#goldenbeetle fic

[bunnys-beetlejuice-blog]

Ok since u wanna challenge:

Spin the bottle beetlands style! Guess who?

honestly i guess weegee but only because they always have attitude with me smh

He told Barbara once that he wasn't a social butterfly, and he meant it. Hanging with a bunch of people from school, on purpose, sounds plainly miserable to him. How she and Adam convinced him to even come to this party, well... He's still not really sure what happened. One moment he was staunchly refusing, on the principle that he hated everyone attending, and then Adam had taken his hand, and Barbara had twirled her hair on her finger, and both of them had batted their eyes at him, and all of a sudden his mouth was agreeing to whatever they wanted.

Seems human beings do have powers, after all. So that's about the long and short of how he finds himself at this little human party, surrounded by all these other teens. There's music playing, some trendy top hits garbage he wouldn't be caught dead listening to, otherwise, and from the smell of it, there's definitely drinks being poured, though Adam and Barbara seem ignorant of that. He's led around by his hoodie sleeve, his partners very attentively making sure he's not able to start a fight- they know him so well. Instead they settle into a group on the floor, chatting and drinking and just sort of, casually sitting around in a circle, doing nothing much. "We waitin' for somethin', here?" he asks, as he flops on his ass, and a girl responds by taking a bottle that's sat next to her, chugging the remaining contents, and placing it in the middle of the circle. "Just more players, dude." Oh. OH. Barbara looks interested, Adam a bit nervous, and BJ, well... he's not sure how to feel. The game is played, the bottle spun. The logic of the game is not exactly hard to follow, but he does grimace at the wet sound of lips on lips that couples make when they kiss. Human spit swapping... gross in a very enticing way. "Human beings don't have to make that noise," he says, leaning over to Adam. "They could just kiss quietly.. That's a noise that humans invented." "Oh my god, I know, right?" Adam returns, and then goes quiet, because the person on his other side has just finished, and now it's his turn.

He looks at his partners nervously, then gives the bottle another spin, honor bound by the rules of the game to kiss whoever it lands on, even if it's not his preference. Luckily for him, the demon sitting next to him isn't about to let any of these other losers steal kisses from his boyfriend. The bottle lands on Barbara, very intentionally. BJ watches the sweet kiss the two of them exchange, all flustered but pleased. The two of them settle back to seated positions, faces red, and then BJ reaches out, and spins the bottle, and he forces it to stop on Adam. The group around them all give a little "Oooooh!"

"Two kisses in a row," BJ smiles. "Lucky dog. Comere, Sexy." It's not like he hasn't kissed Adam before, but in public, while being watched, is new. Barbara leans forward to poke and tease them as BJ cups Adam's face, pulls him a little closer, and kisses him. His senses are overwhelmed briefly. Adam smells nice, Adam feels good in his arms, Adam makes a cute little noise when BJ pulls away and bites at his bottom lip. It's maybe a little too steamy of a kiss for a party game, since the two of them have actual chemistry, and it leaves both boys a little flustered. Barbara's looking more red faced than she was a second ago, and she reaches out, gives the bottle a spin, and again, he forces it to stop on himself. "My lucky night," she smiles brightly, and then she gets the same treatment, a cupped face, her gentle hands pulling slightly at the sleeves of his hoodie as they kiss, and a little bite when they have to part. "Jesus, you three, get a fucking room," someone mutters, as Adam and Barbara, both a little overwhelmed, lean over, and rest their heads on either of BJ's shoulders. BJ, for his part, is smiling wide.

Maybe parties aren't so bad after all.

[cirilee]

It’s Beetlejuice Fic Rec Time

Decimal Increments (GEN! :D i honestly wish there were more of those; romance is fine and good but gen fics usually delve a bit better into the characters) Adam gets kidnapped by a monster! Barbara and (a reluctant) Beetlejuice will team up to save that cute man! random comment: barb/adam and beets feel and act like actual adults here (and i love delia in part 2) - very much good dialogue !! i’ve reread this one a few times already (also very good physical hurt/comfort scenes with bee in this one!!)

House Rules the typical Beej returns fic, and it got everything you need: Beej getting to be heroic and snarky, wholesome friendship between him and lydia, maitlands get a cute romance with him !! random comment: an absolute classic, you will devour this in one go and will immediately crave more >u<

Mother Thing fluff all the way, and barbara taking care of beej random comment: i love the lore in this and the science of what beetlejuice is - very cool talks of anatomy and how he came to be ;V;

Devil in my Bloodstream oh no you guys, the angst ... beetlejuice gets kidnapped by his mom, as she wants to “take back what is hers” random comment: this one’s written by the absolutely awesome @bi-tlejuice​ go check them out they are so amazing at writing stuff that will tear your heart out!!

Hey, Somebody’s on the Roof SIGH OH WOW. the absolute perfect fic, if you want both lydia and beej to just talk it out post-musical ;V; random comment: you will cry, your chest will hurt, you will have all sort of emotions, go thank @peggydoodles afterwards, they’re responsible

feel free to add on to this !!! UwU

[daydreaming-jessi]

HHHHHHHHHH

This is nsft stuff here so viewer beware I guess. I’m just so tired of looking at and editing this so I’m gonna go die byeeeeeee

[floral-on-main]

Mornings, You Know I Love ‘Em

Summary: The ever opinionated Ghost with the Most has some thoughts on sleep. Beetlejuice is soft for only 2 ghosts (and 3 breathers).

Words: 1034. Also on ao3

Beetlejuice hated sleeping. It was a stupid breather necessity and an even stupider ghost pastime. Every night the house went totally silent and he had to be quiet. He was ever resourceful, though, and had found many ways to entertain himself without waking anyone up. Stargazing was his favorite, but everyone in the house thought it was pillbug bowling. Eating the losers of pillbug bowling was a close second.

Sleeping was a horrible waste of time, but waking up was the best part of the day. Waking up between the world's nerdiest and sexiest ghosts made the laying still thing worth it. Beetlejuice turned his head to the right as carefully as he could. He couldn't stop the smile splitting his face or the pink staining his hair.

Barbra had her head rested over his right tit. He subtly tightened his hold on her and reveled in the increased pressure on his side. Barley blonde hair was pinned under his arm as well as splayed over his shoulder. Her soft snores could barely be heard over the chirping of birds outside. He wondered when   his life became a fucking Disney movie?

Without even looking, he knew Adam was drooling. Beej could feel the wet spot on his arm. He could turn his head and check, but he was looking at an angel. A pair of eyes popped up on the back of his neck. Adam had Beetlejuice's arm clutched to his chest with his head rested on Beej's shoulder. He let out a small contented sigh.

He loved looking at the Maitlands, especially at the same time. Too bad the whole extra body parts thing still creeped them out. What he wouldn't give to kiss them both breathless at once.

Adam and Barbra still had some ticks from when they were alive. Apparently they used to thrash around at night, but now they slept like the dead. Ha! But Beetlejuice wouldn't know about that, he wasn't creepy enough to peek on them in the bedroom.

Sun streaming in through the curtains, a lukewarm body on either side, and the knowledge that he was loved is what made every morning perfect. He would kill for them. He would die for them. Either way, what bliss.

A snort from his left alerted Beetlejuice that Adam was going to wake up soon. The second set of eyes disappeared as he turned his head to face the sexiest man dead or alive. Although, Beej knew he was at least the second sexiest dead and the sexiest born-dead. He made sure to check the Netherworld ranking weekly, or at least whenever he remembered.

Adam's face scrunched up before relaxing. His eyes still squinted from trying to see without his glasses. Beetlejuice was totally silent and just soaked up the pure beauty in front of him. The still red head wound only added to the appeal.

After blinking a few times, Adam really looked at him. “Good morning, Cuddlebug,” Adam said just like he did every morning. And just like every morning, Beetlejuice felt like he was home, like he belonged.

Beetlejuice managed to croak out, “Morning A-Dog. Looking fantastic, as usual.” Adam just smiled and kissed his boyfriend's cheek.

“Pink really is your color.” Damn traitorous hair!, Beej thought. From roots to tips his hair was almost violently bubblegum pink.

Before he could he could get too embarrassed though, Beej felt fingers scratch at his scalp. He couldn't stop the deep rumble that came from his chest. He absolutely knew Barbra was smirking as she carded her fingers through his bright pink hair. “Sleep well, Babs?” She only hummed in response.

