#bob the shrunken head

[aworldofpattern]

Jenna Ortega wearing embossed leather corset by Lurline, on the Beetlejuice press tour, 2024.

Lurline: 'We are thrilled to have had the opportunity to collaborate with Enrique Melendez on his vision of “bob” the shrunken head and create a leather corset and skirt inspired by one of our favourite films.

The corset features subtle bob skull motifs and the extra drapey waves are inspired by his wrinkly shrunken visage. We had fun playing with the leather cords on the mouth and skirt, and the rich teal colour adds to that perfect Beetlejuice + soft goth world we love so much. 🖤🖤🖤 🪲🧃"

[poekiidokidoki]

Just came back from watching Beetlejuice Beetlejuice and I had to doodle Bob.

[seashellisinmyheart]

I would die for this dude.

[oldwickedlotus]

Working on my next digital painting.

[madfoolish]

[ultradude13]

Bob (Shrunken Head) character poster

[butterflysnowflake]

okay going to put my usual thirst stuff in my tags but I really loved his later scenes in the movie and the amount of development he got for his fairly small screen time, you really do get the feel (especially in his speech to the squad) that he knew damn well he wasn't qualified for his position but he's still Doing His Best. and what he's best at is, well, acting. if that means just leaning into the role he's in and inspiring everyone else, he'll give it 110%. Faking it till you make it all timer.

like how can you NOT love this dork he's a legitimately good person who got stuck with a massively bad hand and now he's just trying to live his best death the best he can.

Wolf Jackson being the best character in Beetlejuice Beetlejuice for almost 2 minutes.

[octuscle]

Halloween Spirit

Mortimer didn't think much of video games and the like. Like social media, he blamed them for the dumbing down of the population and the success of populist parties. And if proof were needed, his cousin Dylan was proof. Dumb as a bag of

Since he couldn't find a hotel anymore, Mortimer had been forced to stay with Dylan during a conference. They hadn't talked much, Dylan was usually out with his “bros.” At the gym, at the sports bar, at the football game. Mortimer had used the evenings accordingly and cleaned the apartment, which was quite a mess. And when he came home in the evening, he was glad when a little of that cleanliness and order remained. Today he was lucky: the apartment was almost in the same condition as when he left it in the morning. There was only a PSP with a note on the dining room table. In Dylan's clumsy handwriting it said, “Bro, can you help me with the Halloween quiz? I always fail on the first I'll be back at eight, let's go for a steak then.” Mortimer was a vegan. Of course Dylan knew that. Mortimer sighed, took the PSP and sat down on the sofa.

“What is the etymology of the name Halloween?“ Good heavens, thought Mortimer! Is this going to continue at this level? He typed in ‘All Hallows’ Eve.” “Who does the custom of carving and lighting jack-o'-lanterns commemorate (last name, first name)?” Did Dylan really not know that, Mortimer wondered and typed in “Jack Oldfield.” “Wrong” lit up on the display. “The correct answer would have been 'Oldfield, Jack'.” Out of the blue, Mortimer had to burp. Stupid software, he thought. A good AI would have recognized that he had only mixed up the order. He took a sip of cola from the can on the coffee table. ‘On which day do children in Germany traditionally go from door to door collecting sweets?’ Mortimer scratched his head. That was on St. Martin's Day. But when was that again? He typed in “November 11th.” Again, “Wrong! The correct message would have been November 10th.” Mortimer burped again. Hehehe, that was a good one. Came from the chili today. He took a slice of cold pizza out of the box next to him and moved on to the next question. “What is a zombie brain hemorrhage?” Mortimer had no idea. He just wrote “a TV series”. “Wrong, a zombie brain haemorrhage is a cocktail made of peach schnapps, mint liqueur, Bailey's Irish cream and a dash of grenadine.” Mortimer farted. Damn, the chili had been really good. But something else stank too. Mortimer raised his arm. No, that wasn't it. That was honest man sweat. Just the way a man had to smell. Mortimer pushed up his undershirt and scratched his stomach. This game was really boring. “What is the most popular Halloween costume of 2024?” Mortimer didn't feel like it anymore. He would put on his football gear like every year. With that, he could get any guy into bed. Especially the little nerds. They weren't so bad, usually made a real effort in bed… Shit, what was the question again? Okay, so “football player”. “Wrong, the correct answer would have been ‘Shrunken Head Bob’.” Was there another beer in this pigsty, Mortimer wondered. He looked at what other games Dylan had on the PSP. When was the idiot finally coming home? They were supposed to go out for a steak with the guys. Mortimer could definitely use some protein. He flexed his biceps. Yes, the babies needed feeding.

“Bruh, im still stucc in traffic. Ill b home in about a quarter of an hr. Get ready fo' an epic dinner!” Mortimer knew what that meant. He wouldn't need his best buddy Dylan for the next hour. Enough time to play another round of Peace Walker. And then there was finally meat, almost raw, just how Morty liked it best. Hehehe, rare is also good for Halloween. His favorite holiday. But who could come up with such a stupid quiz with smart-aleck questions about it was a mystery to him.

[cobaltperun]

Darkest Part (5) - Bad Medicine

Astrid Deetz x female Reader

Summary: You will never, in life or afterlife, if such a thing exists, meet anyone as infuriating, rage inducing, entitled, or frankly awful, as Astrid fucking Deetz. There isn’t a single thing you’d like more than to never be around her, but as your luck would have it, you just can’t stay away from her.

Masterlist / First part / Previous Part / Next Part (Finale)

Word count: 6.5k

-Your love is like bad medicine, bad medicine is what I need-

The afterlife was so damn random. Your first experience with afterlife was an office with a bunch of tall men with shrunken heads. Some of them had only one eye! And not in the eyepatch kind of way, but in the one big eye like a cyclops way! And one of them was dressed exactly like Beetlejuice, and that was the most normal thing in this entire office! “What the fuck,” you whispered as Beetlejuice turned to the one dressed just like him.

“Bob, you and the boys stand guard! Nobody gets through,” he then turned to Lydia “Let's go, honey,” well you were already here so there was no going back. Why were you doing this again? Oh, yeah, because Astrid went and got herself into trouble. You went after him and Lydia only to be met with even more randomness and the utter bizarre feeling permeating this entire world. You realized everything was tilted, the floors, the walls, absolutely everything in this place was at an angle and it wasn't even consistent! If it wasn't for this kind of circumstance, you would actually marvel at the architecture of all of this.

“We’re like Bonnie and Clyde, you and me, without bullet holes,” Beetlejuice pointed out almost giddily as he led you and Lydia down the halls.

“Do you even know where we’re going?” Lydia wasn't having any of it.

“You go right down the hallway, three rights through the ninth door right,” he pumped his fist. “To the Soul Train,” Beetlejuice instructed you and it made it sound like he wasn't going with you.

“Where are you going? Lydia asked immediately, for all her dislike of the whatever Beetlejuice was he did seem powerful, and if you were going to save Astrid from the clutches of death you might as well have someone powerful on your side. Someone who actually knew where you were supposed to head after you rescue her.

“I’m gonna go to the little boy’s room first,” why did a guy that was probably a powerful demon or spirit of sort and probably very, very old, just use that phrase? Why was he so immature? Just why?

“Fuck it, let's just go,” you ran through the halls following the directions Beetlejuice gave you and soon enough you could see the crowd forming on your path. “That’s a good sign,” you told Lydia and she nodded. The crowd did slow you down a bit, but not by a lot, they seemed more interested in dancing and having fun rather than actually getting to their destination. Well, if after life was for an eternity then you guessed they didn't really have anywhere to rush, they would have all the time in the world.

Unless there were something you didn't know about and ghosts could die and now your head hurt because you were thinking about too many things that you didn't need to think about right now! You entered the train station that looked kind of like a disco themed train station and the music playing kind of gave it that feel too. You looked over the crowd from the stairs looking for Astrid but all you could see was a lot of dead people.

“Astrid!” Lydia yelled from the stairs and then you caught sight of the two people dragging someone in a dress that looked a lot like what Astrid was wearing for Halloween.

“There,” was no way you would mistake anyone for her. “There she is!” you pointed your finger towards her and jumped over the fence running through the crowd as quickly as you could, pushing through the ghosts just as Astrid was pushed on to the train. “Damn it!” you cursed trying to keep your sight on the doors they pushed Astrid through. “Astrid!” you yelled as loud as you could, for the first time ever saying her name, though that didn't even cross your mind, and you pushed through the door where she stood, frozen in fear and clearly panicking on the inside. “Come on, let's get out of here,” you grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the train just as Lydia caught up to you.

“Astrid!” Lydia quickly pulled her into a hug and Astrid immediately wrapped her arms around her mother. There was no hesitation, or resentment Astrid carried up until now, there was just pure happiness at seeing her mother.

You smiled, happy that you made it in time, though you would still have to find the bastard that tricked Astrid into trading her soul. You should have known things were going too easy. Not only did the guys that pushed Astrid into the train came back due to all the commotion you made, but there were also some guys dressed like police officers pointing toward you and Lydia. “We need to run!” you yelled and all three of you looked around for an exit that wasn't blocked.

“Over there,” Lydia pointed at the door to your left.

“You’re such a pain in the ass,” you muttered to Astrid as the three of you began running.

“Save it for later, Barnacle,” she hissed at you, but you could tell she knew this was still a really bad situation. For all you knew you would be running right into another trap and you had no idea how to reunite with Beetlejuice so he could help you deal with the rest of Astrid’s problem.

Since you reached it first you forcefully pushed the doors open, only to stumble forward and fall face first into the sand from way too high. How were you not hurt? Sure, the sand cushioned your fall, but still…

A shriek from above made your eyes widen and the next thing you felt was a body falling right on top of you and not only knocking all the air out of your lungs but also managed to fill your mouth with sand.

“Sorry,” of course it was Astrid that fell on top of you.

You just spat out the sand that got into your mouth and sighed, at this point you should have been concerned about your safety and health, but from the looks of it, working for Delia made you free from such petty burdens. Still, unlike falling onto the sand, this one hurt, like actually hurt, and you just knew you would be feeling it for a long time. “Forget the chihuahua you are much heavier than that. You're an entire pack of chihuahuas!” you groaned, and accidentally missed the smile on her face as she patted you on the shoulder.

“At least you've softened the fall for me, Y/N,” did she just say your name? You must have hit your head. That was the only explanation.

You laughed mockingly. “That's exactly what I intended. My life's purpose is now fulfilled, and I can die in peace,” sarcasm dripped from your voice as you stood up with a long, audible, groan. You were 95% certain you would end up with back pain for the rest of your life from Astrid falling on top of you.

Astrid groaned and smacked her forehead. “You didn't just say that. Right here and right now,” she sighed, and well, you supposed this was a really bad timing.

No regrets though! In fact, you were rather satisfied grinning with pride.

“And you regret nothing, of course you don’t,” she pinched the bridge of her nose, but you swore you could see a smile on her face. Astrid finally looked around and you felt absolutely lost, after all, all you were seeing was all the sand and more sand and endless sand around you. “Hey, where are we?” Astrid asked what probably all three of you were thinking.

“I don't know,” Lydia admitted and you just shrugged. Geography really wasn't your strongest suit but it didn't look like any desert you were aware of.

“Is that Saturn?” you followed Astrid’s line of sight and the direction she was pointing at, and sure enough… there was a fucking planet right there! “So, we must be on one of its moons? I swear the afterlife is so random!”

“You can say that again,” you said, you definitely weren't guessing that from just the planet but now that you looked at it, it really did seem obvious. Still, damn this girl was smart.

All of a sudden the sand close to you began shaking and looking like it was rippling, like something underneath it was moving.

“Maybe we should just, you know, run!” there was no way that was a good sign and you weren’t about to wait for Astrid and Lydia to get the message, you just pushed them away from the sand and began running away from whatever was moving under the sand. From the looks of it, it was big and you did not want to risk becoming a dinner for some afterlife monster.

And you made a good decision as something emerged from the sand and you looked back. “Holy shit!” you cried out. It was some kind a huge worm and it was easily bigger than any animal aside from a whale that you ever saw.

“Sandworm!” Lydia identifying the creature wasn’t helping, but now you would at least know you got eaten by a sandworm if you failed to escape.

“Got any idea how to escape?!” you glanced at Lydia. She was the expert, surely she had-

“None! Just keep running!” yeah, great, that would work, especially when the sandworm caught up to them much faster than they were running. And then by some miracle a door opened above you.

“Take my hand!” someone yelled, and at this point you didn’t care if it was a demon, or police, or anything, as long as it wasn’t this sandworm. You and Lydia let Astrid up first, and then Lydia pushed you to go ahead next. You were not about to argue with her, so you let the man pull you up and then helped him bring Lydia up as well and he closed the door right as the sandworm collided with it.

You dropped down on the floor and took several deep breaths. There would be a lot to unpack here if you survived. And the worst thing about it? If you told any of this to roughly 99% or even every single psychiatrist you’d be sent to an asylum.

“Dad,” Astrid whispered and you finally glanced at the man that saved you. Actually, now that you looked at him, you could see some resemblance, especially if one ignored the color of his skin and the fishes attached to his body eating his flesh. Well, at least someone was making some good memories in this damn world. The best you had this far was Astrid falling on top of you, and that would probably leave long-lasting consequences on your back. Astrid and Lydia hugged the man and you just sat back, letting the family reunion unfold undisturbed by your presence.

~X~

Astrid's dad let you all into an office of sorts and poured coffee into the mugs as Lydia and Astrid sat at the table you stood back not really sure how to act and not wanting to intrude on the family reunion. Besides, there was another issue, as much as you could see that Astrid needed some closure and a moment with her dad you also knew your time was ticking. Not to mention there was some kind of police after you and Lydia for entering this world while still being alive, and there was also the bastard that stole Astrid's life to be dealt with. So, as much as you understood Astrid needed to have this moment with her father you also knew you just had to go.

In fact, you had to leave five minutes ago.

“Marie Curie, after the radiation poisoning. Right?” her dad asked, and you finally took a better look at her. You didn’t dare to ask her what her costume was when she was leaving and now that you looked at her properly and her dad pointed it out, well, it was obvious…

Like hell it was!

Who would look at that dress and immediately go: ‘Oh, yeah, Marie Curie!’ and sure, it was pretty much as close to her dress and hairstyle from one of her most well-known photos, but still! How many people would remember the exact dress right away?

