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avocado-writing · 2 years

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Cut You A Piece Of Me

Part 3, Spring

| Beetlejuice x GN!Reader

| 6k

| Rated: E. MINORS DNI

| Summary:

A college student finds a cheap room in an old house, and soon finds out why the rent is so low.

Part 1: Autumn, Part 2: Winter

The journey back home is long but fine. It’s lonely in the car, even when you put the radio on to keep you company. You kinda wish he was there with you. He’d keep you entertained even if you wanted to punch him.

It’s gonna be a long holiday break.

Your family is happy to have you home and you get down to the celebrations and their feigned interest at what you do in university.

A couple of days go past. Your phone buzzes with a text. It’s from Lydia.

Lydia 🕷: wen u bak

You furrow your brow. Lydia doesn’t usually use abbreviated text. Always full sentences. In fact, she calls you out for shortening words.

You: Beetlejuice?

Lydia: 😈

You snort. Of course.

You: give Lydia back her phone. I’m sure she won’t appreciate it being hijacked.

A pause. Then:

Lydia:😭

Lydia: 😏😜👅🍆💦

You’re not sure if that’s a joke or a promise. Either way it elicits an eye roll.

You: You stop that.

The next text you get actually is from Lydia.

Lydia: Sorry. He took my phone and ran. I’m trying to convince dad and Delia to get him his own one.

You’re left on that, with a small smile lingering on your lips. A couple of days later you receive a text from an unknown number. It’s a picture of Beetlejuice lying back on your bed at the Deetz house, a wild grin on his face showing off the fangs he hides so well. There’s just a kiss emoji.

You: you annoyed the Deetzs into getting you a cell then?

BJ: ‘bulied’ s a strong word

A couple of seconds, then:

BJ: send nuds

You roll your eyes but decide to oblige him. The holiday spirit has gripped you and you’re feeling generous. You pull down your top and send him a snap of your chest. After a few minutes you get another message.

BJ: ❤️💛💓😩😩👌💦💦

You let out a little giggle. It’s sort of flattering if a bit coarse. Like every compliment he gives you really.

It goes on like that while you’re home. He sort of makes the holiday season bearable, actually. Your family’s quiet disappointment in your choice of degree is softened by having him to message. Mostly what he texts is a string of emojis which you have to decipher like a dirty pictogram. But you find yourself smiling a lot. And part of you can’t wait to get back to your home away from home.

Then again… was it really that any more? Or was it just home?

And the longer you stay away the more you sort of miss it.

The strange friends you’ve made. The ghost couple in the attic. The goth child you seem to have somewhat had thrusted under your wing. The demon you’re sending semi-regular nudes to.

And the worst thing is you know you’re going to have to leave.

It sucks. But it’s true. Your tenancy is only going to last for another six months or so. And then you’re going to have to vacate.

You assume everybody there knows it. That you aren’t a permanent feature. You’ll have to leave when the tenancy is done, when your degree is finished. But it’s not really a conversation you want to have. Much like all your important conversations you’re… ignoring it.

Trying to live in the now.

You go back home - real home - in mid January. It’s been too long since you’ve seen everyone. You arrive as quietly as your little car will allow. You gave Delia prior warning, of course, but you didn’t let Lydia or Beej know you were getting home early. You think it will be nice to see their reactions.

After sneaking up the stairs you find them in Lydia’s room. She’s sitting on her bed and Beetlejuice is on the floor with his arms propped up on her mattress. She has a look of concentration on her face and it takes a moment for you to realise she’s doing his nails, painstakingly careful brushstrokes of black. You catch the tail end of the conversation.

“...going steady?”

Beetlejuice shrugs, messing up Lydia’s paintwork and causing her to curse. He sticks his tongue out at her before sighing.

“I don’t know. I mean, I hope so. Who would want to miss out on all this?” he tries to gesture to himself, then takes a moment to actually take a look at how he’s dressed. He seems to slump a little. “I guess quite a few people actually, huh?”

“Just take a bath and get a new suit. They’ll appreciate if you make an effort.”

“But… my aesthetic,” he whines.

“Is like you crawled out of a grave, yeah.”

“Thank you! I’ve been cultivating the look for years. This doesn’t come naturally.”

Lydia sits back and puts the cap on the little bottle. “Blow,” she instructs, gesturing to his nails. He does so but in between breaths admits:

“I dunno. I just miss ‘em.”