Barbra and Adam leaned over Beetlejuice's stomach to kiss. Good morning kisses were a habit left over from life, now with an extra step. Beej waited patiently for his turn. He absolutely loved the casual, intimate contact.

God-slash-Satan, he loved to see the Maitlands like this: candid, untroubled, and unencumbered by breather standards. Holy shit he loved them. Geez, these nerdy-sexy ghost always made him feel like a person, not a normal person, but definitely alive.

The Maitlands and Beetlejuice sat up, the latter's back filling the silence with a cacophony of popping noises. Adam rubbed absently at his perpetually sore neck while Barbra did her best to stretch her ghostly muscles. The two were already looking more alive, even with the head wounds, which were now beginning to fade.

Many things ran through Beej's head, mostly dirty jokes. Hey, what's an extra hole been friends? The crimson really brings out the gold in your hair B-Town. Want to just stay up here and watch Keeping up with the Kardashians? How can you two be so perfect?

His face went blank as he became preoccupied with his thoughts.

“What are you thinking about, handsome? Got something big planned for today?” At some point Adam changed into his day clothes and put on his glasses. A quick glance to his right showed Barbra was equally prepared for the day.

“Nah, just thinking about getting' pegged.” He laid one hand on Barbra's hip and his other on Adam's waist. “Think we can make that happen, partners?” The last part was said with a corny southern accent. The proposition was half joke, half demon libido.

Barbra had that look in her eyes. The one Beetlejuice learned translated into ' I can do anything. Maitlands 2.0!' She squeezed Beetlejuice's upper arm and looked right at Adam. “I think we can do that, right dear?”

“Of course, honey. The Deetzes won't be up for at least another hour.”

Someone just pinched his ass. He didn't know who, but he was ready to give as good as he got. “Alright, that's the last straw!” A somewhat seductive grin spread across his face as he sprouted a second pair of arms to pinch them back while holding them close. Their surprise quickly melted into a fit of giggles.  

Sleeping was probably the most boring thing in the world next to watching grass grow. The hours of lying unconscious were 120% worth it as long as Beetlejuice got to wake up every day with his two favorite ghosts, in the house of his three favorite breathers.

[chaotic-lydia]

Please send me numbers (preferably for Lydsday)!! Pretty please!! I’m also happy to write for Gomez/Morticia, Charles/Delia OR Charles/Emily, and Beetlelands.

OTP Questions

Who pulls the other closer while sleeping?

How do they wake up next to each other? Ex - Tangled in each other’s arms? Is one falling off the bed? ECT.

What movie do they watch when they both had a bad day and just want to turn off their brains for a little while?

Who picks something up, says a pun with the object then laughs as if it’s the funniest thing they ever heard?

How do they hype one another up?

When one of them gets a new outfit, how does the other react?

Who tries to playfully scare the other person and who always knows where the other person is?

When they grocery shop, what is one section they love to plaufully mess around in and why?

When their partner has a bad day, what is something the other picks up to try and make their day a little better? Ex - Fast food, flowers, a punny card, ect.

Who runs up and hugs their partner while the other catches them?

What song reminds them of each other?

Who presses their nose against their partner’s cheek before kissing them?

What small quirks do they love about each other?

Who accidentally snorts when they laugh and that makes both of them laugh harder?

What are somethings that they do for one another because they know their partner hates it? Ex- do the dishes, phones to make an order, talks to sales clerk. ECT

[xxghost-zombie-jesus]

hiiiiiiiiii </3 i decided to make a side blog for my beetlejuice shit because im insane and need an outlet to scream into. im looking for people to follow so like this if you post about: - Beetlejuice media in general (Musical, Cartoon, original movie) - Specifically the Musical though bc >3> - Beetlands/Goldenbeetle (or w/e the ship name is) - Lydia and Beetlejuice shenanigans (platonic)

I'll be posting links to my own fics, as well as my own insane and inane ramblings, so if that's anything that interests y'all then idk, do what you want. I can't make you follow me, unless possession is ur thing /jk

all my own stuff will be posted under the tag #veej's rambles!

This is not a Beetlebabes area, and I will block anyone I see shipping it for my OWN COMFORT. I won't be attacking anyone tho, you do you, i'll do me, yada yada, okay?

[gender-chaotic]

Oh boy b**tleba*bes talking about stuff they have no clue about lmao

Warning talk mentions of b**tleb*bes, over sexualization of minors, and a bit of adult stuff.

Im goldenbeetle shipper whos been here a while now and is a proud drinker of loving barbara maitland juice not gonna deny our community has some issues mostly in the past with leaving babs out of fics and art and focus more on adam and beej as well as more adult content. But this is something myslef and many people IN OUR OWN COMMUNITY has been speaking out about for a long ass time now you can search the tags for posts adressing leaving Barbara out including by myself so jot that down, so we dont need b**tleb*bes who barley know anything about our community telling us about our content especially when some of y'all openly mock our ship and made it clear you do not care about it, thanks. many of us especially more recently add barbara in, ive seen so much goldenbeetle content that includes babs including again my own content, ive purposefully drawn solo babs and beej so if you're saying there no content that includes her or just beej and her you're very VERY wrong, come to me or most shippers we can provide lots of golden beetle content with babs and even just babs and beetlejuice. Not to mention a few of your own b**tleb*bes have made beetlejuice and adam content and usually leaves Barbara out and focuses just on adam and beej but go off i guess lol.

Many people draw barbara also draw her based off her actresses' who are both women who don't have very large breasts on top of that gena davis' dress for Barbara did not reveal much, kerry's showing a bit more with a deep neckline still covered alot of her body. Many people arent drawing babs with big knockers and sexy clothes because were trying to repress her sexuality and make her dress like she's in the handmaids tale, shame women for being sexy, its because barbara and adam are canonically a white bred suburban couple who are "vanilla" its their personailty, i drew babs with smaller breasts and more "canon compliant" for a while before i changed it up. Obviously you CAN draw barabra and even adam as sexy and babs with big tiddies, i draw barbara with larger breasts now, and show her cleavage and I've been doing this for a while and i have draw PLENTY of sexy and pin up style babs as well adult content with her beetlejuice, and adam, I've also posted it on here so again y'all dont know what you're talking about. I know others who have drawn sexy barbara and barbara with larger breasts just because its not common and YOU haven't seen it doesn't mean its not out there.

Have y'all seen art of anyone oc's like including self ship oc's with beej?? many of them are sexy and/or have pretty bug breasts (not complaini g btw yall are doing gr8 i love your oc's) or other adult female characters in the show I've seen of art thats sexy of miss Argentina and delia as well as art of them with larger breasts and dressed more "sexy" because that's their character, dress more revealing and prefer to be "sexy". Ive also never been attacked or seen any other "anti" attack a creator for making sexy art or big breasted versions of female characters that are canonically adults in beetlejuice, this includes myself who has openly posted suggestive content of babs even on here infact Ive seen people actually like that stuff they just don't make it themselves so claiming "no one is allowed" to draw barbara sexy or adult content of her is also a huge load.

Not to get too personal but speaking from experience as a person who developed at a very early age i got my first real bra at 7 or 8, had D-DDD breasts throughout middle school and highschool, currently has g-h cup breasts, has been overly sexualized my entire life by people of all ages because of this, and also deals with ALOT of dysphoria because of It am A-ok with representation of women with larger breasts, including suggestive/sexual art of them, women of all body types including their breasts but that's the thing i highly doubt y'all care about large breasted women I've seen the argument when talking about the over sexualiztion of large breasts

"well you dont care about women with big breasts we exist too!"

"Dont erase our body breasts!"

I get it! But its pretty clear this argument is usually only being presented to tokenize us and then someone will draw a big tiddied lady with wide as birthing hips, a dumpster truck ass, back that looks like it son the verge of breaking, and a waist that varies from size skinny to "holy sh*t did all your organs get sucked out???" If yall really care about women with big breasts draw women of differing body types with big breasts, draw them chubby, fat, ACTUALLY curvy, give them stretch marks, a double chin, ect. You fucking cowards say were mysoginists for "not giving barbara big tiddies"

Most of b**tleb*abe adult lydia art looks like a mix of jessica rabbit, elvira, and morticia addams with the same 2 or 3 body types over and over again, infact ive run into plenty of b**tleb*bes art where lydia has either has big tits or like a B-ish cup ("aged up" lydia thats looks almost exactly like her teenage self canon(s)) not really an inbetween but you "totally care about women with large breasts" its not tat you only care about adult lydia to make her ooc, project onto her and make her to sexy goth queen many of us wanted to be when we were young and watched beetlejuice, ship her with beej so she can be his big tiddy goth gf its TOTALLY about ""feminism"" uh huh....