“Learnt from the best,” but Astrid did look proud of herself, so you figured you should let the chihuahua be delusional.  

“We made a great kid,” Astrid’s dad turned to Lydia and no matter what you did less than an hour ago you were very tempted to disagree.

“I know you can't see me, but I check in on your both all the time,” okay, that was actually really sweet. “And I don't want to be the reason that drove you two apart, you need each other, you make each other better. Always have,” you blinked a few times, taking in the image of the happy family hug.

This was too wholesome for your own good. This was not the side of Astrid you needed to see!

Damn it!

When the family separated Astrid glanced at you and froze for a moment before smirking. “Don’t go soft on me now, Barnacle,” she just had to call you out, didn’t she?!

Blood rushed to your face, and you were sure steam burst out of your ears. Considering how crazy and absurd this whole place was, maybe it did happen. “I am not! And quit wasting time, we need to get your soul back, you damn chihuahua!” you swiftly left the room. You would get Astrid’s soul back, leave this afterlife world, and never see the damn chihuahua again!

Astrid walked out after you, with her parents right behind her. “Come on, before our cantankerous Barnacle gets lost,” she said it with a strange sense of cheerfulness in her tone, but that was the least of your worries.

“Can-Cantan- I’m sorry, what?!” you stammered, not even remotely capable of figuring out the meaning of that word.

“Cranky, grumpy,” her dad provided, and you finally figured out where she got it from.

“Fucking chihuahua,” you felt your eye twitching as she just laughed at you.

“Come on,” while still laughing she actually went and grabbed your forearm, pulling you along. “Which way, dad?” she asked, turning to her dad as you focused on her hand wrapped around your forearm.

“Right down the hall, we need to stop him before the transfer becomes permanent,” her dad took lead, and you could feel Astrid’s grip on your arm getting tighter and it finally made sense to you. She needed a sense of normality, so she provoked you, so she could, at least for a moment, forget her life was still on the line.

~X~

You followed Astrid’s dad through the halls, having no idea which way you were going but according to him you would need to intercept the bastard that tricked Astrid before he got his passport stamped and made the transfer permanent. Why was it so easy for him to accomplish his goal while you, frankly, had no idea how to get the process reversed.

You didn't know what you could do to stop him, sure you could catch him, but what then? “Hey, how do we make him give Astrid’s soul back?” because you doubted a monster like him would just hand it over.

Astrid’s dad stopped for a moment. “I'm not sure, we’ll figure it out after we catch him,” he turned to Astrid. “We’ll figure it out, sweetheart, I promise you.”

“Dad,” Astrid whispered now uncertain what the outcome of this would be.

“I promise,” he repeated even though all four of you knew that deep down maybe this was an empty promise.

And it damn near was just an empty promise.

You reached the entrance of the officers only to see the guy smirking smugly. He was too far away, you couldn’t reach him. “Don't stamp that passport!” Astrid’s dad yelled but it was too late whoever was behind the counter stamped the passport.

“You're too late, man,” he said and your eyes widened as you, instinctively rather than through a conscious effort, caught Astrid as she slumped back. Your heart beat wildly inside of your chest, how could you have let this happen? You looked at Astrid and you couldn't even apologize. You all failed her, the transfer was complete and she would die right here. You just didn't make it in time.

But then as if by some miracle the floor opened beneath the man and he just fell through into the flames. Then you saw what happened, the one who put the stamp on the transfer was Beetlejuice. A sense of relief flooded you, but you could not ignore how useless you felt. If he wasn't there you would have failed, this would have all been for nothing.

There wasn’t time to celebrate though. “This way!” Astrid's dad led you once more, after all, you still had the police after you and Lydia to worry about. He led you until you reached a small room with a crooked ladder leading through an opening in the ceiling.

“OK, this is as far as I go,” Astrid’s dad said and immediately Astrid hugged him.

��I love you,” she whispered wanting him to know that because there was no telling when she would get the chance to say it again.

“I love you too, sweetheart. Have an amazing life,” he held her as tightly as he possibly could before letting her go and looking at both her and Lydia. “Take care of each other, I'll see you later,” he told them both.  

The three of you climbed outside and it turned out you were back at the cemetery, somehow. “I'm not even going to question anything,” you sighed, at this point learning to accept that the things around this family were just going to be weird and you had no control over it.

It definitely felt good to breathe in some fresh air. Even if your back hurt. ‘Yup, this is going to keep hurting,’ you thought and frowned as you massaged your lower back.

Astrid turned to Lydia. “Thank you for saving my life! I'm so sorry I never believed that you saw ghosts and, I’m just sorry for all of it,” Astrid was crying for the first time since you met her, she apologized with all of her heart to Lydia, and you looked away not wanting to interrupt the moment.

It just crossed your mind that you had no place in any of this. You were, at best, Delia's assistant who just happened to be there. You had no connection to either Lydia or Astrid other than the fact that you and Astrid did not exactly like each other, so being here actually felt uncomfortable.

Now that the adrenaline was gone and Astrid was saved you caught yourself wondering why you even went after Astrid. Lydia could have done it herself and you went and risked your life for someone you claimed to hate, and it was the most ridiculous decision you could have made.

“Oh my God, my wedding!” Lydia’s shout broke you out of your thoughts and that was the last thing you expected to hear from her right now, but here you were.

“Wait, mom, after everything that's happened tonight you know you don't have to do this, right?” Astrid went after her mother and then she realized you weren't following her. She turned to you grabbed you by the hand, pulling you along.

“Wait, Chihuahua!” you protested, but you really should have known you weren’t going to accomplish anything.

“Come on, please. After all of this I can’t deal with this wedding alone,” she admitted and you sighed, deciding to leave the feelings related to whether you should or shouldn't have gone after Astrid for later. At the end of the day, you did the right thing. You wanted to save her life consequences be damned, you had no intention of feeling guilt over that. And the feeling of her hand wrapped around your made that decision much easier.

“I might as well deal with this stupid wedding as well,” you shrugged, ignoring how your heart speed up when she smiled at your words.

Satisfied that you were coming with her and still holding your hand, Astrid turned to her mother once more. “Are you sure about this?”

Lydia was not sure, you could tell that. but she probably figured that if she didn’t do it now she would just get cold feet later and give up on the wedding altogether. Which would be a smart thing to do but you doubted she would reach that decision that easily. “Rory loves me and that's gotta be enough,” there was definitely something about her Rory loved, and you really believed it wasn’t what Lydia thought it was.

The three of you went into the church and the relief on Rory's face looked genuine, which was actually surprising, but then you heard the crowd already filming the event sitting on the pews and it all made sense. “Oh my God, I thought you got cold feet.”

“No, blame me. She just saves me for my date from hell,” Astrid sad and you probably couldn't describe what happened to her in a better way. A date from hell has never been so literal.

“Who are all these people?” Lydia was understandably confused as she looked at the people Rory invited, and you could tell she didn’t recognize any of them.

“Just a couple of influencers. Nobody under 5 million followers and I think we have a Netflix executive in here,” and Rory found nothing wrong with that. He had his ideas and he was not going to compromise them for the sake of Lydia’s comfort, and you know for a fact that she said she didn't want too many guests, that she wanted this to be private.

“Damn you're an asshole,” you shook your head, only now realizing Delia wasn’t here, and sure, she could be self-absorbed at times, and she disliked Rory, but she wouldn’t miss this. “Where is Delia?” you asked.

“Right here! She’s helping me calm down before the wedding,” and Beetlejuice was right here, probably to collect on his part of the deal with Delia somehow right with him.

How did that even-? You weren’t even going to bother anymore. You thought the madness would be over by now, but no, the show was still going on.

You patted Astrid on the shoulder and just slumped against the wall until you sat down. “Look, I’m just gonna sit here and rest for a bit, I need a moment,” was there a way to get therapy and avoid being sent to an asylum for the rest of your life?

Astrid had a strangely compassionate look on face. “Yeah, sure. Thanks for being here, and I mean it,” somehow you trusted her, even with all the banter and fights between the two of you. She crouched down so she was at your eye-level. “I mean it, Y/N,” you definitely trusted her and you smiled nudging her lightly toward her mother.

What followed was the back and forth between Beetlejuice and Rory that you frankly didn't care about much but what really got your attention was when Beetlejuice just randomly manifested a syringe with something inside of it and injected Rory with it. And apparently what was within it was some kind of a truth serum.

Rory looked like he was trying to stay silent, but then he couldn’t hold it back anymore. “I always thought your whole act was bullshit! I never believed in ghosts, spirits or any of it,” well now you were kind of happy you didn't go back to the house because seeing this emotional manipulator get his just deserts was worth it.

“What? All this time? Why did you want to get married?” Lydia had the most reasonable reaction to Rory's confession, but you honestly had to wonder just how he managed to trick her so well she.

“Money! I knew I could make more as your husband than I could as your manager! Oh, and I never had a dead fiancé! I just went to that survivors retreat so that I can weak women and exploit them and I hit the codependent lottery when I met you!” he was truly, absolutely a scumbag. An ever bigger one than you imagined.

And then Beetlejuice continued to defy all the laws of logic and the nature and created a boxing glove on Lydia's right hand, which somehow gave Lydia enough strength to punch Rory across the church.

“Okay, that was satisfying to see, but what the hell is going on here? Just how?” you asked blankly, just for a moment wondering why you even bothered trying to reasonably explain things happening tonight.

“Beats me, we got to see Rory flying,” Astrid pointed out and well you couldn’t see the flaw in that logic. “Say, what would you confess if someone injecting that into you?” oh no…

“I can arrange that,” Beetlejuice said before you could react and one second later you felt a needle pierce your neck and off you went just like Rory did.

You weren’t even trying to fight it. “I don't hate you, at all. Actually, I kinda like you. I mean, you do annoy me, but I like you. Uh, thanks for you know, fixing my drawing and I'm really impressed by your vocabulary, and that really infuriates me because I have to Google a lot of words because of you,” you took a deep breath and just sighed, not even capable of looking at Astrid right now because of how embarrassed you were. “And I think you are really beautiful, and damn that thing really works… Oh my God, this is a nightmare,” you glanced at Astrid and saw she was completely red in the face. “Well, at least seeing you blush makes it worth it,” you had to shut your mouth and make a genuine effort to keep more of how you felt from spilling out.

“Barnacle,” at this point that was turning into a pet name more than an insult, so you fired right back.

“Chihuahua,” the two of you had the strangest nicknames for one another that was clear by now. “I actually don’t mind that you call me that,” you admitted, still under the effect of the serum and smacked your forehead. “Fuck!” you cursed.

Astrid looked away, still blushing. “Noted,” she muttered, but you could see the smile on her face.

Finally, you looked away from Astrid and immediately saw horror that would haunt you for the rest of your life. At this point you could make a rather long list of those things. But this one was at the very top, as the people who Rory invited were being sucked into their phones. You were tempted to just leave but you weren’t about to leave Astrid here. Even if you were mostly sure she wouldn’t be hurt.

And then you must have been transported into a fever dream because Lydia suddenly changed into a red wedding dress, Beetlejuice’s clothes changed as well, music started playing and there was this huge melting, kind of disgusting looking, cake and you were all forced to dance and then the police zombies showed up.

And then, just as randomly as you were forced to start dancing you just stopped. “Is it finally over?” you asked no one in particular, though Astrid and Delia were the closest to you.

“Knowing this guy? This is just the beginning,” yeah Delia really had a way to console you and make you feel better.

The door slammed open suddenly all of you could see a woman, covered in stitches, standing there menacingly, and you had no idea who she was but something about her made her seem dangerous.

“Beetlejuice!” oh, yeah, he did start mentioning an ex before you interrupted him. That felt like a lifetime ago at this point.

“What the fuck?” oh, you were absolutely fucked if Beetlejuice of all people… or well, ghosts or demons or whatever he was, said that.

So, you did the most reasonable thing you could and stood in front of Astrid just in case this woman decided to turn her attention toward her. “What are you doing?” she hissed at you, but she did grab onto your shoulder.

“I don’t know, we are surrounded by supernatural beings and I clearly have a death wish, because I’d rather get between you and that, than let you get hurt,” oh, you were still under the effect of the truth serum.

“I'm back,” the woman declared.

“We can se-“ you were about to speak, but Astrid quickly put her hand over your mouth.

“Maybe that truth serum wasn’t worth it,” she groaned, pressing her forehead against your shoulder.

“You think?” your voice came out muffled by her hand, but you still said what came to your mind. “Look, if that guy looks afraid, I think we need to be afraid too,” you whispered, and Astrid nodded and as subtly as she could pointed toward the book near the three of you.

“Cover me,” Astrid said and you weren't sure how you were going to do it, but seeing as Beetlejuice was trying to talk his way out of whatever trouble he was in you figured he had you all covered.

Astrid came back to your and Delia’s side with the book in hands and flipped through the pages until she found the part about the Sandworms. “Can you get me something I can draw with?” she asked, and you were never so happy you always had a pen at your disposal.

“Here,” you handed it to her. Astrid nodded, drawing the square on the floor before knocking and then she pushed you and Delia away from the square, and just in time as the sandworm broke through the floor.

“Astrid, you are- I don't even have the words,” you could only watch as Beetlejuice directed the worm toward Rory and the woman and made it eat them. Which was somehow not even the most bizarre thing that happened tonight.

“OK, can we just go now?” you asked and from the looks of it everyone seemed to agree with you as you, and Astrid, Lydia and Delia all began heading for the exit.

“Hey, we had a deal!” Beetlejuice reminded Lydia, with the contract she signed held in his hand.

Much to your surprise, Astrid stepped forward. “She doesn’t have to marry you. You violated code 699! Yes, you illegally brought my mom into the afterlife,” she lifted the damn book up. “According to this book that contract is null and void,” Astrid explained. Did you ever admit that you actually really liked this girl because you did and she just rescued her mom back.

“Truth serum still works,” Delia snickered next to you.

“Fuck!” you cursed, knowing full well you said that and that, given you were merely half a dozen feet away from Astrid, she heard you.

Lydia stepped closed to Beetlejuice. “Look I'm sorry things didn't work out between us, but the six hundred year age gap was a little bit too much for me. Beetle-“ he began hissing but she just raised her finger. “Beetlejuice,” he began inflating as Lydia for his name, “Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice” Beetlejuice just popped like a balloon. That was it, he was gone. This was probably over now.

