally, returning the romantic gesture in the that seldom used dialect. She couldn't remember the last time she spoke Russian. Thighs spreading over the cool, dark wooden seat to reveal herself to him. "S"yesh' svoyu portsiyu."
He grinned as the elegant words fell from her lips, her legs spreading for his head to tuck in between.
"Mmm. Spasiba." He grinned up at her, taking hold of her panties and pulling. "Glad I passed your little test." He lifted her foot gently, sliding her out of her underthings before returning to the task at hand.
He knew more than he probably should about her, considering how short their marriage had been. But when you were stuck in a model town with nothing else to do but admire the eye candy that curled up in the armchair across the room… well, let's just say he picked up on things.
He was again struck by a memory of her long elegant legs curled up under blue plaid and black tulle, the way her skirts had curled over those milky thighs was what had brought her to his attention to begin with. Now he got to bury himself between them as often as he liked.
Speaking of…
He grinned, pressing kisses to her skin as he approached her core, the scent of her burgeoning arousal making him shift, adjusting the hardness in his pants.
He laved his tongue over her labia gently, testing the waters. He knew she was bound to be sore- they'd yet to go more than eighteen hours without falling into the sack- but he couldn't help himself. She was sweet on his tongue. My favorite.
This time, she was able to muffle the astonished squeak that wanted to escape at the frigid introduction of his mouth to her scorching nether regions. It never took her very long to acclimate, gifted as he was, but that first touch was always a shock. One thigh was strung over his broad shoulder, the other left flat to provide a cushy pillow for his whiskery cheek. The barefoot that wasn't pressed flat against his back to give her leverage was slowly creeping forward between his knees on the ground until her calf was pushing snug against his raging hard-on.
She held on to the table to keep herself steady under his slow, savoring kisses, her free hand petting through his hair, over his cheek and around to cup the back of his neck as he carried on. She was tender, her lips puffy and walls engorged, still full of remnants of his cum from their lovemaking the previous night. There was no pain here, though. Only a sweet, gentle pleasure.
Was this going to be a daily affair? He couldn't seem to get enough of this particular act. His hips rocked against her leg slowly— humping like a dog— as his long tongue slithered up and down in a delicate rhythm, lapping up whatever she had to give him. He added a little pressure then, pushing that writhing appendage flat against her clit and drawing the entire exorbitant length of it up with a sluggish, elongated lick. She whimpered, a high-pitched girlish sound, and the leg strung over his shoulder began to quiver. Unable to help it, she shifted awkwardly, trying to sway her hips with his sinful kissing the way he had taught her to, but the position was unfamiliar.
"Just— almost—" she pasted, still attempting to adjust of force more pressure against the place she needed it, but he was frustratingly dedicated to keeping up an indulgent, torturing pace. In a desperate reach for release, she planted the leg he was rubbing his hard cock against firm into the ground, released both him and the table to grasp the edges of her seat, and used her feeble arm strength to lift her ass clear off the chair, seating seam of her dripping cunt directly against his mouth as the foot on his back pushed his mouth fully onto her.
"Yes!"
He snickered as she rolled against him, happy to maintain a slow, teasing pace as he soaked in the taste of her pleasure. There was a salty tinge to her this morning, their mixed cum from the night before lingering in her most private places.
She was squirming, making a strange sense of pride run through him. She'd made him wait for this, made him beg and prove himself before he got a taste and now she would do the same. His hips rolled against her leg firmly, the friction of his cock against her skin even through his boxers was intoxicating.
Suddenly he was being pulled into her, her hands in his hair and her ass lifting off of the seat. He quickly moved his hands under her to hold her up, moaning roughly against her as she forced his mouth harder against her.
He growled softly, his tongue teasing over the tight entrance to her cunt before pressing into her, sliding and twisting inside of her. It took everything in him not to abandon this act in favor of pressing his cock into this tight, wet heat. He managed, somehow, though his humping against her leg increased in fervor. His hands tensed on her ass, his long claws nearly breaking the skin as they dug into her alabaster flesh.
Finally, she seemed to be enjoying herself. As much as she seemed to enjoy all of their sexcapades, there was something different about her teasing him… making him work for it… that had him harder than he could remember being in his entire afterlife. He pulled back just far enough to look up at her, the flexible tip of his tongue curling and uncurling around her clit.