And where has YOUR sexy barbara art been hmm? b**tleb*bes draw so little art of barbara or either maitlands other than to be in the background and react to beej and lyida's shenanigans, or scold them because babes portray the maitlands or way more protective and prude than in canon, and the little art I've seen babes draw of her isn't sexy big tiddy babs. I have at most seen a handful of deetzland fics with adult content including barbara and that's it. Its very clear many of yall care mostly about lydia and beej especially boinking be honest now. So dont bring up our ship or barbara as a "gotcha antis".

And lastly Lydia, i dont think any of us are saying she cant grow up, we literally just think its gross to sexualize a character who is a minor in canon and age her up solely to be with a canon adult. Ive seen "antis" draw adult lydia in a tasteful way and develop her as she grows up because they're interested in her charcter and no one has taken issue with it at all. Lydia in all canons doesnt have big honkers in any canon either, yes minors can have breasts, even larger ones. I mentioned above that was me, and you can have a character who is a minor who looks more developed than others where its not gross and sexualized (jackie lynn thomas from svtfoe is an example, mami from madoka isnt really sexualized in canon from my memory) i think representaion of all body types abd breast sizes is important for young women but lydia isnt one of those characters even in canons where shes 15-17 and going through puberty.

Let lydia be a child jfc, stop being creepy and getting pissy when people draw lyida with the same breast cup in canon and make her look like the average teen/tween she is, that isnt misogyny its treating a character who is a minor appropriately.

The ACTUAL misogyny is over sexualizing and aging up a tween/teen character soley to do the horizontal monster mash with a adult charcter, write her so that she really only cares about said adult character and the spawn that pop out of her from him, she dies young but parents and friends who cares shes got beetlejuice!, Forget the entire life she leaving behind too, and giving her the body of a pixar mom or h*ntai protagonist a majority of the time.

Your performative white feminism is showing.

[bunnys-beetlejuice-blog]

how about a thing where beej goes camping with Lydia or also with adam and Barbara and they all try to tell the scariest stories they can? guess who.

this one got away from me but it was super fun. thanks........ blake? guessing is harder than i thought

"And they were never, ever, seen again," Adam finishes, the flashlight under his chin casting his features in a harsh, strange light.

"Thank god," BJ says, with a snort. "I know, right? Couldn't have chosen a better group of assholes to go missing," Lydia grins.

The late night summer air is keeping them relatively cool, and the fire Adam, the literal boy scout, built for them isn't too high. It's got just enough life in it to heat up a few s'mores. BJ sticks his impaled marshmallow into the flame, and watches as it sets on fire, going from gently roasted to disgustingly burnt in a moment. He lifts it, blows it off, and then, ignoring the pain of touching the molten black sugar, peels the burnt skin off, and eats it, before putting the skinned and oozing marshmallow back in the fire, to repeat the process.

Barbara, who has been watching the process, giggles at him.

"Come on, you guys," Adam frowns. "That's my best one. It got me my storytelling badge!"

"You can't get them, Adam," Barbara says, simply, and when BJ lifts his charred marshmallow and peels the skin off, this time, she plucks it from his fingers, and eats it instead. She grimaces at the taste of burnt sugar. "Nothing scares the horror twins," she finishes, giving BJ an apologetic peck on the cheek for stealing his snack, and he puts an arm around her, and then presses his mouth to her ear.

"That's right," he growls, right into her ear, and she squeals, and pushes him away, laughing. "Me an' Lyds are old pros at scary stories. You guys don't stand a chance."

"So why don't you tell one?" Adam huffs, a little irritated, and normally, he'd feel bad for being the cause of it... But all's fair in love, war, and campfire tales.

He looks down to Lydia, and she stares up at him, chocolate and graham cracker smeared at the corners of her mouth. "What do you think? The Cannibal one?"

"M'tryna scare them, not make em vomit up their marshmallows," BJ laughs. "Maybe th' shoppin' mall one? Ya know, with th'-"

"The corpse fountain, yeah. I dunno.. that one's a little long."

The siblings are stuck considering, for a moment, as Barbara and Adam seem to grow more weary and agitated.

"Oh," BJ snaps his fingers, suddenly, startling his paramores, who both jump, just a little. "I got it. The Shambler."

"Ooooh," Lydia breaths. "The Shambler. Is that one.. safe, to tell?" she drops her voice, into a whisper.

"Why wouldn't it be?" Adam asks, and BJ hides his smile. The story's already begun.

"Well, because of what happened," Lydia says, like it's obvious.

"What happened?" Barbara's hooked, now, leaning forward, to look at the little girl from across the fire.

"Are you serious?" he plays into it, looking from Adam and Barbara like he can't believe they haven't heard. "Jesus, you guys, it was a real life horror show. Okay.. Around 1970 somethin', all these campers start to go missin'. Th' cops go to investigate, an' from th' woods, they keep hearin' this awful moanin' noise. They get to th' campground, an' all th' tents are just... empty. Like all these people just stood up in th' middle of th' night an' walked away, an' just never came back."

"They only found noses," Lydia says, which is a new detail, and he rolls with it. "Th' cops figured th' person-"

"Or thing," Lydia says, voice low.

"Musta been eatin' th' bodies, an' couldn't figure out how to cook up noses."

"I had hoped this wasn't a cannibal story," Barbara says, glumly, and Adam's brow furrows. "There's no way this happened."

"An' why's that?"

"Because I would have heard of it. This is classic campfire story hyperbole."

"I'll hyper your bole, Sexy."

"Anyways," Lydia drags them back on track. "It's probably a good thing you're not buying it. We can just stop telling you about the whole thing. That's safer, for everyone."

"Oh, and why's that?" Adam smiles, amused. "Because talking about it makes the Shambler come?"

He's skipped a few narrative beats, but that's the basic gist, yes.

"Don't say that name so loudly," BJ admonishes him.

"Oh, come on! I thought you guys were horror masters, this is just a retelling of a retelling of a copy!"

"Adam, seriously-" Lydia sells it, looking agitated.

"Shambler, Shambler, Shambler!" Adam challenges.

The bushes behind them rustle. Barbara jumps, and Adam turns, and squints into the darkness. "Probably just a squirrel."

"Sounded bigger than that," Barbara says, softly, almost like she's in on it. God, what a perfect audience member she makes.

Adam stands, and Barbara and BJ follow, only pausing when the bushes rustle again, and a guttural, low groan echoes around them. Whether he knows he's done it or not, Adam takes a step closer to the two of them, and a slight step away from the bushes. "... Okay, that.. That, uh.."

The rustling is on the other side of them, now, and they all three whip their heads around, as the moaning noises grow louder, and louder, closer and closer.

"Adam," Lydia whispers in horror, from the campfire, blood oozing from her mouth. "What.. what did you do?"

She drops, and Barbara lets out a scream, horrified, and both teens go rushing to Lydia's side-

And that's when BJ grabs them both around the shoulders, and gives them a shake. "BOO~!"

The two of them jump a mile high, and turn to look at him, glares on both their faces, as he doubles over, laughing. Lydia, from the dirt, rolls over, laughing too, fake blood still oozing down her mouth and down her chin.

"You guys, come on, that was too easy!" BJ barely manages. "Fake blood capsules," Lydia grins up at their confused faces.

The horror twins are pelted with marshmallows.