Hopefully.

There was still a chance you would jinx yourself right here and now and another bullshit would happen.

Police officers from the world of the dead unfroze and their detective began yapping about forensics and keeping the media away and he even posed so you could all take a selfie, and you were doing your very best to ignore him. That is until he reached over and just grabbed Delia. “Sister you're coming with me,” he said.

“Hey wait, she belongs here,” you went to stop him, consequences be damned, but before you could reach her Delia just shook her head and you halted, confused by her reaction. She was just fine when you last saw her, but then you saw them, the bite marks.

“What? Delia what did you do?” Lydia asked, exasperated.

“I fell for a scam and I'm counting on you to claim a refund,” the snakes, the damn snakes.

“The snakes were actually poisonous, weren't they?” Astrid voiced what you just realized.

“Yeah. So, I died of embarrassment,” yeah, sure you could go with Delia's explanation.

“Whatever makes you rest in peace,” you grinned at her for a bit, but the smile fell as quickly as it appeared. She was dead, and you came to really care about her.

“Your work is gonna go up in value,” and Astrid was joking as well or rather finding the brighter side and the entire situation.

“Oh well then,” and at least it made Delia happy.

“Oh, Delia, I’ll miss you,” Lydia reached over and touched her stepmother.

“No you won't! I'll find Charles and we'll haunt you all until you beg us to move on,” Delia promised and you were sure she would keep her words, and then she was taken away leaving only you Astrid and Lydia in the church.

“Well, this was… an experience,” you had no idea how things would continue from this point on. Was Rory dead? Were all the people he invited just gone? This was too much of a headache, a fever dream you were hoping to wake up from.

Wait…

Delia was dead!

“Fuck! I lost my job!” you cursed only for Astrid to pat you on the back.

~X~

The next morning you woke up still under the effect of what happened the previous night and all the things you learned saw and experienced. In your mind that was supposed to be an unknown and now you knew what happened after death. Now you knew how things were once someone dies and from the looks of it now you could see ghosts just like Lydia and Astrid. And then there was Astrid… and all the things you said under the effects of that damn truth serum.

Slowly, with a frown on your face and some pain in your back, you got out of your bed and got ready for the day. You were actually surprised you even slept last night, but maybe you were just that exhausted.

You went down the stairs to find Astrid sitting there. “Hey,” she actually greeted you first without snide remark or an insult hurled toward you she even had a small smile on her face. So, the last night really did happen. If the pain in your back wasn’t enough of a proof this definitely was.

“Hey,” neither of you seemed eager to actually have a conversation after everything that happened. You understood, she damn near died so if you were in her shoes you probably would have tried staying in bed for as long as you possibly could. You'd probably start avoiding every single person fearing they might try to trade their your life for their own, so she was handling this a lot better than you would.

“You aren't the ghost, are you?” she tried to joke but at this point you understood why she questioned absolutely everything.

“Unless everyone I've been interacting with is also a ghost, no I am alive. Are you?” you fired back the same question, though it was absolutely a joke and she, luckily, chuckled a bit

“Yeah, I don't think we need another proof of that, after I nearly lost my life,” she had a point there and you both just grinned at each other. Where were you supposed to take this? All of this?

“Did you sleep at all?” you asked after a bit of actually comfortable silence.

She just shook her head. “I couldn't. I can't stop thinking about everything. There are so many things on my mind I just couldn't fall asleep,” you noticed the dark circles underneath her eyes which you originally guessed where the remnants of her costume but now that you were a bit closer to her you realized it was just from not sleeping last night. “You?”

“I did, somehow. I think I was just exhausted,” your whole world changed and you couldn’t tell if it was for the better or for the worse. But even with all those strange experiences you would absolutely need therapy for it still wasn't as significant or big as the change Astrid just went through. After all while you believed in ghosts and didn't really think about afterlife Astrid actually denied them, believed it was, well you didn't know what she believed in exactly, but you guessed she believed there was just nothing after death.

“I get that,” she agreed and finally looked you in the eyes and you just saw the question at the tip of her tongue. “Why did you come with my mom? Why did you come to rescue me?” and that was bothering her too. She couldn’t explain it.

“I don't know,” that wasn't exactly true, but you really didn't know the entire reason you took such a big risk. Liking Astrid wasn’t all there was to it. You took a deep breath and shrugged. “I guess I just couldn't stand by when someone I know got tricked into losing her life. I just didn’t want you dead, Astrid,” you admitted.

“That's the third time you said my name, you know? In all the time you've known me,” she smiled softly, and she was right, it really was the third time you said her name. It felt kind of strange, almost unique on your tongue, because you've never really mentioned her name to other people either. You just either called her by her last name or simply chihuahua so saying Astrid would take some getting used to.

“I guess I did,” you looked at the table. “I was thinking, and you can say no, but would you like to start over? Maybe try to be friends or maybe you know go out for a coffee? I mean I imagine whatever I come up with won't be as bad as your first date so you know, we could make it a friendly date and fix the impression on dating you probably have right now? And now I'm rambling but you get the point!” you were ready for her to decline, to say that, while she can tolerate you now and maybe doesn’t want you to die either, she just wasn't interested in building any kind of friendship with you, much less going on a date.

But instead she actually smiled and looked down a little bit shyly. “I'd actually like that. We can go on the date, an actual date, I mean if that's not too fast for you,” she lightly scratched her cheek in embarrassment. “Looks like I kind of have a knack for rushing things,” she laughed and you laughed with her.

Date it was.

Taglist: @alexkolax @osnapitzmel1 @bee-keeping @nebthetautora @lololauser

@nwestra @rroyale-109 @gemz5 @social-pomegranate @mirage018

@the-thing-withfeathers @hello-mtf @leafanonsforest @jaxon-nathaniel-drake @niqmandu

Masterlist / First part / Previous Part / Next Part (Finale)

A/N: This chapter kicked my ass! Fuck! I actually got annoyed writing it! Damn am I glad it's over, but fuck, it's so bad. Writing feels choppy, Reader basically just stands there, for most of the chapter. And it could have been much worse, I could have included the dance scene properly... Fuck, I hate this chapter. I need some Lost to recover from this, be back after I rewrite a couple of Lost chapters. You all might be getting Lost Prologue sooner or later.

[lightwing-s]

𝐉𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐅𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍

pairing: peter pevensie x female! reader

requested: yes. summary: war times are complicated and feelings tent to get overwhelming. when jealousy hits peter, he doesn't know what to do, you don't know what to make of it, and you two end up... "confessing".

word count: 1,3k warnings: light swearing, battle themes, anxiousness

a/n: it was supposed to be a short blurb but i got excited.

reblogs and interactions are always appreciated ! ♡

⌜masterlist⌟ ⌜requests: open⌟

Hordes of narnians worked frantically on preparing weapons, armors and other supplies for the incoming battle against the telmarines. The sounds of metal hitting metal flooding the hollowed tunnels of Aslam’s How, giving Peter the eerie and anxious feeling he was growing unused to while in England, the one he always felt before a fight.

He had been looking for you, wanting to talk about battle plans, contingencies, numbers. Or just talk about anything at all. He needed to clear his mind, especially after what had just happened with Jadis and Caspian, after the failed battle at the telmarine’s castle and the growing tensions of a war. 

Truth is, he didn’t know if he could do it. He didn’t think he could win it this time, not in the state their army was, shrunken and weakened. Not without Aslam.

He needed to find you, talk to you. He needed you to tell him it would all be alright and you’d win this battle no matter what, like his mother did to soothe him down. Like you once used to back in your first time in Narnia.

“Have you seen Lady Yn?” He interrupted a faun’s work to question about your whereabouts, not managing to find you anywhere.

“I believe I saw her with Prince Caspian, your majesty.” the faun replied after standing from a bow.

With Caspian. Yet again.

You’d seemed to spend an awful amount of time with him lately, something Peter hadn’t imagined would piss him off so greatly as it did. Every time he’d come looking for you, or every time he spotted you around, somehow, Caspian would be by your side. Sometimes sharing laughs, others with your arms interlaced. It drove him furious.

He didn’t understand why you had to be around him so much. He wasn’t hurt or in need of help, he wasn’t your friend like he was. What was it you two talked about so much? And why was it that it drove him so insane to just think about?

Asking for instructions on where he’d last seen the two of you, Peter lets the faun return to his work, not managing to hide his unsatisfied look before heading out in your direction. Torch in hand, he followed through the empty and darkened tunnels until he found you and the prince sitting by the Stone Table, deep in conversation, so much so that you didn’t notice his presence at all.

He stood there, watching you two chat. Caspian’s arms moved everywhere in front of him while he explained something that had your eyes glued on him, an amused smile creeping to show up on your face.

His blood boiled. His face reddened, and it’s muscles curved into a frown. Spinning on his heels, he returned to where he came from. It wasn’t until you heard his heavy footsteps walking back into the tunnels that you noticed him, the torch fire reflecting on the walls and disappearing along with him.

Excusing yourself, you screamed his name and rushed after him, not understanding what was going on at all. The quick glimpse you had of his face showed you a displeased frown, leaving you worried something might have happened while you and Caspian discussed battle plans.

“Peter, wait!” you screamed after him, almost begging him to stop and talk to you. “What happened?”

“What happened?” he suddenly stopped and turned on his heel to face you. “Nothing happened, Yn.”

His anger ridden voice only confused you more, your head bobbing to the side to stare at him in deep thought. “Then why are you upset?”

“I’m not upset,” he argued. “It’s just that we’re preparing for a battle and you’re just hanging out with Caspian and…”

“That’s what this is about then?” you cut him mid sentence. “Me spending time with Caspian?”

“It’s not about you spending time with Caspian.” Peter rolled his eyes.

“Then what is it?”

“It's not… I-it’s…” he failed to come up with an explanation, opening and closing his mouth several times. “I’m just worried for my family’s and your safety, thinking of countless plans on how to keep everyone safe while you two are just chatting away.”

“Outrageous!” you exclaimed. “Peter, if me and Caspian are spending any time together is with this fucking battle in mind because you’re so damn stuck in your own head that you won’t listen to anybody!”

“I fucking always listen to you.!” he stated in return, moving forward towards you but you didn’t even flinch..

“Yes, but what about Caspian? Your own brother? They all care about this too, they all want to bring the Narnians to safety, not risk their lives again.”

“You know it wasn’t my fault.” he defended himself, clearly getting what you were hinting on.

“I know!” it was your turn to approach him. “I know you never intended to lose them like that, I was there with you remember, I saw it in your eyes.”

You could've sworn you felt a single tear escaping from your eye, but you weren’t sure and either way, you weren’t too attentive to it to care. “But you’re too stuck in your own head, too worried if you can or not do it to listen to people that actually believe and want to help you. And what was it with the White Witch?! What were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t.” he let out quietly, you barely managed to hear. The space between you a mere inconvenience now, as you both neared each other as words spilled out of your mouths.

“And if you think that I don’t care about your safety too, you’re so wrong because I worry about it day and night. I can barely sleep thinking about your safety and if we’re going to make it out alive, because I know how impulsive and stubborn you can be, Peter, and I can’t even fathom the thought of losing you to Miraz a-and…”

Cupping your face in his larger hands, Peter ended the last bit of space between you by pulling you forward into a kiss.

At first, you didn’t know how to react, how to respond to it, simply staying put and letting his lips touch yours, too surprised by an action you’d never expected from Peter. Your Peter, the stubborn and annoying Peter that made you lose your mind constantly with crazy battle plans and insufferable jokes, now making you lose it with his lips in yours.

His warm breath hitting your cheeks and the soft caress of his thumb on your skin melting you into his embrace, returning the kiss with careful and passionate movements. Your hands tugged on his shirt bringing him, if possible, even closer.

Growing needier, hotter, more desperate, you continue your kiss without breaking for air. His lips dancing above yours, your breathing getting shorter and your chest speeding away. You felt the tip of his tongue sliding inside your mouth, touching yours in a sensation you’d never once felt before, but that you now felt desperately hungry for.

And just when you were about to return the action, stumbling steps and rolling stones broke you apart from each other.

“I-I…” Caspian tried to muster, sliding his back against the painted walls of the tunnels, feet rushing away from you two. “... Just need, erm, to be somewhere.”

Peter had pulled you closer, hiding you in his chest like a protector of your virtue, and you laid your face in it, smelling his strong and woody scent emanating from his skin. His hand rested carefully on your waist now, as he watched Caspian disappear into the shadows over his own shoulder.

“He really admires you.” you called back his attention, wrapping your arms around his torso in a comfortable embrace. “You should listen to his ideas.”

“I know,” he simply replied. “I will.”

And like that you stood for a few more minutes. Wrapped around each other, lullying to the sound of each other’s breaths. A brief moment of quiet, peace and solitude in the chaos that was battle prep.

A moment for you two, that Peter prayed with all his heart wouldn’t be the last.

[mustainegf]

Hii! I love your fics, you’re awesome, it’s obvious how much work and love you put into them!

Would you be comfortable writing some fluff about 80s James, where the reader is on the thinner side, maybe her ribs, clavicle or hip bones are showing a bit too much, and her boobs aren’t that big, and she’s insecure about it and James finds her crying, and comforts her?

That would be awesome, thank you!

James is so sweet but awkward I love it

𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐏𝐈𝐄𝐂𝐄 ¹⁹⁸⁵

I sat on the bed edge, this same feeling I'd known since highschool. The light from the bedside lamp made the room so empty. I heard James downstairs, no doubt he was rummaging through the fridge, maybe in search of a late night snack. This was a habit he had, raiding the kitchen after we'd settled in for the night. Normally, the sound of him shuffling around would make me smile. But right now, all I could feel was this heavy knot in my chest.

I knew it was silly, I knew how much James loved me. But each time I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, those ugly thoughts seeped in.

My ribs too prominent under my skin, my clavicle jutted out sharply at the base of my neck, my hips, which felt more like bone than anything else. And then there was my chest... I hated how small it was, how I never seemed to fill out any of the dresses I wanted to wear. Sometimes, it felt like I was shrunken compared to the beautifully filled out girls.

My eyes stung with tears, and I tried to blink them away fast, but it was no good. I hid my reddening face in my knees and let the sobs come in quietly. I didn't want James to see me like this. Here I was falling apart over something so stupid. But I couldn't really help it. That insecurity was like this weight... weight I wish I actually had.