“Oh sorry,” says Lydia, “is hanging out with your ex-wife not good enough for you anymore?”

“Ex-wife?” you finally say. Their heads both snap around to face you.

“Doll!” Beetlejuice cries, his face lit up with the genuine kind of excitement you didn’t often see. In a moment he’s on his feet and off towards you. You go in for a hug, him a kiss. You knock your heads together. Awkwardly you shuffle apart, an uncomfortable silence settling over Lydia’s room.

“Oh god,” Lydia says, “I’m leaving. Nice to have you back, though.”

“But this is your room,” you say, but she waves your complaint with a delicately-manicured hand - Beej’s work? - and walks off.

You and Beetlejuice are left alone.

“So… you were married?” you ask, at length. He winces, scratching the back of his head.

“I don’t wanna talk about it. It was a, uh, bad time in my life. Bad-der, I guess, hah.”

You narrow your eyes and he sighs.

“I really wanted to get to the real world, she was easily blackmail-able, we’re over it now.”

You nod. Okay. You don’t really want to know any more.

“So how was your time at home? Did you miss this face?”

With that he hops in the air and begins to float, making a slow orbit around you. You feel a smile tugging at your lips despite everything. It’s so easy to fall back into your usual patter.

“It was nice. But yeah. I did,” you say, and watch with a smug glee as you see him begin to colour pink. “How was your Hannukah?”

He shrugs. “Same.”

You stare at each other for a long moment, gaze holding fast as he continues his levitation. Then you speak at the same time:

“Well, I’d better go unpack—”

“Can I be your boyfriend?”

You almost choke on your breath, wondering if this is a joke he’s playing. But his eyes are puppy-dog wide and sincere in a way you’re rarely used to.

“Do you want to be my boyfriend?” you ask, after considering it. After a moment, Beetlejuice nods. You see the telltale signs of pink taking root in his hair.

“Do you want me to want to be your boyfriend?” he counters.

You let yourself relax into a smile.

“Yeah. Sure, okay. You can be my boyfriend.”

His face splits into a grin so wide you think he may split his cheeks, and he does a spin in the air culminating in a handstand in front of you.

“Hell yeah, baby!” he shouts, righting himself when he’s finished with his celebration and pulling you into his arms. It’s such an honest display of enthusiasm you can’t help but let yourself laugh.

“Hey, can I kiss you?” he asks, after a moment. You’re so shocked he’s asked permission you’re struck silent, and instead of giving a verbal response you answer by pressing your lips to his.

You can feel he wants to stick his tongue immediately in your mouth, but you’re pleasantly surprised when he restrains himself. Instead he gives you a kiss which errs on the side of pleasant. He cups your face and you press your cheek into his palm affectionately.

“Come on,” you say, eventually, “let’s go unpack my stuff.”

When he thinks you’re out of earshot, you hear him mutter to himself.

“I’m gonna be such a good boyfriend.”

You smile.

And he actually… kind of is?

Not all the time, you mean - he is still Beetlejuice, after all -

“I hate spring. Everything’s so alive.” A spider is crawling along the wall. He slaps his hand down on it with expert precision, inspects the carnage on his palm, then fucking eats it.

“Oh my god,” you say, “I let you kiss me with that mouth.”

“You sure do!” he beams -

But overall, it’s… nice.

The weather warms, and flowers begin to bloom in the garden, even though you can guess from Lydia’s withering gazes she wishes they weren’t. You study, come home, do your work, and then spend time with the family and your new - demon - boyfriend.

Beetlejuice is rather clingy, but with all things considered that’s sort of to be expected. He complains constantly that he misses you when you’re gone, then whines how bored he was when you get back. But overall you can see how kind of… devoted he is to you.

There’s a thing about love languages. You can tell one of Beej’s is physical touch, considering the way he’s pretty much always draped over you.

And gifts. Apparently.

You look down at the row of dead bugs on your windowsill. Seems like they’ve been getting more and more frequent these past couple of weeks. They’re all quite pretty, iridescent beetles and beautiful butterflies. They are dead though.

“Beetlejuice?”

“That’s my name, just say it two more times!”

He beams, just like he always does when you call him. You’re getting used to him appearing out of thin air now. You don't jump like you used to.