[beetlelandsweek]

AWWWW THIS WAS SO SWEET!!

thank you so much the contribution for the week!!! the ending is jist cheff's kiss i adore it

-mod purple

Ship in a Bottle

Here is a my contribution to Beetlelands week. A small thing, mostly character study.  SFW

@beetlelandsweek

Enjoy! ~

Keep reading

[bunnys-beetlejuice-blog]

a notification noise that alerts you to the fact that ITS OFFICIALLY FIC TIME! let's see what Barbara and Adam are gettin up to

The house in Winter River is a dream come true. Barbara loves her city, of course, loves the vibrant personality of New York, and especially loves the food, but loving it, and wanting to be there forever, are two very different things. Winter River is quiet. Sleepy. Quaint. Every morning, she wakes up next to her husband, and she and Adam brew coffee together, and they start their day. Maitland Hardware is the county’s only hardware shop, so business is not bad, not at all, but to supplement their income, she works from home, or the library, or the coffee shop, if she feels like sitting and listening to small down chatter, and uses her laptop to do some accounting for the company she left, back in New York. She and Adam always eat lunch together, her bringing him something, either from home or one of the few places around town, and everyone who meets the Maitlands tells them they’re such a lovely couple, so kind, so cheerful, such a wonderful addition to the community.

But something’s missing.

Sometimes, late at night, as she and Adam lay down to sleep, Barbara will get a feeling, one that makes her afraid. It’s not the fear that someone has come into the house, it’s the fear that someone has left it, only she can’t remember who. On those nights, after Adam has drifted off to dreamland, she rises, and goes from room to room, searching, trying to understand what exactly her brain is telling her is missing. She passes by unfinished rooms, a million unchecked boxes on their list of restoration for their beautiful historic home, and each time, her mind only settles and calms once she reaches the basement. There’s a striped hoodie down there, black and white and garish, one she and Adam had found in the house, after their return from Emily’s funeral.

They had put it down here, unsure of who it belonged to, but not wanting to throw it out. The garment is well loved, with a multitude of stains that don’t wash out, and sloppy stitches in black embroidery thread on either arm, like the person doing the mending was a very small child, or otherwise inexperienced with a needle and thread. She gathers it up in her arms, inhales the smell of it, which is like freshly turned earth and creeping moss, and tries to recall who it could belong to, but she’s never able to pull a name, or even a face, from any corner of her mind, and each time, she has to give up, and retreat back upstairs, back to bed, and she’s more exhausted the next morning than makes sense.

When she tries to express this to Adam, he can only frown, and cock his head. “It’s just nerves, from the move. The house is still new to you,” her husband assures her. “There’s no one missing, Barb. You’re alright. We’re together,” and he says it so softly, so sincerely, she tries to force herself to forget it. “What you’re missing is a baby,” their elderly neighbor tells her, over coffee and pie. Their house on the hill is lacking in neighbors, and Mrs. Cheatham doesn’t exactly live close, but the elderly woman had been the first person to welcome them into the community, and she’s clearly lonely, so Barbara makes time to talk to her, to invite her in, and to share the sweets she’s always bringing, the ones that Mrs. Cheatham is always happy to tell her are “from the store.”

“Nothing will fix your restlessness like filling this house full of children,” the old woman says, knowingly, and Barbara can only smile. “I’m not sure we’re ready for that. There’s still so much to do, around here. We don’t want to go jumping into things.” “You won’t be young forever, sweet thing!”

Maybe not, but isn’t twenty three young to start a family? They’ve got time, don’t they? Why do they need to rush into parenthood, like it’s a race? Maybe they’ll be ready next year, and maybe they’ll be ready in ten years, but either way, they want to be certain things are in order before they start trying to bring a bundle into the world. She lays awake, next to Adam, that night. He’s reading quietly, the antique, refurbished tiffany lamps on either of their bedside tables dimmed, and she studies the ceiling above them. Their bedroom had been the first thing the three of them-

She blinks.

Their bedroom had been the first thing the two of them had worked to restore, when they’d first bought the house, a year and seven or so months ago. It had been slow going, because they were interrupted often, usually by each other, and she remembers fondly the kisses, the playful pinches, the teasing, all of them so in love, so excited to have a place for the three of them-

She squints up at the ceiling, studying the wood grain, her train of thought running out of tracks, for a moment, before she’s able to resume it.

So excited to have a place for the two of them. Maybe three, eventually. That must be what she’d meant. Maybe a baby is what’s missing, maybe this is normal, for a person who wants to be a mother, to think about things in threes, to feel like there’s a third person they’re forgetting, because that person doesn’t exist yet. That must be it. But should she be feeling this sad?

Her phone buzzes, as does Adam’s, and they both reach for their devices, checking them at the same time, to see the message from Lydia, which the teenager had sent to their group chat. “I miss you,” it reads, simply, and then as they watch, a second one loads. “Can I come visit, please? It’s lonely here.”

Her heart aches, as she sits up, running a hand through her long blonde hair. She adores Lydia like a little sister, and she feels a stab of guilt, at how absent they’ve been from the teen’s life, lately. She’s going through so much. Emily’s recovery had been a miracle, and her death a cruel joke, like the universe had decided the only thing funnier than making a child watch her mother wither to nothing could be giving that mother back, in full health, before yanking her away, with a random unpreventable blood clot to the brain.

“Poor Lydia,” Adam says, softly, and she looks back at him. He’s put his book down, to focus on the texts, and he adjusts his glasses, before looking back up at her. “We should have her come stay. Maybe Charles, too. The guest room is almost finished, and she might like sleeping in the living room. That couch is comfortable.” They’ve got the space for multiple guest rooms, but only one is finished enough to actually accommodate someone staying. There’s also a space set aside for what will eventually be a nursery, a bright, sunny room that they’d very enthusiastically painted first, the actual week the house had become officially theirs. It’s where they’d found that strange jacket that now lives down in the basement.

She texts the teen back. “We love you. We miss you. You’re always welcome to come stay with us. Let’s talk details tomorrow.”