The old wooden floorboards creaked with each step he took upward. I hastily rubbed my eyes, the sleeves of my hoodie smearing at my teary cheeks. Then the door opened, and he was there, tall in the doorway, instantly curious as always.

"Hey..." he began quietly, entering the room. His voice was deep as it always was. "What's goin' on?"

I shook my head, forcing a smile, but it was far from convincing. "Nothing, I'm fine."

He wasn't buying it. Never did. James was beside me in seconds, the mattress dipping under his weight. He reached out, those calloused fingers of his brushing my cheek. "You're crying," he flatly, those adorable drooped eyes of his boring into mine.

I turned away, my gaze fixed on the floor. "It's stupid," I mumbled. "I'm just… I don't know. I just don't like the way I look."

He didn't say anything for a second, and I could his thoughts, wondering what went on inside my skull. I half expected him to say something reassuring now, like "You're beautiful" or "You're perfect just the way you are," but James wasn't great with words. He never was. It was one of the many things I loved about him, how he was always so real, never saying anything just because he thought it was what I wanted to hear.

Instead, he reached out and took my hand , fingers warm, running the length of mine. He said nothing at first, just held my hand, his thumb grazing the dips over my knuckles. "I don't get it," he said finally. "I think you're perfect.

I let out a tremor of a breath, still not meeting his look. "But I'm not. I'm too skinny. My ribs stick out, my hips… I just… I hate it."

He was silent again, I could tell he was thinking. "I love your ribs," he said softly, and I looked up at him, confused.

"What?"

He nodded, his face serious, as though he tried to tell me something important. "Yeah... I love your ribs. A-And your hips. And your collarbone... I love how soft your skin is, how I can feel every bit of you when I hold you." He was slightly frustrated, not with me, but with the fact that he couldn't quite say what he meant.

"I love your body," he said again, his thumb stroking over my hand. "I love the way you fit against me... You're beautiful to me." My throat bobbed as I swallowed, those tears already being welcomed back to my cheeks. "James, I…"

"I suck at this," he muttered, a little shamefully. "But I love you. All of you. And I hate that you're hurting over something like this, something that… I don't know, doesn't matter. Not to me."

He pulled me in, arms snaking tightly around my waist. I could hear his heart, each beat told me I was okay. And my heart told him 'thank you'.

"You're my girl," he whispered. "And I love every single part of ya..." James was the only one who could ever untie the messy knot in my head.

"I love you," I whispered back, my voice muffled against his bare shoulder, fingers playing with his golden locks.

"I love you, too... Every piece."

[legendary-defender-of-fandoms]

Some Spoiler Free Thoughts on Beetlejuice Beetlejuice

It’s obvious that everyone had the time of their lives working on this movie! You could see the joy in Willem Dafoe’s eyes in every scene he was in.

Much like the first movie, the cartoon, and the musical, every single character is a goddamn weirdo. And I am HERE for it! Give me your weirdos, your oddballs, your nonconformists.

The effects. Dear God, it was SO fucking refreshing to see stop motion animation, real-ass puppets, prosthetics, makeup, props, EVERYTHING!!!! Years from now, people can go through the Warner Brothers Studio Lot or their prop warehouses & find all the amazing stuff they made for this movie, and say “Holy crap, they made real shit for that movie!” No mocap pajamas or tennis balls on sticks for Mr. Burton. Take notes, Disney - THIS is the good shit we want more of!

The shrunken head guys are obviously piggy-backing off the Minions success. But they’re not in the movie for very long & don’t say anything, so it’s tolerable. Also Bob is best boy.

It’s important to remember that Movie Beetlejuice is NOT Musical Beetlejuice. I went in to this sequel knowing they were two VERY different interpretations & continuities, and I wasn’t expecting Movie Beetlejuice to suddenly grow a conscience or get all sentimental because of the musical. And I’m not saying one version of Beetlejuice is better or worse than the others - I think it’s awesome how there can be three wildly different & beloved takes on a single character. But you can’t forget that they are different, especially when Movie Beetlejuice does some things that Musical Beetlejuice would never, or even Cartoon Beetlejuice would have some moral questions about. It’s best to think of it as a Multi Verse - on one timeline Beetlejuice is a shameless pervert who lives to make others uncomfortable, on another Beetlejuice is a chaos gremlin who’s always down for a little mischief, and on the third Beetlejuice is a demon who just wants a hug, a friend, and an orgy.

All that being said, it can’t be denied that the musical had SOME influence on the sequel. It might be reaching to say that one of Lydia’s lyrics from “Say My Name” managed to work its way into the movie, but everyone acknowledges that a major plot thread from the musical was adapted to the movie as one of the many subplots. And while I think the movie did ok with it, the musical handled it far better.

[brokehorrorfan]

See Beetlejuice Beetlejuice in style with Spirit Halloween's official costumes: Delores ($60), Shrunken Head Bob ($90), and Astrid ($60).

[delopsia]

Streetlight Glow | Bob x Reader x Rhett

Word Count: 10,00 Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, AFAB!Reader, shameless use of the one-bed trope, best friends to lovers, one(1) mention of a gun. 80% smut, 20% dumb fluff. Multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, questionable use of an old ring, road trips, taking Bob's virginity 🌷 Brief Summary: In which you go against everything best friends should be doing and become something more.

You've heard this radio song one too many times.

It's so overplayed that your belly tightens with a sickly sourness the second your ears catch wind of that dreadful tune. Top one hundred radio stations are cute until you're trapped in Bob's itty bitty car, forced to listen to the same set of songs. Over. And over. And over. Like some sort of modern torture, vying to drive you mad before you reach your destination.

And yet, Bob's fingers drum against the steering wheel to the beat of the music. Completely and utterly content with this strange new hell you've been shoved into. Even Rhett's humming along to it. Had never heard of this song before he climbed into the car, but has memorized it over the course of the past four hundred and something miles.

You couldn't ask to change the station if you wanted to; Bob reached over and played with the dial a few minutes ago, ciphering through endless static until he landed back on this god-forsaken station once again—the perks of being out in the middle of nowhere.

If Rhett doesn't land top ten in this rodeo, a raging bull isn't going to be his only problem.

It's the distant clicking of a turn signal that garners your attention. Hadn't realized you were looking down at the promise ring in your palm until after you drew your attention back to the road.

"Please tell me this isn't where we're staying," you mutter, leaning back into your seat as if you can possibly cram yourself into it and disappear entirely.

An ancient husk of a hotel, with its flickering 'open' sign plastered haphazardly in the window. Two lamp posts hang in the lot, and yet, their light has done nothing to fight off the velvety darkness that has long since fallen. It's only because of the headlights that you can see the grass breaking through the cracks of the concrete, so worn and weathered, that the painted parking lines no longer remain.

It's enough to send you high-tailing out of town, and yet, Bob's putting the car in park, "Rhett—"

"I know," Rhett's fingertip taps against something metal. "I know."

You don't need to turn around to know that it's his gun. A necessary evil that begrudgingly made its way into the trip itinerary after learning of where this rodeo is located. Though unarmed himself, Bob's head nods, and the door squeaks open without another word. You'd pitch a fit about this, but your choices are either to stop here or take over the driver's seat and hope you can stay awake long enough to find a better resting place.

On their own, your eyes drift back down to the ring in your palm. Dainty. A promise of a life together that your ex couldn't keep his word on. Leaving you with this dumb hunk of metal. Too cheap to pawn and not worth the years it's spent sitting in this old jacket pocket, waiting on the day you would wear it again.

"Hey, Rhett?" Your voice feels foreign in your own mouth. Too loud in this quiet little car.

In the rearview mirror, you can see his head lift. "Hm?"

"Can you make this disappear?" Open palm sliding to rest on the console, that damned ring sitting in the middle of it. Far too innocent for the memories it carries. "Please?"

Rough fingertips brush against your skin as he takes it from you, and suddenly, the ring seems to have shrunken by four sizes. Entirely too tiny in his oversized hand. A part of you reckons he could snap it in two.

"This is from that one guy, ain't it?" There's a bitterness to his tone that you very nearly forgot the sound of. The kind that only bubbles out of him when that old fling gets brought up as if he had his own heart broken in the process. You don't have a response, mouth devoid of another word, but he doesn't seem to need it. "I'll find a place for it."

The reception door swings open, Bob's hand now occupied by a thin, plastic keycard. A reluctantly welcomed sight that you're unsure what to make of. A bed to stretch out and rest in, but at what cost? A lumpy mattress? Bad neighbors? A busted car window come morning?

Roaches?

Ugh.

The car door is squeaking back open, and much to your dismay; Bob is already dishing out the spare keys, "second floor, room two o' one. It's the only room they've got."

Whoever decided that the stairwell should be outside rather than inside should be fired immediately. Metal creaks beneath your slip-on shoes, slippery, threatening to send you tumbling to the bottom at any given moment. You only carry one bag, some tiny thing you threw overnight essentials into, things that you wouldn't miss if you had to get rid of them. Yet, you've already caught yourself feeling as if you shouldn't have brought all these things inside.

The interior carpet is the definition of dizzying. Nonsensical white stripes stretching across navy blue only starts to bug you once you're walking down it. You know you're moving, but the endless hallway and repetitive pattern makes you wonder if you've wound up on a really fucked up treadmill.

Even worse, your room is all the way on the end. Leaving you to trod the entirety of the building, shoulder bumping against Rhett's, somewhat off-kilter.

"Talk about some fucked up carpet," he mutters, and you're pretending that you don't feel the way his arm is curling around you. Protectively cinching you into his side as someone's door creaks open.

If your heart doesn't quit hammering against your chest, you're going to be sick.

But you can't help it. Rhett's so warm in this chilly little hotel. Has yet to let you go, even after stopping at the door, thump swiping up and down against your hip as Bob fiddles with the keycard.

A shrill beep soars through the air, and suddenly, the door opens. Allowing you into your room, devoid of that migraine-inducing carpet, introducing you to a stained, yellow husk of a floor that you suspect was once white, a CRT television, and...

...

huh.

"Now, what made ya think we can all fit into a queen-size bed?" Rhett's chirping, head tilting, as if he doesn't quite believe what his eyes are showing him. Maybe if he shakes his head, a second bed will appear.

There isn't even a couch. Or a complimentary, uncushioned wooden chair, for that matter. The set of four indents in the carpet is your only hint that there once was a chair, or even a small table, of some sort.

Bob scratches the side of his head with the plastic key, only pausing to look at the numbers printed on the door as it swings closed with a heavy slam. Not designed for the luxury of silence, it seems.

Your head tilts, peering into the dark room to your right; hypothetically, that should be the bathroom, but as of right now, it might be an endless void that drops off into nothingness. Home to the monster that lived under your bed when you were six. Maybe even the one who used to live in Rhett's closet, the subject of his lunch conversations with you and Bob back in your elementary school days.

Rhett, once petrified of the dark, now the one to reach into the void, flicking on the light switch.

...on second thought, you would prefer the monsters.

Tiny black and white tiles coated with a yellowish substance that audibly sticks to Rhett's boots as he steps across it. The ripped shower curtain clings to a total of two hooks, poorly concealing the tub and the blackened scuff marks at the bottom.

Rhett lifts the toilet lid up with his boot. "Whatever y' spent on this place," his nose wrinkles as he speaks, "was way too much."

Thunder rumbles outside, as if mother nature herself has agreed with his conclusion. Beligerantly shaking the hotel, an ill-hung picture frame rattling against the wallpaper. The greater half of you expects the lights to entrap you in the total darkness of a power outage, but they remain as bright as ever.

In fact, they never flicker. Not even once, even as the storm begins to pick up. Droplets of rain patter against the window, hued by the golden glow of a streetlight hanging proudly outside of your room. An abstract portrait perfectly framed by stale curtains that refuse to budge, denying you the ability to close them entirely.

The black light in Bob's bag only confirms everything you already knew; half of the floor seems to light up the moment he flicks it on. Parts of the walls are stained in something you don't want to know the origin of, corners of the bathroom that you didn't plan on touching to begin with. Strangely, the bed is entirely clean, the new sheets sticking out like a sore thumb in this dated room.

Your shoes remain on, even as you slip into loose-fitting pajamas, unwilling to put your bare feet on this ancient floor, regardless of the inconvenience it causes. In fact, the only time they come off is when you climb onto the bed.

Rhett's standing at the foot of it, eyebrows knit together as his gaze flickers from the carpet to you, then Bob. "I reckon I take the floor?"

"Absolutely not," Bobby's beating you to the punch, nodding his head toward the open space to your left, "we can all fit."

You don't need to look to feel Rhett's questioning eyes, seeking your help in building a defense that you have no interest in. Instead, your hand idly pats the mattress, and it's the only answer that he's going to get out of you.

Maybe in another hotel, but certainly not this one.

The sigh that cuts through the air is the sweetest sound of defeat that you've ever heard, the corner of the bed dipping as Rhett swings his knee up onto it. And maybe you should switch sides with Bob because your eyes are already gluing to Rhett's bare chest. Old bull rider tattoo sitting proudly beneath his right collar, drawing your gaze down to the gentle swell of muscle.

You reckon you could get a nice handful of it if you were daring enough.

But it's too late to object to your positioning. Bob's already settling in on your other side, glasses clanking as he sets them on the rickety bedside table. His shirt still clings to his body, but his legs bump into yours as he shifts, a warm presence that makes you wonder what it would be like to tangle them together. And that's just as bad as if he was shirtless because now your mind is venturing into a territory that it doesn't belong in.

It's strange having him so close. Remnants of his cologne still cling to his skin, warm, sugary notes kissing your nose, and your selfish mouth wonders if his lips are just as sweet. If kissing him would be like walking into a hometown bakery, cozy and familiar, with welcoming arms that wrap you into a hug. 

"Y' know," Rhett's stiff as a board next to you, back flat against the mattress, staring up at the questionably stained ceiling tile, "this ain't how I saw this goin'."

A part of you supposes that you can't blame him, though. You can't move either. "What, didn't plan on sharing a bed with us like old times?"

Bob is the only one daring enough to move, rolling onto his side, to face you. "At least, in the old times, we all fit."

God, how old were you the last time you three shared a bed? You know must have been before you turned thirteen because Bobby still had those obnoxious green-rimmed glasses, and he didn't change them until the day after your birthday.