She loved his hands so much. They were different from hers in almost every way; size, texture, age, cleanliness, the length and sturdiness of their nails. Hers were very short and fragile, prone to breakage if she let them get too long. His were thick and strong, though their tips had seen some abuse.
It had taken her long enough to realize it, but she did, she loved his hands. Especially right now, as they encompassed her entire backside, squeezing tight as he fucked his tongue deep into her in labyrinthine patterns. Letting him fuck her this way was probably closer to what normal sex with normal boys was supposed to feel like. Even then, Lydia doubted there existed many, if any, out there that could hold a candle to her extremely talented husband.
The bruises from her drunken spanking had long since fully formed and were on their way to healing, but Lydia didn't doubt he would replace them whenever that happened. For now, they provided that delicious sting she'd come to crave when he prodded at them, using his superior strength to help hold her aloft after her frenzied attempt at getting closer. She was thankful for the assistance what with the increased intensity in the way he was rutting against her leg, the force of it threatening her stability.
No matter. He wouldn't let her fall. She could tell from the unquestionable, searing love those jade eyes were burning up at her as he pulled back just so, pausing his fervor pseudo-fucking in favor of leaving his sickly green tongue extended to ply at the tiny bundle of nerves at the tip of her entrance.
It was all much too much. Lashes fluttering, straining to maintain the imperative eye contact he initiated, she fell apart in his hands. Her back arched far off the back of the chair, and from his perspective, Betelgeuse could see the acute details of the muscles in her lower belly twitching with her orgasm.
He really did love her. Loved the way she whined, high in her throat when his tongue found her sensitive bundle of nerves. Loved the way she pressed into his touch, the way she arched back as she fell apart. He moaned into her as she came, the whole of her tiny body shaking.
When he'd eaten his fill of her cum he pulled back to press his cheek to her thigh, panting. He hastily shoved a hand into his boxers, stroking himself and grunting softly. He was still close enough to smell her.
"Fuck, Lyds… love ya so fuckin' much… ya taste so good, kitten you got no fuckin' idea whatcha do ta me…." His tongue risked one last teasing tickle over her tight hole, making her whimper and pull back from him. He'd have to work on getting her through multiple orgasms more reliably. It wasn't any fun if she was too over sensitive. He didn't want it to hurt.
"Fuck, Lydia…. I'm gonna cum…."
Jesus Christ, that's all it took? He could get off on that alone? Servicing her, rubbing against her leg like a horny mutt, his cock not even fully touching her through most of it, couldn't be enough. It just wasn't feasible, not with what she knew of his egregious appetite. Yet, here he was, breathing rapidly like he actually needed it, an unearthly color blooming on his mossy cheeks that could almost pass as a feverish blush.
"Lemme…" She murmured, sliding her still trembling thigh from his shoulder so that she could hunch over, press her red-painted lips to his, slick with evidence of her pleasure, and reach down to help him out. She made it as far as wrapping her short, warm fingers around the engorged staff and squeezing once. Like pulling the trigger on a gun, he exploded against her leg, releasing a strangled grunt into their kiss. She stroked him gently through it, moving her lips heatedly against his all the while, spurred on by the naughtiness of knowing that she was tasting herself.
Once she was sure he was done, no more cool splashes of semen coming down on her shin, she released him, slumping back in the chair.
"That was nice," she sighed dreamily, idly stroking his big head as it rested on her thigh. "In fact," she continued on, a teasing lilt coloring her breathy, post-orgasm tone, "it was so nice, I won't even ask you to clean up your mess."
He tangled his hand in her hair as they kissed, a guttural moan leaving him as she worked him over the edge. He shuttered, his body shaking with the effort as he came down.
He all but face planted back into her lap, groaning softly as she ran those long magical fingers over his face and head.
It was so nice, I won't even ask you to clean up your mess.
Little shit. He shot her a look out of one eye, turning his head just enough to sink his teeth into the soft flesh of her thigh.
"Don't be a brat or I'm never eatin' ya out again. And I know you'd miss it."
This was nice. Strangely comforting. The domesticity of their morning sank into his old, tired bones, making him wonder what it would be like if their souls had met earlier. In another time and place. Would he have been who he was now?
He pushed the thought aside, nuzzling into her soft stomach lovingly. "Grazie per amarmi. Ti adoro." He murmured the words into her skin, trusting her to not know what was said.