She puts out her light, and settles down next to Adam, curled into his side, and shivers, involuntarily, because the room feels colder than it ever has before.

```````````````````````````````````````````````````````

The house in Winter River does nothing but hurt him, reminding him that everyone he’s ever loved has moved on without him. Emily, in the most spiritual sense of the word, but Lydia and Charles, too, and even Barbara and Adam. He studies the picture of their wedding in the foyer. Barbara is in the perfect long white dress, Adam so handsome in his suit, both of them smiling at the camera, not a care in the world, not missing anything. Not missing him.

It’s not their fault, he tells himself, over and over, as he drifts through the house that was supposed to be their home. If they knew he was missing, they would go looking for him. They wouldn’t have settled into disgusting domestic bliss without him. They wouldn’t have been married without him. He floats up the stairs, and pauses, terrified, by the room they’d designated as the nursery, but when he peaks in, it’s still unfurnished, no crib, no toys. At least he hasn’t missed that, which he finds the barest measure of comfort in.

He drifts into the bedroom, and watches his partners sleep, and he curls up, between them, no doubt a chilly irritation, but for a while, he’s able to pretend things haven’t gone to shit. read the rest over HERE!

[bunnys-beetlejuice-blog]

just full on bodies you with a semi NEW FIC JUST DROPPED BABES

we are leaving cute high school world and entering pain town. this story will have mentions of self harm and suicidal ideation. Please take care of yourselves and don't engage if that sort of content is triggering to you. (be nice to yourselves, i love you)

The worst year of his life starts out the same as so many good days, it almost makes him dizzy to think back on. He feels, later, that a start to this much torment, this painful, should have begun completely fucking miserable, but it had been just any other day. It starts the same way so many days before it starts. His eyes open. He’s in his bedroom, in his bed, like normal. He’s staring up at his black ceiling, wrapped up in his bedspread. His phone buzzes, and he groans, reaches for it, scans messages. A good morning from Barbara, an unread goodnight from Adam, a text from that talent agency that there was something they could use his voice for. He throws back his blankets, rubs sleep from his eyes, and dresses.

In high school his uniform had been an oversized striped hoodie, but for his birthday a few years ago, Charles had bought him several nice dress pants, suit jackets, and collared shirts, and he’d sort of settled into that as his new everyday. He likes how he looks, because this shit is expensive, custom, made to fit his more generous frame, and both his partners always say he looks handsome in a jacket and tie. (Sometimes Barbara yanks him around by the tie. Sometimes Adam snaps his suspenders.) And besides, his dad had taken his preferences into consideration, because all the pieces he’d been gifted had that pattern he was drawn to, thick black and white stripes that absolutely stand out in a crowd. He dresses quickly, throws on his suit jacket over his pinstriped shirt. He adjusts his tie, and gives a grin. Too many teeth, too sharp, and he waves a hand in front of his mouth, and tries again. Human teeth. There we go, B-Man. He lifts his legs, not especially in the mood to walk, and begins to make his way downstairs, for breakfast. He passes by Lydia’s room, and considers harassing his sister, but he remembers how bad he needed his Saturday sleep-ins at fifteen, and takes pity on her, floating past her door silently.

His father, always an early riser, is already in the kitchen, making a pot of coffee, and Betelgeuse lets his feet hit the floor, so that his heeled boots clack against the kitchen tile.

Charles knows the sound, doesn’t even turn around. “Morning, BJ. Any plans for today?”

His relaxed, not exactly actively working lifestyle is not his dad’s favorite, but he’s got a long time, a lot longer than any other person, to work a job. He's just enjoying the time he gets with all his favorite breathers, before he doesn’t have it anymore. At least, that’s always been his excuse. It's not that he can't find work, or that he’s unhirable to a normal job, it’s that he’s trying to enjoy life. Obviously.

But there's good news this morning.

“Got a text from th’ agency. Some voice work,” he grunts. His insanely gravely voice is not always in high demand, but it's been getting some attention lately, mostly because the last commercial he did voice over for, he had to sing, and the request for more of that has been promising. The big goal is some acting gig, on stage, preferably, but he’d take TV, too. He loves the attention, he loves the rush, he loves entertaining. Unfortunately he’s got a demonic aura that makes breathers nervous on principle. He knows if he could just get a break, he’d have a lot to give… but he’s maybe not working on getting that break as hard as he could be.

“Very nice,” Charles finally turns, and smiles, clearly approving. He sets a cup of coffee in front of his son, and BJ glances at it. “Be a pal and wake your mother up?” “This early? On a Saturday?” He squints. “You tryna take me out via Emily attack?” “We’ve got that check up to go to,” Charles says. “I don’t want to be late.”

He shrugs, takes the cup, and vanishes from sight, appearing upstairs, next to his mother. Emily is still wrapped in the bedsheets, snoring lightly, but he knows the trick to rousing her. The coffee cup is waved around her nose, allowing the aroma to hit her senses, and, eyes still closed, she reaches for it. He pulls the cup back.

“Come on, ma,” he scratches gently at her scalp. “Time to get up.” “Coffeeeee,” she groans, reaching at it blindly again, and he grins, and walks backwards, setting the coffee on the dresser, across the room. “Coffee’s over here, Deetzy,” he tells her, and she finally cracks an eye open, and groans. “Evil. Evil son.” “Yup,” he agrees, easily. “Come on. Chuck says you got some appointments to keep.” His mother groans, and kicks back the sheets, before standing.

He’d been twelve, and herself only about thirty when she’d found him, and now, ten years later, at 40, her age is showing, a little. She’s been growing in gray hair for the past few years, and it hasn’t taken over her natural sunshine yellow, but it’s becoming a bit more noticeable, and the slight lines forming around her mouth and eyes are a new addition to her features. Chuck’s aging in much the same way, but with fewer laugh lines. The hair at his father’s temples is going gray, and if he really looks, he can see the beginnings of salt and pepper in his father’s beard. He doesn’t like looking for it, though, and doesn't like the feeling gnawing in his guts at seeing his parents age. If he had his way, they’d stay frozen in time, the way he probably will. Demons don’t age, past a certain point, and he’s pretty sure he’ll be hitting it, soon enough.

He watches his mother shuffle across the floor, and claim her prize of coffee. She takes a long sip, and then groans. “I don’t want to go to the doctor,” she complains to him, and he pats her shoulder. “I know, ma,” he gives her a very sympathetic smile. “But you gotta. Or Chuckles will throw a fit. It’s just a check up, right? No biggie.” She rubs at her temple, and winces. “Getting old sucks,” she tells him. “I’ve been having the worst headaches, recently.”

When they make it back downstairs, Chuck's got breakfast going, and Lydia is sipping her own coffee. Black, like her heart, she always says. He passes her by and ruffles that mop of long blonde hair. “Beetle breath,” she greets him, as he takes a plate from Charles, and sits to eat.

The voice over work isn't as big a deal as he was hoping. He adjusts his tie, fiddles with the collar of his pinstripe dress shirt, and steps out of the booth. “Fuckin’ peanuts,” he complains, and his agent just shrugs. “Gotta start small, BJ. We need someone to do some crooning for this other comercial, some car sale, or something. You feel like playing Sinatra for a bit?”

Not especially, but he does it anyway, and then meets Adam and Barbara for lunch. Adam’s taking classes for business management, and he’s just about done. He wants to take over his grandpa’s hardware store, outside of the city. Way outside, actually, in some little town in Connecticut. They’ve got shared plans, shared dreams, and all of it hinges on this little store in this little town. BJ isn’t too worried. His boyfriend’s hobbies come and go, but Adam really, really enjoys woodworking, and getting to own a place like that sounds like getting to own his own playground.

Barbara, meanwhile, is stuck in clerical work, which she finds mind numbingly dull, but it's a steady paycheck, and it’s afforded her a ticket out of her dad’s place, so that’s something. She and Adam share a tiny studio apartment in Queens, and for all the time Betelgeuse spends there, he might as well live there, too. But three people in a studio isn’t any of their idea of a good time. Speaking of…

“I was on zillow, today,” Adam starts, and he and Barbara lean over with varying degrees of interest, as Adam shows them his phone. It’s a house, predictably, but a nice one. Old fashioned, and a little creeping looking. He likes it.

“She’s a bit of a fixer upper,” he says, admiring the house. “But the price is right, and look at all this character. Classic Queen Anne, with the original crown molding! Tons of space, lots of room for the three of us.” “Maybe a forth,” Barbara smiles brightly, and he matches her enthusiasm. She’s wanted to be a mom since he’s known her, six pretty amazing years, and while a lot has changed in that time, her maternal desire is as strong as ever.

“Maybe a fifth,” BJ grins, wiggling his eyebrows at her, and she flushes. “One from each of my boys.” She agrees, and she reaches across the table, for his hand, which he gives her. Adam takes her other hand, and they’re lost in that fantasy for a moment. He’s not actually sure he can give her what she wants, since he’s not exactly human, but Adam can, at least. And he gets to be part of it. Goddamn, he’s lucky.