Rhett must be on the same page as you because the corner of his lip lifts. "It's inappropriate fer you three to be havin' sleepovers!" Speaking in his best, mocking tone of his momma.

"Ma was so convinced that we'd get it on the moment we were left alone," Bob snorts, "meanwhile, all we wanted to do was play pictionary and watch tv all day."

Your head tilts, internally grasping for memories that you haven't dug up in years. "You didn't even know what sex was until you were, what, fifteen?"

"Fourteen," he clarifies, knee bumping into your thigh as he shifts against the mattress, "and I only learned because of that health class we were required to take.

Rhett's chuckle vibrates through the bed and up your spine. "Y' should've seen the look on his face when we went to the restroom after."

You reckon it's the same look that sits on Bob's face right now. Lips tightened into a straight line, eyes a smidgen wider than usual, and you're certain he'd be a shade paler if not for the street light. Warm rays shine through the water-stained window, puncturing through the darkness, painting everything it touches with its golden hues—some strokes of yellow and brown, too.

Those brilliant shades arc across your skin, staining you with its color, and stretch to fade against Rhett's bare skin. The rise and fall of his chest making that old bull tattoo look as if it's bucking in a pool of liquid gold. You've lost track of how many times you've caught yourself staring. The amount of hours wasted, wondering about what it would be like to tangle your fingers in his hair. To kiss across the broad expanse of his chest, if his hands would roam down your back or curl around the back of your neck.

Lightning cracks. For a moment, the only sound in the air is that of your breath.

The heavy fist of thunder strikes the ground.

You don't feel your back leave the mattress, but you certainly feel the landing. The way Bob jolts into you. Rhett's big arm darts out to curl around the both of you, cinching you to his chest, damn near rolling Bob on top of you. Squeezing tight, as if someone has come to steal you and Bobby away from him. Muscles so stiff that he feels like a steel post against you.

Outside, storm clouds grumble as if to laugh, as if this is some sick joke they orchestarted.

"God," Rhett lets go of a breath, fanning out against your cheek, "had me thinkin' someone kicked the damn door down." His head tilts down, lips pressing into the top of your shoulder, where the collar of your shirt exposes your skin.

The world around you screeches to such a sudden halt that you can hear the brakes squealing. Their shrill protests bouncing around the inside of your skull until your ears begin to ring.

He just...did he really...why?

Bob's gaze meets with yours. Then Rhett's. It's strange. Him being without his glasses and all. Almost just as strange as it is to see his eyes so...wide. Like a deer caught in the headlights, as if he's the one guilty of kissing your shoulder and not Rhett.

Rhett's chest rises with a breath.

"I'm...I'm sorry." Voice strained, afraid to let go of the air in his lungs.

"No, it's..." you're speaking before your own brain can catch up, too distracted by the way butterfly wings tickle your lower belly to think. "It's okay."

What the hell are you even saying? You're friends. This isn't...you're not...this shouldn't be okay.

Bob's mouth finds the side of your jaw. A fleeting peck so quick that you only register it when he's gone. Deliberately turns his head down, avoiding your attention, as he mutters something that sounds like, "Gotta even it out, right?" 

It was here and gone so quickly that you're only beginning to feel how his thin lips pressed into your skin, leaving behind a coldness that wasn't there before. Far too real to match up to the hopeless wonderings that have frolicked in your imagination for so long. 

Something must be in the air. Maybe you've fallen asleep, collapsing into the warm embrace of your imagination, because there is no way that Rhett's chapped lips are finding the other side of your jaw. No, this must be a trick of your mind. You've thought about this too many times for it to be real. This version of Robert Floyd, the one who scoffs and presses a second, insistent kiss on top of the old one, feels too dreamlike. 

"Bobby," Rhett's whining, drawing out the vowels in that annoyingly pitchy tone that you so rarely get to hear. 

"You started it," Bob's muffled by another kiss. Incessant, one after the other, spreading across your cheeks. The scruff of Rhett's unshaven jaw. The sweetness of Bob's cologne, up close and overpowering your senses. Are you sure this is a dream?

"I did not!" The sudden pitchiness in Rhett's cry is too on-point. 

"Yes, you did!" You know that tone on Bob. Playfully accusatory. Breath puffing against your skin, so warm that the hotel air feels cold in comparison.

Their heads are rising. Neither realize how close they are until their noses ram into one another. Too headstrong for gentleness. Not when their giggles are dying down. 

Bob's breath catches. 

Rhett's eyelashes flutter. 

The room is too quiet for this to be a dream.

This is real, and it shouldn't be happening. The nagging of reality chastises you for letting it get this far, for telling them it was okay and not putting a stop to it at the second kiss. But your stubborn heart hammers excitedly at your chest, and your tired soul knows better than to let your shaking hands settle behind their heads. You know not to push their heads in.

Yet, you do it anyway. 

And their parted mouths find each other in the lightest embrace they can muster. Only lasts for three beats of your heart before they part, neither quite opening their eyes. The voice of logic asks why you did that. 

The voice of your heart wonders why their attentions are turning back to you. Why Rhett is leaning in so suddenly, and why you've considered that he may want to kiss you, too. Because his mouth is warmer than the burning streetlight, and he smiles into it like he's gotten everything he's ever wanted. 

You don't know when your eyes closed, but you don't need to open them to know that it's Bobby who kisses you next. Sweet and soft, like you're kissing a marshmallow and not your best friend. Then Rhett's finding you again, then back to Bob, and you're beginning to lose track of all these toothy, chaste pecks that never fail to stir up the butterflies in your belly.

"'s this what we're doin' now?" You can hear Rhett's grin in his tone, punctuated by your own daring venture, leaning up to catch his mouth again. "Kisses?" 

Bobby's nose bumps into your temple, close for no reason other than for the sake of it. "What else would you call these?" You think that might be a little bit of stubble you feel, scratching against your forehead, only makes you want to run your hands across it. "Lip locks, smooches, a touch of the lips as a sign of—"

Rhett's cutting him short, the remainder of those babbling words devolving into a smothered grunt. 

There's something off about this picture. You shouldn't be collapsing back into the mattress, smothered by the combined weight of Rhett Abbott and Robert Floyd. If this goes wrong, then how many years of friendship spiral down the drain? This isn't what friends do. 

Friends don't share hotel beds and kiss under the streetlight glow. The sins of your selfishness are illuminated by those gleaming rays, allowing your greedy gaze to eat up the way Rhett's hair falls into his face as he sucks at the juncture of your jaw. How Bob's guiding himself with his nose, finding a spot behind Rhett's ear that makes him gasp.

"I suppose this is what our folks were afraid of," Bob's muffled voice punctures the silence, "us in the same bed and all."

A chuckle draws out of Rhett's chest, so deep the thunder ought to be jealous. "The ol' tyrant of my house would be havin' a fit if he knew 'bout this."

The voices in your head are still crying for you to stop here.

But you've forgotten how to listen. 

"Who gives a damn," and before you can think twice about it, your hand is grabbing hold of Bob's shirt collar and yanking him in. 

There's nothing worth worrying about. Not when Bob's weight is fully settling on top of you, chests rising and falling in perfect unison. The short locks of his hair fall forward, tickling against your skin, his big, warm palms cradling your cheeks, the gentle bump of his chin against yours drawing a whine out of your throat.

He jolts, breaking away with a gasp, "Rhett—"

"Don't you worry 'bout what I'm doin'," is the only response Rhett gives before Bob is sucking in another breath of air. Squirming, as Rhett nibbles at the juncture of his sensitive neck, has already left a red mark in his wake. And with Bob's unfortunate reputation, it's sure to bruise by sunrise. 

Rhett's hands delve between your bodies, sliding beneath Bob's shirt, and that's all it takes for you to tug on it again. The three of you devolve into a tangle of limbs as you haul it over his head, exposing miles upon miles of milky white skin and intricately freckled shoulders. Tiny spots that you're racing Rhett to kiss. 

All it does is make Bob bolder. Defiant palms gliding up the sides of your waist, pushing your shirt up to expose your warm tummy to the chilly hotel air. Bold fingertips stop just short of your breasts, bumping into the swell of them for a fraction of a moment.

Rhett's calloused touch glides up your newly revealed skin, greedy for a feel of you. "'n here I thought I was rushin' y'all." 

"I didn't know there was a set timeline for this," Bob's leaning back, bumping into Rhett, as he fights to get a better look at you, laid out beneath him.

"There's going to be if you two keep talking," your eyes roll, pleasantly annoyed to find that they're still the same, even now. 

"Ain't gotta tell us twice, darlin'." And before you can process what Rhett has just said, he's planting a palm between Bobby's shoulder blades and pressing. Has him collapsing on top of you in the blink of an eye, falling right between your parted legs.

It's Rhett's hips that push him forward. Grinding into the soft fat of Bob's ass, simultaneously pushing the outlnie of Bob's half-hard cock into your core. You don't know if it's you or Bob who whimpers the loudest, a bolt of lightning jumping up your spine. 

That's... that's...

"Shit," Rhett swears, leaning in close, like he's worried someone will hear him through these ancient walls, "forgot you're still a virgin, Bobby boy."

"I'm begging you not to bring it up," Bob's choking through a stifled noise as your body rolls upward, his cock twitching so hard that you can feel it through your clothes. "Fuck—"

And there's more to that, but he's burying his face in the crook of your shoulder, breathing hard as your hands slide up his back. Rising up into the first, weary motion of his hips. Strange at first. Doesn't quite know what he's doing yet; not quite as fluid, a little too rigid. But Rhett's grunting beneath his breath, and you've got the sneaking suspicion he's learning fast. 

It sure feels like it. The heavy bulge in his sweats massaging against you, only drawing back to press into the body behind him, letting Rhett's instinctual thrust push him back in. Wondrously punctuated by the glisten of Rhett's teeth as he bites his lip, failing to hold back a groan. 

Oh, and their hands are wandering. Rhett's calloused palms finding their way to your thighs, dragging up until he bumps into the hem of your shorts. Bob's fingers dare to rise and dance across your breast, feeling the way you fit into his grasp. 

"'s an awful nice sight," Rhett muses, and now he's reaching beneath your shirt, too. Rucking it up to expose your chest, thumb fondly drifting over your nipple. Sends you jolting, knees knocking into Bob's sharp hips.

"You're one to talk," you don't realize it's you who's talking until the words are already out of your mouth, unhindered by the sudden yank on your clothes. Tugging the thin t-shirt over your head suddenly exposes you to them in your entirety. 

They're falling over each other. Shoulders collide, and heads knock together as they dip down. Rhett's hot mouth wraps around your nipple. Bob's tickling tongue guides him down your collar, taking his time to shower your neglected breast with his attention, softened gaze never once leaving your face. 

Your palm clamps over your mouth, back rising up off the bed. Oh, this is...this is...

Bob's whine cuts through the air. Has the utmost audacity to bat his lashes at you and pout. "Wanna hear you." His hips buck forward, knocking a noise past your lips before you can think twice. 

You're in so much trouble.

But you can't dwell on it for longer than a fracture of a second because their attentions are already migrating. Working their way down your belly despite the limited space they've given themselves. Bob's shoulder bumps into Rhett's chin, growing closer and closer together until they're snug against one another, forced to stop just shy of your shorts. 

Your thumbs are hooking into the hem of them before you can think twice. Had only intended to draw off one article of clothing at the time, but Rhett's helping hands tug your underwear down, too. Not an easy task when your legs are split around Bob's hips, forcing you to draw your knees up to your chest. Can't imagine the kind of view you must give them, just trying to get the material past your heels. 

"Now wait a damn—" Bob's squeaking, batting at the hands yanking on his sweats. "Rhett!"

But it's already far too late because Rhett's shoving them down his thighs without a second thought. Heavy cock springing from its confines, so heavy and long that it struggles to stand upright, knocking into his hip instead. It's only because of the streetlight that you can see the thin vein running along the side of him, some dumb little quirk that you shouldn't find so endearing.

Rhett has yet to notice the apparent monster that's unwillingly made itself known in the room. Too busy messing with his own pants to look up and pay attention. Until a wayward glance damn near reels him in like a fish on a hook.

"Jesus, Bobby," he breathes like he's caught up in a goddamn trance. "Why'd ya never tell us y' were hung like a goddamn horse?"

Your daring hand reaches up.

"Forgive me," he's sucking in a sharp breath as your warm fingers wrap around his cock, feeling the weight of him in your hand, "I was waiting to tell you over a candlelit dinner somewhere in Paris."

You don't know what Rhett is up to until your hand is drenched in chilly lubricant poured from a bottle you don't recognize the origin of. Slickening the glide, squelching far too loudly for how delicately you spread it across him. Such a simple touch that draws the sweetest whine past Bobby's parted lips, so unused to the sensation of a hand that isn't his own. 

Rhett's big hand encompasses yours. Squeezing tight as he guides Bob's cock down, thick length sliding through your folds. It's against everything a best friend should be doing, and yet, it feels so good—a twinge of excitement twirling up your spine from this alone. 

"Y' ain't fixin' to believe how long I've thought 'bout this," Rhett sounds like he's on another planet. Doesn't fight as you take hold of his wrist, guiding his lube-slicked fingers between your legs, right to where you crave his attention most. 

He doesn't need a lick of guidance from there. The rough pad of his finger presses daringly against your entrance, gasping with you as he slips inside. 

"'n by the feel of it," his eyelashes flutter at the way you clench around him, some involuntary little movement that makes your knees feel weak, "y've got it as bad as I do."

Bobby shifts, throbbing length dragging against your clit a smidgen harder. Such a strange sight to see his flushed tip between your legs like this, rubbing up and down in languid motions, so distracting that you damn near forget that Rhett's hand is crammed between your bodies. 

At least, you forget until his finger curls upward. Stroking against a spongey little bundle of nerves that makes you squeal. "Rhett!"

Wordless, he chuckles, a second finger dipping inside to join the first. Shallowly working his way in and out, only focusing on tormenting the one spot that makes you squirm. Your hand flies down to grab hold of his wrist, head tilting back, trying your damnest to ignore the way Bob traces his nails up your naked sides. A distant tickle that makes your back rise up off the bed, unsure if you want to lean into it or squirm away. 