“Are you putting these here?” You gesture to the row of tiny corpses.

He makes a noncommittal noise and scuffs his shoe on the ground. You furrow your brow.

“Are you mad at me?”

“What?! No!” he says, in obvious hurt. Suddenly, everything falls into place.

“Are these… presents, then?”

“I dunno. I guess,” replies. His cheeks don’t go pink in embarrassment but his hair does. He disappears before you can ask anything else.

You look back over to them and smile.

You invest in some insect pinning equipment and put them up over the next couple of days.

A couple of days later when he sees what you’ve done, he beams. It’s a bit of a macabre decoration but, hey, it suits the two of you down to a tee.

“Hey, is it your birthday soon?”

Your head snaps up from where you’re looking at your laptop. Beetlejuice lazily floats through the air on his back, kicking his legs as if he’s swimming.

“How did you know that?”

“Went through your bag,” he replies with a shrug. You pinch the bridge of your nose in frustration.

“Why, Beej?”

“I was looking for snacks.”

“We live above a kitchen! Why don’t you get snacks from there?”

“Because they taste nicer when they’re from your bag,” he says with a pout.

“Hang on,” you say, swivelling round in your chair to face him, “do you even need to eat? Aren’t you dead?”

“No, I don’t need to.”

“But you do eat? You ate that whole pizza yesterday. Rolled it up and shoved the whole thing down your throat like a snake.”

“Ha! Yeah I did do that. Man, that was funny.” He waves his hand, as if getting rid of the conversation from the air. “Anyway. Stop deflecting. What do you want for your birthday?”

You open your mouth to say, ‘nothing!’, but he beats you there with a: “And don’t go pulling that ‘I don’t want anything’ crap. I know it’s a lie, you know it’s a lie, and lying doesn’t suit you, dollface.”

With a sigh you reach out to take his hand. Even such a simple gesture gets the pink going in his hair.

“Whatever you get for me I’ll like, Beej.”

He grins so wide his face nearly splits in half.

When you wake up on the morning of your birthday, he’s hovering a foot over you. You scream in surprise and lash out - earning him a slap to the side of the face.

“Ha, nice,” he says, rubbing the cheek where your hand just landed. You roll your eyes at him but manage a smile anyway.

“Morning, Beej.”

“Happy birthday, doll.”

He reaches down to kiss you, but you hear Lydia’s voice interrupt the moment.

“Beetlejuice, it’s their birthday. You could have let them sleep in.”

“No,” he states, sitting down and shifting over on your bed so Lydia can join. The Maitlands are behind her too, and they’ve managed to materialise party hats from somewhere.

“Happy birthday! Sorry we couldn’t get you anything, being that we’re, you know, dead,” Barbara says. “But we’ve decided you can have anything of ours you want from the attic!”

“Except the kombucha,” warns Adam, “the kombucha is not good.”

“Thank you, guys,” you say with a laugh.

“This is from me,” says Lydia, shoving a present into your hands. You can see she’s blushing, shy. You tear open the newspaper wrapping and look at the present she’s given you.

It’s a collage. Of photos she’s taken. There’s one of you and her grinning into the camera, a rare selfie - a picture from the Halloween party all that time ago, you in the attic with two floating orbs you can tell, as much as they show up on camera, are Barbara and Adam.

And in the middle is a photo of you and Beetlejuice.

You’re both high in the air, his arms encircling you and carrying you bridal-style. Even though the picture is angled upwards you can still see the look of gentle, sincere adoration on his face.

You remember that day. When Lydia asked you to model for her. The first day you trusted him.

“Oh, Lyds,” you whisper, and pull her into a hug.

“It’s nothing,” she mutters. She only has a moment to return your embrace before you feel Beetlejuice press something against you.

“Okay, enough breather bonding time, my turn!”

You carefully take the offered present and stare at it. It’s not big. Maybe ring box sized. You narrow your eyes.

“Can I open this if there’s a minor present?” It’s not beyond him to gift you a cock ring. You’re not even sure if you’d mind it.

“What! Yes, what do you take me for? Some kind of demon pervert?” A millisecond of a pause. “Don’t answer that.”

With a shrug, you slide a finger under the wrapping paper and open it up.

It is a jewellery box.

And inside is a necklace. A small silver “B” on a fine, discreet chain. It’s surprisingly tasteful - and restrained - for a present from him.