“So? Tell us about this commercial you just did!” Adam smiles at him.

“S’not a big deal, just some radio ad,” He tells them, but he’s flattered that they’re always overly enthusiastic about his bit parts. “I heard you on the radio in the office, a few days ago!” Barbara remembers. “My coworkers couldn’t believe that was your real voice! You make such a good villain.” Of course he does. He keeps the smile on, because he knows Babs, knows that she means it in the sweetest, most lovey dovey way possible, but he’s never going to play the hero, because no hero sounds like a demon. He can’t get in his head about this, not right now. Not when the weather’s so nice, and he’s sitting across from the people he loves the most.

“I am the villain, babes,” he grins at her, and stands, leaning over to kiss and rub his stubble into her neck, until laughing, she pushes him away.

“Maybe you should come to the office with me, tomorrow,” Chuck says, over dinner. BJ resists the urge to stab himself through the eye with his fork. “M’not that into real estate, pop,” he tells him, and Emily smiles. “You know BJ’s an artist.” “I just think if he gave it a try,” Charles says, looking to his wife. “That he’d excel at it. I mean, good lord, all real estate is, is making deals and fast talking. He’s built for that sort of thing.” Betelgeuse grimaces. “But then I’d have to spend any amount of time around your coworkers, an’ those other big money creeps.” “Those big money creeps write the checks that paid for this house, BJ,” Chuck reminds him.

“I’ll be sure to send Maxie Dean a fruit basket.”

“Skip the fruit, just send that freak ass a basket of snakes,” Lydia says, and he grins. “Do not do that.” “Psh. Whatever, dad,” he pitches his voice into a teenage whine, and his father gives a dry smile in return. “So, that doctor appointment?” Lydia looks to Emily, and their mother smiles. “Got some scans done, no biggie. Checkups just suck. I’ve been having those migraines, recently, but the doctor didn’t seem to think it was a big deal.”

He’s staring down at his mother, in hospice, and those words echo around his mind. No big deal. The doctor didn’t seem to think it was a big deal. Just a couple migraines. Just some dizziness. Just some nausea. Just a tumor. Just another breather’s life, coming to an end.

Her bedroom is dark. The curtains are drawn. He’s sitting to her left, Lydia dozing to her right, and Emily is sleeping, dozing lightly. Chuck’s talking to the nurse in the hall. The last twelve months are a blur. He can’t remember individual days, can only remember when those test results came back. He remembers, vaguely, holding her hand during treatments. But there’s nothing any breather alive can do about the tumor, about the placement of it. At least she’s at home, at least she’s laying in her own bed. At least she’s not stuck in the hospital. Her sun colored hair is gone. Her smile is gone. That mischievous glint in her eyes is gone. All Emily does is sleep. All they can do is wait. read the rest of this chapter, plus the second one i couldn't help but post, over here, on Ao3! https://archiveofourown.org/works/32243065/chapters/79911316

[bunnys-beetlejuice-blog]

airhorn sounds in your ear as you try to sleep ITS FIC TIME, CHILDREN

His father’s first reaction is, predictably, nervous. They’re sitting in the living room as a family, all sort of hanging out, but doing their own thing. Hoarders is passively playing, Lydia is tucked under the couch with a book and flashlight, Emily is in the corner with her laptop, and BJ and Charles are each sitting on opposite ends of the couch, going through their phones. He gets a very sweet text from Adam, showing that the other teen has put the photo Lydia took of them in a frame, and he grins, and holds the device to his chest, feeling giddy and flustered. His dad notices. “What’s got you in such a good mood?” Charles smiles, and BJ figures this is as good a time as any. “I got a text from my boyfriend.” Charles stares. From her chair in the corner, Emily’s typing slows, and then stops, as her brain catches up with that sentence. His phone pings again, and he looks back down at a message from Barbara, then back to his parents. “And my girlfriend.” Emily closes her computer. Her smile is enormous. “Shut up.” “No, seriously!” he grins back at his mother, and then notes the color Charles is going. “Adam and Barbara?” Emily asks, knowingly, and he nods. “We made it official yesterday. I took em to th’ Smallpox Hospital.” “Awww! That’s so romantic!” “You’re dating?” Charles finally finds words. “Unclench your everything, dad, jeezus.” “It’s just… do you think that’s a good idea?” “I think it’s a great idea,” BJ says, a little defensive. “What, I’m not allowed to date? M’too weird for it?” “That’s not what I meant, BJ,” Charles frowns. But he can tell it kind of is.

“Charles, honey, he’s sixteen. He’s going to date,” Emily says softly, and Charles looks back at her. “But two people at once? And they’re-” “They’re what, Chuck?” “Humans. They’re human, BJ.” “Holy shit, they are? Here I thought they were just really crappy demons.” “I just don’t know if you’ve thought this through. Wouldn’t you be happier dating another demon?” “I don’t know any other demons, dad,” he growls, temper flaring. “Unless you want me to date Sam, an’ look like a total creep, since he’s stuck at like, ten.” “Stop it, BJ.” “You stop it! Just be happy for me!” “I am.. Happy. For you.” BJ sits back, crosses his arms, and scowls. “Got a funny way of showin’ it.” His father stands, and takes to pacing. Christ. “We should lay out ground rules.” “Me an’ Adam an’ Barb did that already.” “No, I mean, house rules,” Charles says, rubbing at his beard. “Things you’re allowed to do, and not. Oh, god, first things first, I’m going to get you a box of condoms.” Betelgeuse feels himself flush, and then Lydia finally pipes up, sticking her head out from under the couch. “Gross.”

“You’re seriously blowin’ this out of proportion. We’ve barely held hands!” “I was a teenager. I remember how things escalate. The last thing we need is someone pregnant. Especially with whatever a human and a demon would make.” “Th’ anti-Christ, maybe,” he says, unhelpfully, and he sees the way his dad’s expression twists into further worry. “It was a joke! Oh my god!”

His mother, bless her, swoops in, just then. “BJ’s just told us good news,” she says, standing, and putting a hand on Charles’ arm, which stops his pacing. “I need you to reassess how you’re making him feel, right now.” Charles looks from his wife to his son. BJ rubs at his nose, embarrassed and upset, and probably purple, and he sees his father make a choice. “BJ, I’m sorry,” Charles comes over, hesitantly reaches down, and Betelgeuse responds by throwing his arms around his dad. Chuck rubs his back. “Tell me about them,” he says, “and I promise to be cool. As cool as I can be, at least.”

That’s at least something. He can tell his dad is still worried, but he does listen, as Betelgeuse describes his two partners. “We spend a lotta time together,” he tells his father. “An’ they’re both goody two shoes. Seriously, they’re borin’, nice people.” “Tell us how you met them, BJ,” Emily smiles. He regales them with the story of Barbara and the flower, and then Adam in the library, and by the time he’s done, he’s back to feeling green, all smiles and excitement and stimming hands. It feels really, really good to not be alone.

Monday comes a day too soon, and he sort of misses the atmosphere of the library, because at lunch, he’s forced to pick up trash, with Honeywell watching him intently from a bench. The only consolation prize to this is the vice principal’s time is also being wasted. He doesn’t miss how a few kids walk by and intentionally throw things at his feet for him to pick up. They don’t get away with it, though, because either they trip and find their shoelaces are mysteriously tied together, or for those unlucky ones without laces, they’ll find a snake in their lockers. The miserable part is, Adam and Barbara aren’t allowed to hang out with him while he’s working. They’d tried, and were told in no uncertain terms to leave him alone, leave him to his task, or they’d be sent to the other side of the campus to do the same thing. A little bit of punishment, he understands. But he draws the line at threatening Sexy and Babs. He’s absolutely plotting exactly how he’s going to ruin the overbearing adult’s day when he feels a strange sensation in his chest, like a slight tug. He pauses. It’s not a pain, not really, more like a pull away from himself, which doesn’t make any sense, but that’s what it is. He has to assume it’s another demon thing.

He glances at his watcher, who seems engrossed in paperwork.

Man, if only this guy would fuck off, he could be enjoying lunch with his friends- The pull away from himself is stronger, this time. He concentrates on it, and then remembers how physical the summoning of clones is, requiring a motion like he’s tossing something, and he gives that a try, this time, gently lobbing nothing at a student passing by. The kid looks surprised, and then goes rigid, and he thinks maybe he’s killed someone for the first time, but then the teen straightens up, and stands, stiff, facing him, and BJ feels mentally split, between two bodies. He raises his right hand. The student mirrors the action, eyes wide, confused. He lowers it, then kicks his leg out to the side, and again, he’s copied. Not copied.. Followed? The other student is like a marionette, and his mind is the strings, or something close to that. “Possession,” he grins, wickedly, and then he pulls himself back all to one body, and the kid falls on his ass, confused, and scrambles away.

Oh, he is so going to use this new power for evil.