It's hard to ignore how easily Rhett's working you open. Two wonderfully thick digits growing to become three, stretching you wide and so, so much bigger than your own. You don't know how you'll ever satisfy your cravings, now that you've had a taste of the real thing. The way his knuckles catch on your rim, how his gaze fixates so heavily on the sight of your cunt taking him in.

As quickly as he appeared, he's drawing away. Leaving behind a certain kind of coldness that can only be thwarted by him. 

"God, you're such a pretty sight," Bob marvels aloud, a certain sort of sparkle in his eye that wasn't quite there before. And there seems to be more he wants to say because his short pink tongue is darting out to wet his lips, already parting with the beginnings of another sentence. 

But Rhett's hands are appearing on his naked hips, squeezing the bone there, and you'd be lying if you said you didn't notice the way some of his fingers glisten with your wetness. Catching in the light as he nudges Bob forward. 

"Jesus, Rhett—" Bob's knee slides against the comforter, struggling to keep up with the way Rhett's pushing him forward. "What're you doing?"

You've already got a pretty good idea of what your beloved cowboy is up to, your hand already reaching to wrap around his wet cock. Guiding him between your folds. Selfishly pausing to enjoy the final drag of his cock head against your clit, on its way down to where you're aching. 

"Oh." He murmurs dumbly, sucking in a shaky breath as he squints up at your face. Never has been able to see far without his glasses. "I-is...is this okay? Are we...?" 

"Only if you want it," you don't know why you're whispering, too focused on running your thumb over his slit to do much else.

Rhett's chin comes to rest against Bob's shoulder, peering down at the sight between your legs, then flicking his attention elsewhere. It's the kiss he plants on Bob's cheek that soothes his nerves because the tension melts from his shoulders in an instant.

Weary, Bob's head nods as if he needs to affirm it himself, too. "Okay..." the gears in his head are spinning a hundred miles a minute, but again, he's drawing a blank."I...don't know what I'm..."

On their own, your fingers guide him to press against your entrance, and from there, Rhett's got the rest. 

"Jus' like this," he murmurs, biceps flexing as he nudges Bob's hips forward. 

Pressure blooms. Your head falls back against the pillow. This doesn't feel real. There's no way you two are taking your best friend's virginity. But there's no way a dream could recreate the ache as his head slips inside you. 

"There y' go...nice 'n easy," Rhett's deep grumble is something else entirely. 

Bob's eyes squeeze shut, barely muzzling a whimper that sparks a heat in your lower belly. Can feel yourself grow wetter around him as he gradually pushes inside. The stretch is enough to make you reach for the sheets, squeezing them tight in your fist. Doesn't necessarily hurt per se, but God. You could have never anticipated this. 

But he's slowly disappearing inside of you, inch by dizzying inch, and the bed is dipping as Rhett moves to settle next to you. Big chest on full display, the golden glow of the streetlight drawing your eye down his gently toned belly to where his cock rests against his hip. Thicker than Bob is, a glistening pearl of precum collected at his tip. 

You can't help but reach over and take him into your hand. No, you've waited far too long to deny yourself the simple pleasure of spreading the clear fluid with your thumb, ears blessed with the sound of Rhett's breath catching.

All the while, Bob's hands find themselves braced on either side of you until he's finally confident enough to let himself lay against you. Soft lips find your jaw just as he bottoms out, not an inch of him left to take, his hips flush with yours. 

"Ain't you two jus' somethin'," he's rolling onto his side, head snug against his pillow, and you reckon this is what a Greek god would look like down here on the mortal plane. Long hair and soft muscles, wrapped up in a cozy golden glow, smiling in a lazy sort of fashion that only ever looks good on him, "lookin' at me all doe-eyed."

But you can only focus on him for so long before you start to grow impatient, squirming, jostling Bob inside you. "You can move, Bobby,"

Obedient, he does just that, rising up onto his forearms, caging your head between them as he draws himself back. Only by about an inch, maybe two, before gravity reels him back in. The upper side of his cock already dragging deliciously against the nerves hidden along your walls. 

He's learning too quickly for his own good, pulling out a little quicker, less hesitation in his hips as he figures out what he's doing. Knocks the breath right out of your lungs, keening in your throat. There's something about getting fucked by your best friend while the other one watches that really does things to you. 

"Fuck," Bob's cold nose nuzzles your cheek, so close that you struggle to get a look at his face, "You feel so good, oh my god." 

And he'd be babbling if he weren't whimpering like the cutest thing you've ever seen. Blindly guiding himself across your skin until his lips bump into yours, but he's too far down to kiss you properly. No, he's got to draw himself up a little higher, biceps trembling as he pulls himself upward, and—

"Bobby!" Stars sparkle in your vision. 

Distantly, you think you catch the sound of Rhett chuckling.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Bob's chanting under his breath, a dainty whisper of your name chasing it, your lips clashing for the briefest of moments, "'s that it?"

"Right there," you blurt. Can't keep a damn word on your tongue for longer than a millisecond. "Keep—keep doing that." 

And he does. 

Oh, he does, and you fear you might float right out the damn window and up into the stars. Legs rising, squeezing his hips, some obscene, wet noise punctuating the slick glide of him. Only worsened by the way he leans back, peering down at where you're split open around him, just enough of a shift for him to knock into those nerves a little harder. Mushroom tip kissing them over. And over. And over. Sends your pussy fluttering around him like a goddamn butterfly.

"Shit, I can feel—oh," and you're so thankful that he collapses back into you because your hands are aching to roam the war, freckled expanse of his back. Blunt nails digging into the meat of his shoulder, draws the faintest whisper of a hiss from his lips. 

There's a hand on you that isn't Bobby's. Calloused. Wet fingers trailing down your side and into the pocket of space between your and Bob's bellies. Crawling down, down, down. Between your parted thighs, devilishly rough fingertips pressing to your clit. 

"Rhett—" your strangled voice hardly leaves your mouth. Legs twitching around Bob's hips as those damned fingers start to spiral against you. It's not fair. He's figuring you out far too easily. Makes it so much harder for you to open your mouth again. "Stop." 

Bob's head pops up. Wide eyes peering up at you, rhythm stuttering to a slow. 

Delirious, your head shakes, "not you." 

He doesn't say a word, but he's drawing himself back onto his haunches. It does nothing but give Rhett more room to torment you, even if his fingers have already stilled to a halt. You'll never understand how they manage to give you the same damned look, furrowed brows, and tilted heads, like two puppies trying to figure out what you're asking of them. 

"Can't yet," you choke. It's so hard to find words when Bobby's still rolling into you, balls gently smacking against your ass. "Wanna..." you're trying to motion with your hand, but all you can manage is to flail your palm in Rhett's general direction.

But Rhett's figured you out. You know he has because his eyebrows rise, incredulous. "Wantin' both of us in the same night, huh?" 

For a moment, you think you've won. His hand draws away as he moves to sit up, instead opting to tangle his hand in Bobby's hair and pull him in for a kiss that you hear more than you see. Wet lips smacking together, Rhett seeming to groan purely from Bob's little whine. 

He's close. You can feel it. The way he's twitching inside of you, spontaneous motions of muscle that have no right to spark a fire within you. Burning up into your chest, eating away at the oxygen in your lungs. Rhett may have given up on getting you close. He may be sidling up behind Bobby again. But he might as well still be tormenting your clit, because that heat is spreading, and a familiar coil is beginning to tighten, clamping down around Bob's throbbing cock. 

Rhett's big palm slides down Bobby's chest. Doesn't stop until he can pinch a perky little nipple.

Bobby yelps. And it's like he's been kicked back into gear because his hand is dipping between your legs, thumb stroking up your soaked folds, picking up right where Rhett left off. Rubbing feather light spirals into your clit. Shouldn't be enough contact to satisfy you, and yet the faintness of it all is somehow too much. 

"I'm—I'm," he's stuttering, head shaking back and forth like he can fight off the feeling bubbling in his lower belly. 

You should stop him here. You don't have anything to clean up with. If he cums in you, it's going to be in you for the whole damn night, making a mess of you, your clothes, and the sheets. And yet your legs are tightening around him anyway, ankles locked behind him, and you're nodding. In the same damn boat as him. "Uhuh." 

His whimper cuts through the air. Pretty blue eyes rolling. The only reason he doesn't collapse on top of you is because of the arm Rhett's coiled around his waist. Hips stuttering to a sudden halt. Shoves you over the edge before you can think twice. Back arching up off the bed, cumming around his spasming cock with a cry you're certain the whole fucking building hears.

But clarity doesn't come to you. 

There's no dawn of realization as your muscles quit twitching. Your shaky inhale does nothing to put out the embers still raging deep in your bones. Isn't a hint of sudden overexposure as you pry your eyes open, weakly smiling up at Bobby's sweaty face. You don't mind them seeing you like this at all.

Gingerly, Bob leans back, taking his time as he pulls out of your cunt; the muscles there still clenching around him, even if you can no longer feel that you're doing it. He barely has the energy to settle beside you, a warm arm resting across your stomach, pressing chaste kisses to your shoulder. 

In the back of your mind, you think you can feel his cum spilling out of you. 

"Shit, Bobby," Rhett murmurs, a wayward finger rising to push it back inside; you can't imagine what that must look like, "made a fuckin' mess."

The only remark he receives is Bob's half attempt at a grumble. Not his fault that you defiantly pulled him deeper, rather than push him away. But he does have the strength to reach for Rhett's forgotten cock, half hard and still just as flushed as it was before. Seems to know what he's doing when he flicks his wrist because Rhett's entire body jerks.

Your foot kicks his thigh, "still not done, cowboy,"

"You're somethin' else," he chuckles, with the faintest shake of his head, like he can't believe what's happening, "both of ya, actually." 

But first, it seems he's got something else in mind. Rubbing up the inside of Bob's knee, breaching into the territory of his pale thighs, not particularly thick but just plush enough to grab a handful of. Squeezing, kneading the fat between his big fingers. 

Bob's idle hand keeps stroking him. Slow ups and downs that work him back up until Rhett's leaking into his palm, angry red tip demanding attention. You have to roll onto your side to get a better look, the show only stopping long enough for Bob to lick the pad of his thumb, bringing it back to massage over the engorged head. 

A beat passes. He does it again.

"If y' wanted to taste me, all ya had to do was ask," Rhett's fighting to speak through his grin, and you're primarily certain he's joking, but there's an undertone of seriousness hidden there, too. 

That's all Bob needs to hear. "So come up here, then."

And who would Rhett be to deny him? Climbing up to straddle Bob's pale chest, leaning forward to grab hold of the headboard, his other hand guiding his cock to that cute, waiting mouth. Greeted with a shy kitten lick at first, unfamiliar with the ropes. 

Your jaw aches just looking at the size of Rhett. Can't imagine what it must feel like for Bobby when he hesitantly parts his lips, taking him in, heavy on his tongue.

He's still new to this. Can't take very much into his mouth before he starts to gag, but his hand works what he can't fit, the corners of his eyes glistening with fresh tears. Whining his frustrations, breathing hard through his nose.

"There y' go," Rhett's sucking in a breath, "fuckin' fast learner, ain't you?"

It's impossible to reign in your laugh, "You're telling me." The mess between your legs is a testament of its own, sensitive and aching, whether it be craving from more or exhaustion, you can't tell.

"Eager as hell, too," Rhett's eyes roll; you wish you had a camera to capture that sight for the rest of forever. "Shit." 

All Bob can do is whine. Mouth too full to do anything else, trying his best to lift his head and take more of Rhett's cock, even with the fingers tangling in his hair, trying to pull him back. Lips struggling to stay closed around him, knocked loose by Rhett's slow thrust.

"That good?" You murmur, so fixated on the sight of him that you've forgotten everything else. 

It sounds like he tries to hum a little "uhuh" in response. Muffled, racing all the way up Rhett's sensitive spine. Has him jerking away with a gasp. Gripping the base of his cock with his fist like he's trying to chase off the twinges of sensitivity. 

"Did I do something wrong?" Bobby's tone is frail. One loud noise, and it'll shatter into a million tiny pieces.

Rhett's breath slides between his closed teeth on its way back out. "Complete opposite, actually." A beat passes, and he's on the move again. Sliding down the bed, his hands coming to settle on your hips, squeezing lightly.

It's hard to tell if it's you or Bob who yelps. But one way or another, you've found yourself face down on the mattress. The whole damn world spinning around you, struggling to catch up. Has he always been that strong, or are you actually dreaming these things up?

"Chris above," Bob mutters, "since when were you able to do that?"

Rhett's not done. Lifting your hips until your knees slip beneath you, propping your ass up for him. "Y' wrangle enough calves 'n eventually it becomes second nature,"

You can't believe what you're hearing, blindly kicking with your foot once more. Miss. "Are you really comparing me to one of your cattle right now?"

"A mighty cute one," a wet noise emanates through the room as his cock smacks against your cunt, "if that makes it any better." 

So long as he doesn't give you any ear tags, you suppose.

Maybe you've bitten off more than you can chew because, from the moment he nudges into you, one thing becomes painfully clear. He's so much thicker than Bob is. Stretching you even wider, has to pause to slick himself with lube because even with the obscene mixture of Bob's saliva and cum, it's not enough. 

"Still so fuckin' tight," he hisses, grabbing a greedy handful of your ass. You don't know if you're tight or if he's just big, splitting you wide open, forcing the air from your lungs, eating up every bit of space you could possibly offer.

Thunder rumbles. The streetlight flickers like a candle. Off, on, off, then on again. Wind howls outside of the window, seems to be squeezing through the cracks of the seal because you don't know where else that cool breeze would be coming from. But it's no match for the heat radiating off Rhett's big chest, snug against your naked back as he presses kisses to your shoulder. Still pressing into you. Inch by devastating inch. Until his hips are flat against your ass, not a centimeter between your bodies.

You'd try to lift your head if you weren't fighting to keep it attached to your shoulders. Feels like it's about to spin right off your shoulders. 

"Y' alright?" Rhett's asking so gently, infuriatingly, sets a half dozen butterflies fluttering in your belly. 

As if this is an appropriate situation for them to be showing their flashy little wings. 

"Move," it's only one word, and yet, you damn near have to strangle it out of your throat. 

Rhett doesn't need another ounce of encouragement. Pulling himself back with all the power and confidence of a man who knows what he's doing. So thick that he hits those little nerves without the slightest effort, strikes them hard as he snaps back into you. Balls smacking into your oversensitive clit. His soft grunts nearly washed over by the smack of skin on skin.