“Oh, Beej. I love it,” you say, honestly. You look over to him to see he’s started to undo his tie, unbutton his collar.

“And see? We match!”

You think maybe he’ll show you a matching necklace, maybe your own initial hanging from it.

What you don’t expect is to see your name TATTOOED across his chest.

You manage to strangle back a gently horrified “Beetlejuice what the FUCK,” and instead force a smile.

Well. Actually. This is pretty on brand for a display of affection from him.

“That’s not how you spell their name,” Lydia pipes up. Beetlejuice frowns and tries to look down.

“What?”

“I said that’s not how you spell their name. It’s like this,” Lydia scribbles your name down on a piece of discarded paper and shows it to him. Beetlejuice shrugs.

“Eh, whatever. It’s the thought that counts, right?”

“Yeah, Beej,” you say, genuinely, “it is.”

It ends up being a really nice birthday. You don’t do much, with it not really being a milestone, but you hang out with your friends and enjoy each other’s company.

If you had known a year ago that your friend group of this strange group - well, you probably wouldn’t have changed a thing.

You go to bed in the small hours nearly asleep on your feet. Beetlejuice floats behind you like a horny balloon animal.

“You want some birthday sugar?” he asks, eyeing you as you strip to get into your pyjamas.

“Come and cuddle me first,” you say with a sleepy yawn, clambering under the covers and holding out your arms. Beetlejuice seems a bit taken aback by the request but is obedient, trying to hide the pink in his roots as he snuggles down next to you.

He smells of grave dirt only vaguely now. You can’t believe you’re getting used to it. But he lacks much body temperature, being dead and all, so he’s the perfect bedfellow for a warmer spring night. After a moment he turns to press his face into your neck, not to be overly amorous, but merely to be closer to you.

“Can I tell you something?” he asks. His voice is small. He’s going to say something sincere. You wonder if he gets the courage by not looking at you when he says it.

“Anything, Beej.”

“I’m really glad you rented this room.”

Your hand finds itself in his hair, petting gently. He drops a kiss on your shoulder.

“I am too, bug.”

“Babes?”

“Yeah?”

“There’s something else you need to know.”

“Shoot.”

This time he does look you in the eye.

“So long as I have a face, you will always have a place to sit.”

You snort, loud and ugly, and Beetlejuice gets the same smile on his face he always does when he can make you laugh.

With a burst of renewed energy you push him over and pin him on his back.

“Can I put that to the test?”

You don’t need to ask twice.

Spring gets warmer, you wear less clothes - which Beeltejuice loves - and Lydia gets sadder.

Lydia always has an air of the morose around her, but it becomes more palpable the further into spring you get. One day you decide to talk to her about it. You come into her room with a pair of sodas - you’ve been friends with her for long enough to know what her favourite is - a pack of donuts, and open ears.

“Hey. Wanna hang?”

She looks up from her book - Frankenstein, you’re not surprised to see - and shuffles over on her bed. You plop down heavily and open the food, listening out to make sure Beetlejuice doesn’t hear the sound of the packet opening and come running like a pet cat.

He doesn’t, and you’re safe.

“Don’t you have coursework to be doing?” Lydia asks as she fishes a donut out with her forefinger and thumb, nibbling at the edge carefully. She doesn’t ask it unkindly, but maybe a little teasingly, because she knows the answer is yes.

“Don’t you have homework to be doing?”

She shrugs, beaten, and shoves the donut into her mouth. You relax in companionable silence for a moment before you breach the subject.

“You’ve seemed sad recently. Well. Sadder. Everything okay?”

Lydia sighs. Dusts off some crumbs from her quilt.

“It’s the anniversary of my mom’s death next week.”

Ah.

“Oh, honey. I’m so sorry.”

She shrugs.

“It’s fine. I’m… better about it. I think we’ll be taking a trip to New York to visit her grave.”

“Do you want to talk about her?”

Lydia seems unsure.

“Is that okay?”

“Of course.”

And so, perhaps the most animated you’ve ever seen her, she does.

You offer to come with her next week, if she wants some company that’s neither her father nor Delia, but it seems Charles has other ideas.

“We were hoping you could house-sit,” he says the next morning. “We trust you and we need someone to keep our… other house guests in line.”