“BJ Deetz! I don’t see this quad getting any cleaner!” Honeywell has looked up from his paperwork to find Betelgeuse standing there, grinning to himself, and the teen responds by spinning around, and throwing nothing at the overbearing authority figure. Honeywell also goes rigid, and BJ lifts his hands, directing the VP to stand, and the hapless adult does so. “Looks clean enough to me,” he mouths, and hears that sentence come out of Honeywell’s lips. “Clean enough to eat offa!” With a swiping motion, he forces the man to knock his own hardly touched lunch to the ground, and then BJ crouches low, and the adult follows, shoving his face into what was clearly leftovers from some night’s dinner, and coming back up with a mouthful of noodles and dirt. The big man’s eyes are wide. He’s scared, confused. It’s thrilling. With a hand motion, BJ forces the breather’s face back into the mess of food and dirt, and doesn’t let him up until the muffled cries become truly panicked. Possession out in public might be a bit too noticeable, though, because there’s a gathering group of kids watching what the teacher is doing, their phones out, taking video, and he doesn’t need them connecting his own strange movements back to Honeywell’s. He makes a final hand motion, releasing the adult, and shoves his hands in his pockets, just in time for Adam and Barbara to appear as faces in the crowd. Honeywell, freed, sits up, coughing and sputtering, and looking horrified. “What the heck happened?” Adam asks, and BJ shrugs. “He started throwin’ a fit, outta no where,” he lies, but he feels the vice principal watching him, staring up from the dirt, where he’s still sat, dazed. He gives the adult a grin. “Totally fuckin’ weird.”

The rest of his lunch period is freed up, suddenly, as Honeywell goes to clean himself off in the men’s room.

This fun new ability requires further testing, but not right now, now when Adam and Barbara are around. Soon, though. Very soon. “I’m really bummed we can’t be in the library anymore. I tried to pop in to grab something this morning and the librarian chased me out.” Adam looks genuinely sad, at that, which startles BJ out of his downright vicious thoughts. “By the way,” Adam adds, “They put up the casting sheet today. Want to guess who got that dentist part?” Barbara is grinning wide. “Me?” he croaks. A few other kids tried for it.. He didn’t think he’d get picked, honestly, thought that maybe someone more likable, or more friendly, would be chosen over him, but Barbara squishes his cheeks in her hands. “You!” she cheers, and he blushes. “You’re going to be amazing! But that means,” she tells him, suddenly serious, “-that you have to actually try.” He nods, as much as he can, her hands still on either side of his face. “Effort,” he grunts. “Got it.” She leans forward and kisses the tip of his nose. He scrambles to throw his hood over his head, and cinches it closed, knowing for a fact he’s gone pink from the tips of his hair down to the roots. “BJ?” Barbara giggles, as he peers out at her from his hood. “Should I not do that?” “NO! No, no, I, uh, just.. Warn a guy, next time.”

He hadn’t thought through the logistics of this, clearly, because he can’t be scrambling away from them every time one of them kisses him, just because his stupid hair won’t behave itself. God, he’s going to have to start wearing a beanie, or something, until he can get this color thing under control. Annoyingly, his dad was right. He really hadn’t given this much thought, beyond, Adam and Barbara pretty, wanna kiss them. Now he’s got to work out the logistics of how he’s going to actually achieve that goal, without basically, for lack of a better word, outing himself. He doesn’t want to think that something like what happened with Kevin could happen again, but he hadn’t really seen that situation coming, and it had ended about as poorly as a budding romance can, with parental murder. So yeah, he’s not exactly confident he can trust them with this secret. Better to keep it to himself, play his cards close to the chest, not let them all the way in. That’s safest for all of them. Good plan, BJ, he thinks to himself, watching Barbara dust wood shavings out of Adam’s hair, a leftover byproduct of his shop class. No one gets hurt. No one has to know anything. He can keep playing human with his cute new partners for as long as they’ll let him.

Stretching before him, suddenly, he foresees a lifetime, several lifetimes actually, given the span of existence for a demon, lifetimes full of deceit and lies and partners who age without him, and it all makes him very tired, and sad. This is going to be how it is, he realizes. He’s going to pretend and mimic and do his best to fit himself into a template that he wasn’t made for, and he’s presumably going to be doing it forever, maybe until the minute the last human takes their last breath, because playing human is as close as he can get. It's easier to play pretend, throw a glamour on and act along, than to be himself and risk the pain and rejection, or the truth that maybe his worth is tied into what he can do, not who he is. It all leaves him dizzy, this sudden moment of unwanted clarity. He pushes it down, far down at it can go, to somewhere deep in his chest, and tries to come back to this moment, right now, because his boyfriend is looking at him. “You going to stay in that hood all day, shy guy?” Adam smiles, and BJ peels the hood back, and runs a hand through the mop of green mess that passes for his hair, and smiles, like he didn’t just have a mini existential crisis in the middle of a Monday afternoon. “What do you guys do for lunch when you’re not being wooed by an errant library assistant?” Betelgeuse forces an extra bit of pep that he doesn’t feel into his voice, and Barbara brightens. “You can come meet my friends!” She says, and he lets her lead him by the hand, across the quad, a corpse playing pretend at being alive, holding hands with the living.

They find Barbara’s friends at the lunch tables. He’s never sat over here, never really had reason to be over here at all, actually, because each table is always claimed by a friend group, and he’s never felt welcome enough to try and squeeze in with any of them. But he sort of has a group now, he supposes. If three can be a crowd, it can be a group. He does feel eyes on him as he’s directed on where to sit by Barbara, other kids at other tables watching him, maybe confused on how he’s ingratiated himself enough to actually have a place to sit. Barbara arranges where they sit, seemingly very intentionally, with herself between Betelgeuse and Adam, and Allison and Blair on the other side of the table, and they begin eating. The air is a little tense. He picks at his lunch, leftovers Charles packed for him. It smells amazing, but he doesn’t want to scarf it all down, not when he’s feeling watched, the way he is. And he is being watched, very intently so, by Barbara’s friends, who are apparently also Adam’s friends. Everyone but him seems to know so many other people. It’s almost insane, like, how do they keep them all straight? He’s only vaguely aware of which one of these similar white girls is Blair, because he’s spoken to her, at least once. Allison might as well be a balloon with a face painted on it. “So,” Blair puts down her fork. She’s eating a dry salad with little chunks of chicken in it, low carb, low cal. He’d be worried for her health if he gave a shit. “So,” he copies her instinctively, tilting her head the same way she does, holding his hands in front of himself in a mirror of her own movements. Barbara catches what he’s doing, and gives his arm a gentle pinch. “Is this for real?” Blair isn’t asking him, she’s looking between Adam and Barbara, who are both looking a little surprised at the sudden question. “What do you mean?” Adam asks, unsure, and Blair gestures between the three of them. “This whole.. This! When Barbara said she suddenly had two boyfriends, I had to check my calendar, make sure it wasn’t April Fool’s. And then it turns out to be you and..” Her eyes fall back on Betelgeuse. “Him. You, Adam, I get. You and Barbara together, that makes sense. But, like, BJ?” “Sure, if you’re offerin’,” he says, and Blair makes a face. Go on over to Ao3 to read the rest!! There's more waiting for your hungry eyes over there

[beetlelandsweek]

This is incredible ahhhhhh we love this!!

-mod purple

Day Two of Beetlelands Week!

Date Night!

[bunnys-beetlejuice-blog]

happy saturday! it's cowboy day, friends. come read the softest thing i've ever written in my life

He rides to the point of saddle sore, not especially caring where he goes, as long as it’s someplace peaceful. Loneliness, as always, hangs heavy around his neck. When the horse decides to slow, he’s in the middle of the desert, somewhere, it hardly matters where. He slips from the animal, falls hard on his back, feeling an exhaustion so heavy it presses him into the earth, gravity magnified, and he lays still, staring up at the night sky. He tries to find his name in the stars. It’s burning bright and pretty, an impressive enormous ancient explosion, and his name and every other star reflects in his eyes. He’s alone. The night is quiet. With only the moon and the stars as light overhead, the desert is cast in a deep blue, pretty and peaceful and devoid of life. Shamefully, he rubs the tears that are trying to spill down his cheeks, and says every swear he can remember. Dying was supposed to fix this. He was supposed to return to nothing, no thoughts or feelings or emotions, not still be here, not still be just as lonely and disliked as ever. How does that make any sense? How is that fair? There’s never been any space for him, here, never a place he could safely lay his head, never a person who cared if he came or went. Even as a child, he had nothing like that. And now the only thing that’s changed is the amount of fear people have when they catch sight of him. Maybe that small amount of attention and kindness he’d always lusted after was withheld because others could tell, could see intrinsically, that he was no good. Maybe it was something about him, not the things he did, but something sick inside, that other people could sense, or understand. Maybe there’s not a version of reality that exists where he gets the same treatment as everyone else, the same care and consideration that real people get to have. Maybe he’s not really a person. Maybe those around him have always found him odd and unworthy, and it was never a personality defect, but just a law of the universe. Maybe he should find another length of rope and try again. The desert around him makes the same noises he remembers, but he can’t feel the cold of the night air the way he knows he should. He can hear his stolen horse wandering away, which is fine. Let the beast wander. It might end up back where it belongs, or it’ll feed some hungry wolf, or something, it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.