"Bobby really did a number on ya," marveling aloud, so focused on the mess made of your pussy that you can feel the warmth of his gaze. Sticky cum audibly squelching inside of you, about to be so, so much worse once he's done with you. 

But you can't think about that right now. Not when he's kissing up your spine, forearms bracketing your hips, keeping you from sliding up the bed and away from the heavy punches of his cock. "Y've no idea," kiss. "How much," another kiss, groaning under his breath. "I've wanted this." Kiss.

Your head tilts, peering over your shoulder, straining for a look at his flushed face. "You been dreaming 'bout fucking us, cowboy?" Taunting. A little too confident for someone split open on his dick.

"I'm the reason all our folks were worried," he's taking it all in stride, leaning back, sweaty chest glistening in the light as if to give you a show, "still waitin' to wake up 'n learn this is all a dream."

He leans off to the side. Feeling around, digging through the pocket of his discarded pants. Produces something shiny. Enough to make Bob's breath catch, but far too small for you to see what the hell it is. 

And he sets it right against your ass. Metal so cold that it's the only thing you can think of. Round. With a little—

"Oh my god," you gasp through a whimper. Suddenly have the strength to rise onto your forearms, trying your damnest to defy the laws of your body and turn your head all the way around. "My promise ring?" 

"Y' told me to do somethin' with it," he grins, downright devilish. An idle hand reaches below your belly, feeling around. 

"I told you to make it disappear," the fight leaves your tone the moment his fingers press to your clit. What strength you have fades from your body in an instant, suddenly unable to think of anything but the motion of his fingertips. "Christ, Rhett." 

Next to you, Bob seems to have stolen your energy, moving to sit up, unable to rest and watch any longer. You can barely see the way he sidles up next to Rhett, soft cock pressing into his thigh, kissing at that pale, sweaty neck, defiantly sucking a mark into the skin there. Seems to match the one Rhett left on Bob's neck earlier.

Rhett twitches inside of you. Keening in his throat. Doesn't realize what he's just knocked into. Electricity bolting up your spine. Arms going weak. So sensitive all of a sudden, pussy spasming around him. Driven by the spirals of his fingers and the sweet grunts that kiss your ears.

"Rhett," you're collapsing down into the pillow once more, writhing. Panting for a breath you can't catch. "fuck, I...I—"

His hips stutter. "I know it," breathy, rhythm quickening with an urgency you recognize too well, "c'mon, cum 'round my cock, doll."

You don't know where it's come from. All at once, your nerves are on fire, and you're shaking from head to toe. Biting into the pillow. Fighting to keep quiet as he fucks you, fat cock head rubbing against those little nerves over and over and over. You're gonna...you're gonna...

It washes over you like an ocean wave on a serene afternoon. Slow. Starts with a twitch in your foot and boils higher. Tightening like a vice as you cum around his cock. Mewling into the open air, head spinning. And yet you're just conscious enough to feel the stutter of Rhett's hips. Cumming inside of you with a guttural groan that rumbles deep into your bones. Think you can feel him twitching, throbbing as he pumps you full. Only adding to the mess they've made. 

A mess that you have no idea how you'll clean up.

But for right now, you don't have much energy to be thinking about that. Because Rhett's collapsing into you, smothering you into the bed, and Bobby's coming down, too. Forming a big, sweaty pile on top of you. Arms wind around you. Kisses pepper your skin. It happens so quickly, and yet, you already don't know where they start and end. 

And they're warm. 

"We've made such a mess," Bob giggles, the tip of his nose bumping into your forehead. 

Yes, you have. But all you can think about is squirming backward, stealing the heat radiating from Rhett's naked body, hugging someone's arm to your chest. You don't think you'll have the strength to move in the morning. Or the day after that, for that matter. 

Frankly, you don't think they will be able to, either. 

---

A part of you expects to wake up to the crushing reality of regret. That someone has had time to simmer on what happened and has decided this isn't what they really want. That it was just a heat-of-the-moment thing. A mistake made over some well-timed hormones and poor thinking.

Not one bit of you expects what you're actually greeted with. 

Two sleepy bodies. Kissing up on you. Whispering sweet nothings into your ear as they bicker and fight over who gets to kiss your lips. Heads knocking together. Messy hair poking up in every direction as they struggle for dominance. Each stubborn in their own, adorable right.  

It's not until later that you realize they're just as serious about this as you are. 

It happens some time after Rhett bends Bobby over. Bob's inexperienced but eager tongue drawing an orgasm out of you before you've truly adjusted to the sight of him between your legs. Drooling. Whining as Rhett drills into him from behind, neglected cock bouncing between his pale legs, struggling to keep upright. 

You reckon this is what you looked like last night. God, just the thought of it makes you sore. 

Fresh tears spill down Bobby's face. Overwhelmed but too into it to stop, as his trembling body collapses on top of you. Lips still slick with your wetness, shuddering like a leaf in the Wyoming wind. Muttering weakly for Rhett not to stop. Leaning into your hand as it tangles through his hair. 

He's cute, like this. Trying his damnest to keep up with Rhett, leaning on you to keep himself from falling apart at the seams. With his flushed cheeks and pitchy noises. So loud and unlike him. Confident when it's just the three of you. Unashamed to babble for Rhett to cum in him. Doesn't fear the cleanup that will involve or the short amount of time you have to get out of this hotel, lest they charge for another day.

No, you don't realize until after they both tumble on top of you. Heaving chests and tangled legs, pinned up against one another like sardines in a can despite the ample room available.

"Can I convince you two to get breakfast with me?" Bob's soft voice kisses your ears with its appearance. "I'll buy."

And all Rhett does is laugh. Loud. Hearty. The kind that makes his head tilt backward, curls bouncing. "Oh, so now y' wanna wine 'n dine us." He grins, palm coming down to lightly smack Bob's ass. Knocks a surprised whimper out of him. "Got that a lil backwards, Bobby."

Bob's eyes roll; he should have seen that remark coming a mile away. "I'm offering you free food, you dumb cowboy."

"Hey now," Rhett's still chuckling, the prettiest noise you've ever heard, "I never said I wouldn't take ya up on it." 

Two pairs of blue eyes turn to you. Each glistening with their own form of excitement and hope that you've come to recognize over the years. You know it better than you know yourself. How Bobby offers you his every emotion on a silver platter. The way Rhett fails to hide the soft fondness reserved for you and Bob.

"Breakfast sounds good," and unknowingly, you've sealed your fate. 

Not that you mind. Of course. 

 The drive takes twice as long as it was supposed to. Not one of you can keep your eyes on the road for longer than a few hours at a time. Too eager for kisses and fleeting touches and the shy, awkward giggles that come with crossing into this unfamiliar territory. Cramming yourselves into the backseat for an uncomfortable but cozy nap when the road becomes too much to handle.

When you were kids, your attachment issues were horrible. Not one of you could go without the other. Bobby sulked and refused to socialize with anyone who wasn't the two of you. Rhett raised hell when he was placed in a class away from you and Bob. Your entire week would be ruined if you couldn't go out on one of your adventures with the Abbott and Floyd boys. 

You'd thought those issues had faded with time. A sort of thing melted by maturity and the understanding that separation would not be forever.

You were wrong. 

When it comes time for Rhett to part ways to get ready for the rodeo to start, your heart defiantly aches. Isn't helped by the number of kisses he showers you and Bob with, the way he refuses to let go of your hands until the very last second. It's dumb, and it's childish, and you can't help it. Emotions are hard to handle. Especially ones that have been pent up for several years.

So you and Bob glue to each other. Share the same gasp when Rhett bursts from the chute. Unable to breathe as that beast of an animal bucks and twists through the air. Fighting with everything it has to get him off its back. The crowd roars for a cowboy they've never seen before and shoots to their feet before the buzzer sounds. 

You don't see him fall off, but Bob catches sight of him bounding out of the arena. Disappearing once more, mixed in with the other riders. There and gone in less than a minute. All that driving done for such little time in the limelight. The only confirmation he was really there is when his name soars up onto the scoreboard.

He doesn't appear again until after the rodeo. When you and Bob stand idly by the parking lot, ears pricked for the sound of his voice, unsure if you're in the right place or not. These rodeos are never the same. Sometimes the riders come out into the parking lot. Other times, they wind up on the far side of the stadium, where they have no reason to be.

It's the clank of spurs that give him away. Moseying out from behind a gate, 

His name still sits on the scoreboard, occupying the second-place slot. Got knocked down a peg by a bull rider with a hell of a ride. He should be cussing. Scowling that he almost had it, he'll do better next time and won't be beaten out by dumb luck. But that version of Rhett doesn't seem to exist anymore.

Because he's running. Arms wide open. A big, dopey grin on his scruffy face as he downright jumps on you and Bob. Spinning, dragging you two along with him like he's just won the lottery. Streetlight casting a perfect, golden glow on his handsome face. 

He steals a kiss from your lips before you can register it. 

Then one from Bob, too. 

"Are you alright?" You're blinking. Once. Twice. But the illusion never fades; it's as real as you are.

All Rhett can do is grin. "Never better."  But the corner of his lip twitches; knows exactly what he's doing.

"You're sure?" Bobby's falling right into his trap. Forever blind to the antics of a dumb cowboy.  "You only act like this when you win."

"But I did win,"  Rhett beams, far too proud of himself, as he opens his mouth and says, "I got both of you, didn't I?"

...

huh.

Bob's groan resonates from the very depths of his soul. Eyes rolling. "Oh my god."  Physcially needs to turn and look away, as if the very sight of Rhett pains him.

A smile bursts out onto your face. Truly don't know what you were expecting, all things considered. "How long were you working on that one?"

Rhett's grin grows impossibly brighter; you reckon the streetlights are jealous of its shine. "Stole it from the fella in sixth place, actually." 

And with a wink, he starts to walk. On a one-way track to the car, he doesn't need to look over his shoulder to see if you'll follow or not. He knows you will. You all know it.

It will take twice the amount of time to get back to town. But as you and Bob stumble after your shared cowboy like a pair of too-eager puppies, you can't help but wonder if the home is where your boyfriends are. Wherever that may be.

Even in run-down hotels out in the middle of nowhere, as much as you may complain about it.

[prismatica-the-strange]

Graveyard Flowers | A Few Stipulations

Warnings: 18+, horny Bj, death (obv), depression ment., no smut but lots of allusions to sex. Possibly ooc.

"Working" for Beetlejuice isn't exactly what Rosie envisioned, but things aren't always as bad as they seem.

Picrew

"So this is it," Beetlejuice motions to the office, "It ain't much, but the guys are pretty mellow, and I like to keep the atmosphere chill."

She gets a few waves which she awkwardly returns.

"And that brings me to the next order of business," He tugs on his lapels, "Your uniform."

"Uniform?"

"Gotta have one."

"Okay... do I get one of those snazzy yellow blazers or-" He cuts her off with a snap of his finger and she feels a gust of wind. When she looks down her eyes do wide, "Oh, no. No, no, no! Beej what the hell is this?"

(rough sketch)

"That's your uniform."

"This is barely lingerie!"

"Really extenuates your-" She slaps his hands away from her tits.

"I'm not wearing this!" She lifts her arm to try and cover herself.

"Uh, your contract says otherwise," He argues.

He pulls out the document and points to a part of the text she can't even read.

"Give me that," She tears it from his hand, squinting at it until he pulls out supernaturally strong magnifying glass, revealing a tiny illustration of the outfit she's currently wearing.

"See?" He gives her a lopsided grin, "But hey, if you're not feeling it, I can be flexible."

She feels the loose hem of her skirt tighten around her thighs, morphing into a stupidly short pencil silhouette.

"Are you kidding me?"

"You know? I might actually like this better," He palms her ass, suddenly behind her, and she spins around, slapping him.

"I want my clothes back."

"Can't do that," He shrugs, "Guess you're just gonna have to suck it up, buttercup-..."

He gulps when her glaring eyes light up and blood starts to weep from between her stitches.

"You're upset," He says, taking a step back, hands up in front of him, "Why don't we talk this out, I'm sure there's a compromise here."

He jumps when the blood forms and hardens into a straight razor in her hand.

The shrunken heads watch in shock as she strong arm's their boss.

"You want your clothes back?" He snaps his fingers, "There- well... kinda."

She looks down and she's in one of her comfy sweaters and a pair jeans from before she died.

He coughs, leaning back against a table, trying to casually cross his legs to hide his raging hard-on, "'S that better?"

She sighs and nods, the blade in her hand melting back to blood and flowing back into her wound.

"Good. Wouldn't want any little outbursts, now would we?"

She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest, "Just tell me what exactly you expect me to do."

He huffs a heavy sight of relief and pops up behind her, one arm slung around her shoulders, and adjusting his junk with the other hand.

"Nothin' much," He admits, "Tidy up here and there, take my calls, do coffee runs, stand there an' look pretty. Pretty standard fare."

"So..." She scowls to herself, "I'm your PA?"

"That a problem?"

"Well, it's not exactly how I pictured spending my afterlife."

"Aw, c'mon darlin' where's that smile?" His finger briefly catches her chin, "At least you're not in lock up anymore."

"I guess," She glances around the office.

She always thought once she died she'd get a little freedom in her existence, but this was worse than her job before she was murdered. She wonders for a moment if there was anyway to get a job haunting a bookstore or something.

"That's my girl," He steers her toward the one empty desk unaware of how that phrase would have her blushing if she could, "You can use my best buddy Bob's old desk, bless his soul- hah!"

His chest ignites in flame at his half-hearted sign of the cross and he quickly pulls away to put it out.

His goofy flailing makes her giggle and a wave of relief washes over him.

He would never- ever speak it into being, but he feels a weird sense of guilt over her death. He'd heard her try and call him that night, felt the urgency behind it, and it thrilled him, knowing his fleshie wanted to see him again, but when she didn't follow through he shrugged it off and went about his business.

Knowing she spent most of the last year in her particular torment makes his unbeating heart ache.

Uh oh...

"Sweetheart," He grunts, tapping her shoulder. She's fallen asleep at her desk with her head on her arms.

She looks incredible sweet and peaceful and... oddly unnerving. He still isn't quite used to her being dead so her still, unbreathing corpse gives him chills.