You feel a thrum in the air that means you know Beetlejuice is listening in to this conversation, and likes what he’s hearing. Also you understand this is a reasonably big ask and want to be a good lodger.

“Of course, Charles. I’d be happy to.”

You pretend you don’t hear the whispered boo-yah from another plane.

The next week goes by quickly, but Beetlejuice feels more than ever like he’s so wound up he’s about to snap. Constantly pawing at your body, being touchy-feely. You indulge him when you feel like it, but know if you give an inch he’ll take a mile - and you’ll never get out of bed again unless you set some boundaries.

On the day the Deetzes leave, you give Lydia a firm hug which she returns.

“I’m on the end of the phone if you need me, okay?” you tell her, and feel her nod against your shoulder. From the kitchen you watch your host family load their luggage, then themselves, into their car -

– then a pair of arms wraps around you and hoists you onto the kitchen counter.

“Waah-!”

Beetlejuice steps between your legs, grabbing your ankles so he can wrench you forward flush against him. He buries his face between your shoulder and your neck and takes in a deep, deep breath of your scent.

“Finally, we have this place to ourselves,” he mutters, and you can hear the grin on his face even if you can’t see it. “Where are we starting? Here? Sofa? Hey, we can even go into the laundry room if you wanna sit on the dryer while it vibrates, if that will get you off.”

You suppress a snort of laughter and gently press your hands to his chest, pushing him off of you.

“Beetlejuice, firstly, we’re not going to have sex while I can still see their car in the driveway -”

With a gesture, all the blinds on the kitchen windows shut, cutting off daylight and prying eyes at once.

“Better?”

“- and secondly, I’m not fucking all over their house because that would be rude.”

Beetlejuice makes a whiny noise of complaint in the back of his throat. You cup his cheeks in your hand, forcing him to look in your eyes.

“But, that being said. Why don’t you take a shower and meet me upstairs?”

Your voice is low, sultry, and full of promise for the rest of the day. His eyes go wide. You’ve never seen him run before, let alone for a wash, but there’s pretty much a Beetlejuice-shaped empty space where he rockets off to the bathroom.

When you’re happy you can hear the faucet being turned on, you begin the walk up to your room.

You strip once you cross the threshold, discarding your clothes in a line over to the bed. Dropping to your knees you pull out one of the suitcases you packed when you came back from your break over the holidays.

With a grin, you take out your strap and harness, and begin to get ready.

After what is probably too short a time in the shower than Beetlejuice actually needs, you hear the water stop and the door open. Your boyfriend stalks into your room looking surprisingly… clean. Sure, there’s still moss on him, and there’s some crust that simply won't come off, but he looks far closer to alive than dead now.

And when he takes in the sight of you lying on the bed, fake cock bobbing between your legs, he throws his head up and mutters something that you think might be a ‘thank you, god’.

“You kept this well hidden, huh?” he asks, stalking over to the bed, clambering up towards you. When he reaches out to touch you surprise him - grabbing him by the wrist and flipping him onto his back, straddling him before he can regain his wits. His pupils immediately blow wide, his hair streaking quickly from a playful green to shocking pink.

“You think you can be good for me, Beej?”

He tries to look cocky but it’s rather ruined by the way he’s trying to grind his half-hard dick up into you. You give him a gentle slap on the hip to get him to behave.

“I’m never good, doll.”

“Awh, well. I’m sure we can fix that.”

You drop your head down to press a kiss to his clavicle. He sucks in a breath he doesn’t need from the intimate feeling of it, keeping it locked in his lungs as you make your way down his body. A tongue over a nipple. A nip to his wonderful stomach. Running your bared teeth over the meat of his thigh.

“Babe, don’t make me wa-” he begins to object, but is stopped when you reach up to stuff your fingers in his mouth. His sentence is cut off with a moan as he begins to suck them. His tongue is pointed and long. Far longer than a human’s tongue would be and with far more potential, too. As you caress his body but ignore his cock you look up, watching the way he wraps it round your digits and out to taste the sweat on your palm.

“I think you can be very good, actually.”

You press a single kiss to his shaft before you sit back up, reaching over to your side table to get out the (recently) well-used bottle of lube.

Beetlejuice groans in annoyance when you extract your fingers from his mouth, but watches curiously as you pour a generous portion of it into your hand.

“Knees open for me, honey.”

Beetlejuice does as he’s bid, for once without arguing, watching you like a hawk as you press two fingers to the rim of his hole.

“Fu-uu-uck,” he groans as you push inside him, all the way down to your final knuckle. He takes you like a champion. You crook your fingers upwards to press into the sweet spot you know is there and he throws his head back with a choked moan.

“Babes…”

“Hmm?”

You pump your fingers in and out, adding a third, holding his desperate gaze. You like him like this. Putty in your hand, lost for words because of the pleasure you have him strung out on.

“Y-y’know, demon bodies are built different to breathers. You don’t need to prep me.”

You hum as you consider this.

“Maybe I just wanted to feel you, Beej.”

He lets out another moan, this one a lot more wanton than before. He struggles for words.

“Does it feel good, honey?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Then don’t think. Just enjoy it.”

Beetlejuice collapses back from where he’s been holding himself up on his forearms, reaching back and holding onto your bed pillows for dear life.

You continue your work languidly, in no great hurry to have this over. You enjoy Beetlejuice being reduced to a quivering mess around your fingers. Bring him down a peg or two - hah!, so to speak. You watch the way his cock hardens and bounces against his stomach, leaving smears of precome against the hair leading down to his groin. If you were feeling kind you might take it in your hand, give it a couple of pumps.

However, you’re feeling more like gently torturing him.

Eventually you extract your hand. You add some extra lube to the strap and wipe what’s left off your slippery fingers and onto his chest. His fingers grip the pillows so hard you can hear the sound of fabric tearing.

“Ready?”

“Fuck. Shit. Yeah. Just, fuck, give me anything, babe. I’m dying here.”

You resist the urge to ask, “but aren’t you already dead?” and instead line up the head of your dick with his entrance. You push in reasonably slow, giving him time to adjust, but quickly find yourself bottoming out.

Opened up on you, Beetlejuice thrashes and turns.

“Holy crap, move,” he chokes.

“Magic word?”

“Come on, babes -”

You sigh dramatically and begin to pull out.

“Okay, fine! Please! Fucking, fuck me, please!”

With a vulpine grin, you do.

Your hips move hard and fast against his own, spearing him over and over again with your strap. Each push grinds down into your clit as it hits his prostate, pleasuring you both. But you have a job to focus on. And that’s to reduce him to a blubbering mess.

So far it seems like you’re succeeding.

“Fuck, yes, ah-!” Beetlejuice covers his face with his hands as he loses himself in the pleasure of being fucked, but you don’t let him stay like that - instead you link your fingers through his own and hold them down into your ruined pillows, pinning him and making sure you can see his face.

The sounds your dick makes are obscene, the intimate slide of wet flesh, but it’s all worth it when Beetlejuice hauls his legs up to wrap them around your waist. You feel him cross his ankles to lock himself in place underneath you.

“You want to come, huh, Beej?”

He nods, desperate.

“Gonna need to hear you say it out loud, sugar.”

“Yes!”

“Then come.”

And he does, with a roar that makes you glad you waited until the Deetzes were gone in order to whip this out. He shoots hot spurts all over his stomach, nearly crying with the effort of his release.

“You okay, Beej?”

“Fucking peachy,” he pants, grinning dirtily. You laugh, untangling one of your hands so you can affectionately brush the hair away that’s stuck to his forehead.

“Weird that you only had, what, two suitcases? And that was one of the things you chose to pack.”

“Are you complaining?”

Beetlejuice catches your wrist in his hand and presses a kiss to it.

“Nah, never.”

Then he flips you on your back to return the favour.

The Deetz family return after a few days to a perfectly in-tact house. You managed to keep most of your and Beetlejuice’s escapades confined to your bedroom, but when he slipped his hand down your underwear when you were in the middle of washing up… well, you weren’t going to turn him away, were you?

You just had to make sure the Maitlands weren’t permanently scarred by anything you got up to.

Things settle back into normality, and as April turns to May, you get ready for the end of your uni semester.

It’s a hot afternoon. You’re making sure to keep hydrated as you tap away on your laptop. Beetlejuice isn’t explicitly saying “pay attention to me”, but he might as well be when he comes floating into your room, settling on your bed and staring intently at you. Music plays gently from your speakers, a gentle background noise as you make some edits to your university work.

He’s quiet for about .5 seconds.