"Rosie-" He holds her forehead, tilting her head back, but he jumps back when her eyes open, already glowing, and she takes a swing at him with a spectral blade, "Whoa! Hey now!"

She flickers to the other side of the room, her fingers tentatively touching her throat.

It takes him a second but he remembers how her uncle did something similar when he killed her, "Didn't mean to freak ya. Not this time, at least. You fell asleep."

She blinks at him, "I don't know why I'm so tired."

"That'll be the PD's little safety assurance they made me add to your contract."

Her sleepy little confused face is way too cute for a cold-blooded killer.

"To keep you from going off and rampaging the livin' they're insisting you're partially sedated," He explains, "No where near when you were in deep lock-up, but enough to keep you from becoming a problem."

"Well, stop it!"

"Can't do that."

"Why not?"

"Cause if I do they'll put you back in deep freeze."

She runs her hand down her face with a sigh.

"Hey now," He's next to her with his arm slung around her shoulders again, "Don't be so down about it, we can get you a little cot, make it all cozy, whaddaya say?"

She slumps against him with a huff and he stiffens, "Yeah, whatever."

"But until then," He snaps his fingers and suddenly she's straddling lap at his desk chair, "You can always use me."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"I'd like it better if you were wearing this," Another snap of his fingers and she's back in that 'uniform' as he so graciously called it, and his hands grip the back of her thighs, "That's more like it."

"Beej..."

He hasn't seen her this timid around him since the first time they decided to fuck back when she was alive, and he is all for it.

"Someone's horny," He teases in a sing-song voice, hands sliding up to knead the flesh of her ass. He cackles when she slaps him and tries to wiggle off him, "Careful how you move there, you'll get me all excited!"

"Pig!" She wrenches herself out of his grip, and when she looks at him again his nose has morphed into a pig snout.

"You love it," He snorts. She flicks his snout and when it pops back to normal he scrunches his nose a few times, "Rude."

She just scoffs and walks back to her desk, not bothering to argue about her clothes.

A win for him, that's for sure, but when she passes out an hour later, cheek pressed against the musty wood, he pulls a blanket out of nowhere and wraps it around her shoulders.

He's never seen a more ghost-like ghost.

For the past three weeks she's been practically haunting the office with her bad vibes. There's being dead and then there's acting like it, and she's been far too committed to the bit for his liking. She won't even snap at him for his risqué touches!

"Alright!" He hops off his desk where he's been watching her unenthusiastically talk to a potential client, "That's it, you're comin' on a job with me."

She somehow looks even less enthusiastic, "Two things Beej. One, if you think I'd ever let anyone else see me in this get up, you're delusional. And two, I can barely lift a phone I'm so tired, how the hell am I supposed to help you on a haunt?"

"Secondly, you're only sedated so you can't break out of the Netherworld, once you're out I can get rid of that. And first off, I've got a few options for ya," He slaps his hand on the desk and motions for her to stand, rolling his eyes and pulling her to her feet when she doesn't move, "If you could play along for just a few seconds that be great."

"Beej-"

"Shut it," He warns, pressing his finger to her lips, but his playful tone pulls a smile to her face.

"Fine," She chuckles, "What kind of 'options'?"

"So glad you asked. To start, we have an old classic," He snaps his fingers and she's back the vampire hunter costume she died in, "Next up we have this little number."

She's suddenly in a black corset and pants get up that's oddly practical for her new boss.

"And lastly," Another snap and she's sporting a black pinstriped, white powersuit not too unlike his.

"The first one," She says confidently and he pouts, "But..."

He perks up at that.

"But?"

"I would rather wear the second around here its, more practical," She fiddles with the hem of the blazer she's wearing, "You mind?"

"Well, if you insist," He's in front of her now, fingers making quick work of the buttons before pushing the fabric back to reveal the black lace bra he's put her in.

All the shrinkers, who have been trying very hard to ignore this whole exchange, all look over at the loud crack of her slapping him. It's probably the hardest she's ever slapped him and he immediately feels himself start to get hard.

"That is not what I meant, and you know it!" She hisses.

"Mmm... yeah alright," He groans. He changes her back into those tight leather pants and long coat, eyes still fixated on the swell of her breasts, almost like he's hypnotized by them.

"Hey," She grabs his chin and tilts his head up to look at her, "My eyes are up here."

"They sure are, gorgeous," He basically purrs, melting into her hand.

"God, you're pathetic," She scoffs and he almost topples over when she pulls her hand away, "What kind of job did you have in mind?"

"That's it, sweetheart," He murmurs in her ear, his ands holding her hips from behind, "Y'know you're actually pretty good at this."

"Would you shut it?" She snaps, "I'm trying to concentrate."

"Right, right..." He leans slightly closer and nips at her earlobe, making her jump.

The startle cause a a lightbulb down the hall to pop and one of the window panels she'd been frosting to crack.

"Did you just bite me?"

"Wh-who the hell are you?"

"Great," She huffs, "He can see us now. Happy?"

The three of them share a look and Beetlejuice rights himself and straightens his suit, "I'll take care of this, toots."

"What the hell did you just call me?"

(Smut continuation)

"And that's when the chandelier fell?"

Beej and Rosie are sat across the desk from Wolf, their clothes and hair still mussed from their earlier physical exertions.

"Yeah, something like that," Beetlejuice shrugs, trying not to grin too hard.

The detective pauses for a moment.

"On the ceiling?"

"She's a freak, this one," He chuckles and Ro doubles over in her chair to hide her face in her hands, "Took me by surprise too."

"Shut up, Beej!"

Wolf shakes his head slightly, "Hell of a way to die."

"Got a hell of a show."

"Beetlejuice!"

[rtfics]

A very detailed, positive "Beetlejuice" review.

Lots of info about what happens, so consider this packed with spoilers.

‘Beetlejuice Beetlejuice’ Review: Winona Ryder and Michael Keaton Help Tim Burton Rediscover the Ghoulish Mischief of His Glory Days.

There’s an inventive sequence early in the unexpectedly delightful Beetlejuice Beetlejuice in which the Bee Gees’ “Tragedy” accompanies Monica Bellucci’s soul-sucking demoness as her hacked up body parts are shaken loose from crates in the afterlife’s lost-and-found warehouse, where she proceeds to stitch herself back together like a gorgeous DIY Frankenstein monster. That scene multitasks as a show of kinship with the same actor’s role as a vampire bride in Bram Stoker’s Dracula; a tribute from Tim Burton to a key Gothic literature inspiration; and a darkly delicious valentine to the director’s offscreen partner of the past two years.

One of many inspired set-pieces in a clever sequel laced with hilarious callbacks to the 1988 original and amusingly eclectic pop-culture references to everything from Carrie to Mario Bava, from Soul Train to Donna Summer, it’s not the only time during the movie that I scrawled, “Tim Burton’s back!” in my notes.

Any sequel coming 36 years after its predecessor is best approached with caution, this one especially so given that with the main exception of 2012’s Frankenweenie, Burton seemed to have misplaced his mojo somewhere around the turn of the new century — at least for this critic.

Tapping into the maniacally playful spirit of one of his enduring golden-era hits, the director seems reinvigorated. He serves up comparable tonic as well for two actors who were a big part not just of the original Beetlejuice but also of Burton’s Batman movies and Edward Scissorhands: Michael Keaton and Winona Ryder, respectively. The name in the credits of a second Batman Returns alum is no secret, but that actor’s droll extended cameo merits spoiler treatment.

Hollywood’s cynical strip-mining of successful IP in its quest for the everlasting franchise has taught us to be suspicious, so there’s something restorative for the audience, too, in experiencing a resuscitated screen property that’s actually fun — not to mention one that asserts its own reason to exist.

I sparked up and began to realize I was in good hands as soon as the spooky echo of Summer’s disco “MacArthur Park” cover segued to the first notes of a score by Danny Elfman, which starts in ominous mode and grows more devilishly jaunty as ace DP Haris Zambarloukos’ camera cruises through the sleepy town of Winter River and arrives at the hilltop haunted house purchased by the Deetz family in Beetlejuice.

Warner Bros. has been trying on and off to make a sequel happen since the early ’90s, most notably after the studio in 2011 hired Seth Grahame-Smith, who shares story credit here with screenwriters Alfred Gough and Miles Millar. Burton’s success pulling off such a zesty follow-up after so many years on the shelf is due as much to those writers, with whom he worked on Netflix’s Wednesday. That series’ star, Jenna Ortega, is chief among welcome new additions to the holdover crew of Keaton, Ryder, Catherine O’Hara and shrunken-headed Bob.

Still wearing the jagged black bangs she rocked as a goth teen, Ryder’s Lydia Deetz is now a widowed mother famous for hosting a reality show called Ghost House, where from a studio attic set she invites viewers to “Come in, if you dare.” Mimicking the formula of countless paranormal shows, Lydia coaxes guests to share chilling experiences of unexplained phenomena in their homes. But a triggering vision of Keaton’s Beetlejuice sitting among the studio audience reveals that the psychic mediator has not put her own haunted past behind her.

Lydia has a strained relationship with her teenage daughter, Astrid (Ortega), who resents her mother spending more time with the dead than with her own daughter and chafes at her disinclination to talk about her late father, Richard (Santiago Cabrera). He perished in an accident in the Amazon, and while Astrid thinks her mom’s supernatural insights are hokum, she petulantly gripes that Richard is the one ghost with whom she can’t communicate.

ensions between Lydia and her artist stepmother Delia (O’Hara) have eased over the years, despite the latter becoming even more self-absorbed in her shift from sculpture into mixed media. Her latest show is called The Human Canvas, and that canvas of course is Delia’s face and body.

The writers find a crafty solution to the awkward question of what to do about convicted sex offender Jeffrey Jones, who played Lydia’s father, Charles. In a spry Claymation sequence that’s classic Burton, we learn of Charles’ recent gruesome death — though naturally in the Beetlejuice world, death is more a pitstop than a destination, so the character lingers even if his original physical form is erased.

Barbara and Adam Maitland, the sweet, prematurely deceased couple played by Geena Davis and Alec Baldwin, are gone, however, as Lydia explains they’ve found a loophole. “How convenient,” scoffs Astrid, with a wink from the writers.

Charles’ funeral — whimsically accompanied by a boys choir singing a hymnal version of Harry Belafonte’s “Day-O,” another lovely callback — brings the family back to Winter River. Accompanying them is Lydia’s producer and soon-to-be fiancé, Rory (Justin Theroux), whose ridiculous tiny ponytail tags him as a phony, and whose “New Age, over-bonding, yoga-retreat bullshit” Astrid finds beneath contempt.

Wrapping the entire house, Christo-style, in black gauze, Delia sets about making her performative grief into a project dubbed The Art of Sorrow, while Rory seizes on Charles’ wake as the ideal time to propose to Lydia, who’s sufficiently caught off-guard to accept. Astrid’s disgust sends her speeding off into town, where she meets Jeremy (Arthur Conti), a fellow Dostoevsky fan and cool analog guy; they plan a date for Halloween night, when her mother’s “Witching Hour” wedding is scheduled.

While all this is going on, Bellucci’s Delores is terrorizing the netherworld, killing denizens “dead-dead” on her mission to claim the rotten soul of her husband, Beetlejuice. In a riotous touch that got huge laughs at the Venice press screening, their short-lived ghost marriage is recapped as a black-and-white, subtitled Italian mini-movie. Investigating Delores’ trail of destruction is Wolf Jackson (Willem Dafoe), a former TV action star now playing detective, with lots of cheesy direct-to-camera glances for dramatic emphasis.

The living (or “fleshbags,” as Jackson calls them) and the dead get tangled up when Astrid is tricked into a potentially fatal pact and Lydia is forced to summon Beetlejuice to help her cross over and save her daughter. Given that Beetlejuice doesn’t believe in free favors, an alternative wedding plan emerges to rescue him from Delores, a nightmarish scenario in which Lydia’s familiarity with the predatory sandworms of the afterlife’s exile desertscape comes in handy.

The zippy pacing, buoyant energy and steady stream of laugh-out-loud moments hint at the joy Burton appears to have found in revisiting this world, and for anyone who loved the first movie, it’s contagious. That applies also to the actors, all of whom warm to the dizzying lunacy.

The double-barrel title might suggest this is Keaton’s show, and he gets an ample share of antic opportunities — looking as moldy and slobby as ever and crawling with cockroaches — but he never crowds out anyone else in the strong ensemble.

is most exhilarating sequences include a stint as a trickster couples counselor when Rory decides Lydia needs to face “this construct of your trauma.” (The uproarious birth of a diabolical baby Beetlejuice during that scene yields one of animatronics chief Neal Scanlan’s most brilliant creations.)

If the use of Belafonte’s “Day-O” was a memorable high point of Beetlejuice, what the filmmakers and Keaton do with “MacArthur Park” in a wedding-from-hell climax takes the possessed lip-syncing and dance moves several steps further. The wedding cake with “sweet green icing flowing down” is a jubilant celebration of some of the daffiest lyrics ever set to music. And the fate of an assembly of cellphone-clutching influencers gathered in the church by Rory (“Nothing less than 5 million followers”) will bring bliss to anyone who ever rolled their eyes about that “career” path.

Ryder goes beat for beat with Keaton as the yin of the movie to his rancidly irreverant yang. The actress transports us back to the enchanting screen persona of her late teens, not just in Beetlejuice but also in movies like Edward Scissorhands, Mermaids and Heathers, in which she radiated a singular mix of smarts, sweetness and innocence but was just as effective when she veered into darkness. As much as anything, Beetlejuice Beetlejuice is a poignant mother-daughter story, played with real heart by both Ryder and Ortega.

The movie’s pleasures extend to Zambarloukos’ dynamic visuals and Elfman’s score, which has all the qualities of his collaborative peak with Burton plus distinctive new flavors. Another frequent collaborator, costume designer Colleen Atwood, does striking work for characters on both sides of the mortality divide, while production designer Mark Scruton has a ball creating a whole new network of afterlife antechambers, admin offices and departure terminals.

CG work is no doubt extensive but one of the sequel’s charms is how much its physical sets, puppetry and phantasmagoria stick to a hand-crafted look in line with the far more limited effects tools available in the late ’80s. It’s rewarding to have Burton back in full creative command of the humor, the fantastical imagination and the gleeful morbidity on which he built his name.