“Oh shit, is this Rumours by Fleetwood Mac?”

You nod, tapping your foot to the beat.

“Only one of the -”

“Best albums ever written!” you both conclude. You grin at him, pleased to share this opinion.

“Man, Stevie Nicks is crazy. Lights up the room down in the Netherworld.”

“Wait, Stevie Nicks isn’t dead, is she?”

“I never said she was dead,” Beetlejuice says, puzzled. You decide to let that topic lie, actually.

“What are you doing?”

“Picking out some photos for our photography show next week. They hire out a little gallery in town to showcase everyone’s work, I want to make sure I pick the best stuff I have.”

“Oh.” A beat. “Can I come?”

You look up at Beetlejuice from over your laptop screen. He’s playing with an errant thread off your quilt, pretending not to care about your answer, but failing spectacularly.

“You want to, bug?”

“‘Course I do. Seeing your work in a gallery is like, professional shit. I wanna be there.”

You smile softly at him, feeling a rush of affection spread across your chest.

“Sure you can, Beej.”

“What, really?” he perks up.

“Well, I’d want my boyfriend to be there, right?”

There’s no hiding the pink that streaks his hair.

“But you have to promise to behave. No funny business.”

“Babe. As I live and breathe, I’d never get into any funny business.”

“You neither live nor breathe.”

“Haha, yeah.”

You know nobody can see Beetlejuice hovering along beside you, holding your hand and being dragged around the gallery space as he hovers in the air. But it’s still nice. To be in a public setting with your boyfriend, wandering around like the two of you are on a normal date. You’re wearing a black pair of trousers and blazer, the little ‘B’ necklace hanging between your collarbones.

It feels nice. It feels normal.

“What the fuck is that meant to be?” Beetlejuice asks, squinting at one of the prints from your classmate. You hide a laugh under your hand.

“I think it’s a sewer pipe.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah that tracks,” he says, wrinkling his nose at the rest of the display. You swallow a guffaw with a mouthful of wine and lead him over to your space.

“And this is my stuff.”

You stop in front of a small, muted selection of your photographs. They’re all in black and white, your preferred medium - and most of them are from the Deetz house. Angles of the building itself. Dead wildlife you found in the grass. Decaying flowers.

One of them is of you.

You don’t love self portraits, but you’ve been learning to get more confident with your appearance. The photo is a close up of your face. You’re looking down, face gently melancholy, hair falling into your eyes.

Beetlejuice stares at it.

“Wow. You look… wow,” is all he can say.

“Ha. Thanks, I guess.”

“I mean it. You really have an eye for this stuff,” he says. It feels weird, hearing a sincere compliment leave his mouth, but you can feel yourself begin to get a little bit flustered because of it.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I mean, you should make a living doing this.”

You’re so genuinely flattered you can’t come up with a teasing response.

“Thank you, Beej.”

He scratches the back of his head, awkward at the rawness of the moment. Then he spies the spread that’s been put out for visitors to the gallery.

“Oh hell yeah, I’m gonna go and fucking destroy those crudites.”

Beetlejuice presses a kiss to your cheek before descending upon the buffet like a man possessed.

Next to you, a man in a black polo neck is surveying your work. He gives an appraising nod.

“You’re the photographer, I take it?”

“I am, sir.”

He nods again.

“Very interesting work. You have an intimate understanding of the relationship between life and death.”

You’re glad Beetlejuice is out of earshot. You can just imagine him chiming in, hell yeah they do!

“Thank you.”

The man passes a business card from his pocket. Your eyes go wide when you see the name printed on it.

Oh god. It’s him. From that magazine…?!

“I’m here as a favour from your professor. We’re old friends, and I come to these shows to seek out new talent. Usually I come up empty. But you,” he turns to look at you for the first time, tearing his eyes away from your photos, “you have something. How would you like to come and work for me?”

Your mouth is hanging open. You close it with a pop.

“For you? From here?”

That would be… well, perfect. You’ve been looking at apartments around here for when your degree is over and lease is up at the Deetz household. You could be near Beetlejuice and Lydia and do something you love. This dream job would be the icing on the cake.

“What? Oh, Christ, of course not. This is rural Connecticut. Nothing happens here. No. You’d need to move to Los Angeles, of course.”

Your heart plummets in your chest.

#Beetlejuice x reader

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