He closes his eyes, and sleeps.

“Oh gosh, honey, you were right!” He hears, from some slight distance away. Beetlejuice opens his eyes, confused. The beginning rays of sunlight are chasing away the last shadows of the nighttime. The sky is a pretty mix of pinks and oranges. He lays there, silent, enjoying it, until the crunching of boots draws closer, and then the looming face of a handsome stranger breaks through his field of view. “Oh! Hello? Are you… Alive?” Not really, he thinks, grimly. But he blinks, and the stranger smiles, and then turns, calls to someone Beetlejuice can’t see. “Barbara, hun, would you please bring the wagon closer? Looks like he’s still kickin’ after all!” Beetlejuice tries to stand, but he feels tense and locked up, in a way that’s briefly confusing. He flexes his fingers, feels the tightness of them, which only loosens the more he works them, and it’s with a disgusted start he understands it’s rigor mortis, set back in after hours of sleep. Wonderful. By the time whoever Barbara is manages to steer the wagon to his side, he’s sat up, shaking his limbs out, popping joints and warming muscles back up, trying to convince his newly undead body that it needs to move for him. The stranger has a firm hand on his shoulder, and is smiling encouragingly. “We mistook you for a corpse, friend,” he says, with a soft, kind smile. It’s insufferable. It’s adorable. “You’re only half wrong,” he croaks, throat sore from lack of water, and presumably from his hanging. “I’m Adam Maitland,” he says, as Beetlejuice stands, and catches sight of the woman disembarking from the driver’s seat of the wagon. Her boots hit dirt, and she comes to stand besides her husband. “This is my wife, Barbara.” The two of them are a cute pair, matching green shades in his flannel and her long dress. Adam’s hair is a handsome, messy brown, short and lacking any oil to slick it, and Barbara’s is blonde, worn in a long braid down her back, pulling the golden strands away from her face. They smile at him, expectantly. He stares back. “So.. your name is…?” Barbara prompts, not unkindly, and he takes a moment. “Oh. Uh. Lawrence,” and then he wants to kick himself. Why on earth would he use his practically forgotten first name? Why not just say the name he uses, scare the hell out of them, and rob them blind and take off in their wagon, leave them behind- “Lawrence,” Adam smiles. “Would you like a ride back to our ranch? We can cook you up some breakfast.” “I could draw you a bath,” Barbara agrees. “Yes,” he says, needy and pathetic, before he can think better of it.

Somehow, someway, he finds himself on the raised seat of the Maitland’s wagon, squeezed next to Barbara, Adam taking the reins of the horse. It’s a tight fit, but neither of them seem to mind. His thigh is pressed to her’s, shoulder to shoulder, and she smells like a soft lavender soap. Beetlejuice is suddenly extremely self conscious, worried he smells like a corpse. Their wagon is uncovered, long and flat, and loaded with what looks like feed, flour, and a few rolls of fabric. Nothing worth stealing, he notes, a little glad he didn’t go with his impulse and leave them stuck and stranded. “How did you come to be laying on your back all the way out here?” Barbara asks him, and he formulates a lie as quick as he can. “Went for an evenin’ ride an’ somethin’ spooked my horse. She bucked me off an’ I guess.. I must have landed hard enough to knock th’ sense outta me.” “Poor thing,” she frowns deeply. “We can look for your horse, later,” Adam tells him. “S’alright, m’sure she’s long gone,” he tells them. “That her, there?” Adam asks, and Beetlejuice turns his head to see the horse in question, grazing without a care in the world. “Oh. Yeah. Hold on,” he grunts, slips from the wagon while it’s still moving, to the protests of his hosts, and he approaches the horse, grabbing at her reins before she can decide to get away from him. He mounts her, rides her alongside the Maitlands. “She’s a real beauty,” Barbara says. “What’s her name?” “Oh, uh… Big.. Sandy,” he says, patting at the horse’s broad neck, and it nickers at him in response. The horse he’s stolen is nothing noteworthy, except she’s black with white splotches, and a striking enormous white spot across her face, showing off her pale blue eyes. She’s a little ghostly looking herself, which he doesn’t mind. She sort of matches his signature striped vest, pants, and bandana. Speaking of which, he adjusts the cloth around his neck as he rides, certain his death has left some mark he doesn’t particularly want to show these people.

The ride through the desert is leisurely. The Maitlands are friendly people, and he does his best to match what they give him, though he’s still feeling almost too tired to be friendly. The talk is pleasant, and by that nature unusual, at least for him. Maybe this is what it’s like to have a regular conversation. Desert gives way to high desert, a change that’s gradual, but means what’s mostly barren is replaced by flora, plants in hues of browns and dark greens that show the life here is itching for, waiting for some rain, but thriving still without it. They’re riding through the valley, approaching a mountain range, and there, in the shadow of the snow capped mountains, sitting like a little oasis, he can see a homestead. “Maitland ranch,” Adam tells him, sounding proud, and Barbara leans on her husband, and sighs, a noise that’s half wistful and half satisfied. He doesn’t know what to make of it. There’s a smattering of Joshua trees leading up the laneway to the house, as well as a few large oaks, and some well cared for fruit trees, giving shade to the property, around which is a hand cut wooden fence. They ride up, through the opening of it, and the Maitlands stop their wagon, in front of a pretty Victorian ranch house. There’s a barn, not too far off, and he can hear the sounds of cows, and the cluck of chickens. There may even be a sheep pen around the back. The entire place is like a shining jewel, a spot of human life out here, miles from anyone else, picturesque and perfect.

He’s never felt more out of place.

Adam slips from the wagon, and goes around to the other side, to offer his hand to Barbara. “Why don’t you boys board the horses?” she says, taking his help, and she moves carefully from the seat. Adam surprises them both by scooping her, lifting her in his arms, and she laughs, and smacks at him. “Adam! Honesty, in front of company,” she scolds, as he kisses her cheek, and sets her down. They both look flustered, but pleased. “Newlyweds?” Beetlejuice can’t help but ask. “Oh, we’ve been married for years,” Barbara smiles. “Adam’s just.. Adam.” There’s not a trace of annoyance or malice in her tone. Barbara grabs the flour, and the rolls of cloth, while Adam takes the feed, and Beetlejuice leads the two horses back into the barn.

It’s midday already, but apparently the promise of breakfast still stands, because when the men get back to the house, Barbara’s got pancakes and fresh eggs started on the wood burning stove in the kitchen. “You make yourself comfortable, Lawrence,” Adam says. “I’ll go draw you a bath. Takes a while for the water to heat, but we’ve got these fantastic pipes-” Barbara, playfully, titters out a high note. “I meant the water pipes, but very nice, Barb.” Adam smiles. “But the pipes, they heat the water, too! We’re the only people in the county with them, can you even believe-” “You can brag later,” Barbara says. “Go ahead and get that started.” Adam disappears down the hall. It’s Beetlejuice and Barbara, left alone in the kitchen, for a moment. “You two seem.. Nice,” he says, because they do, and he’s not sure what the angle here is. No way they’re just like this, to every idiot they meet. There’s gotta be something off or wrong about them. Maybe they’re planning to rob him, now wouldn’t that be a fun reversal? They’re luring him into a false sense of comfort, and they’re going to rob him blind, kill him, and maybe cook him up for supper. Something. Anything. The alternative, that they’re just kindly, friendly people, well.. It’s almost too silly to even imagine. “We don’t often get company!” Barbara smiles, turning to him. “And we were so relieved you were alright. Really, laying there like that, you were so still, we assumed the worst.” He takes a moment, silently, to think about that. To someone, to two someone’s, his dying would be the worst. He knows it’s just an expression, but still, the pained feeling in his gut is deep and aching. It’s only because they don’t know who he is. If they had any idea, they would have done the smart thing, and left him there. He buries that all, six feet down, and smiles to Barbara, instead. “With th’ way you two act, I’m surprised this house isn’t fulla little ones.” There’s a pause. Barbara’s expression falls in a way he wasn’t expecting. It was meant to be good natured, playful, but she turns back to the stove quickly, to hide her face. He hears a breath too shaky to be solid. “Maybe someday,” she says, in a voice that begs him not to say anything else on that subject.

He obliges. I ramble too much for tumblr, but you can finish reading RIGHT HERE

been a while since i posted a fic update! anyone wanna read some cowboy au nonsense? sure you do! well here it is

The blinding, unforgiving midday heat is enough to raise blisters on the skin. Looking out over a crowd of folks booing him, calling for his demise, probably should have had some kind of emotional impact. On the occasion of one’s death, after all, one does expect tears. Flowers, laid out in lace, dark veils and coal black clothes, a few muffled sobs from those further back in the funerary procession, unable to contain themselves. Instead he’s met with the dusty faces of former neighbors and strangers alike, all eagerly waiting to hear the exact tone and pitch that his neck will make when it snaps.

Bored, he turns his attention from the crowd, and watches a lizard scurry across the wooden planks of the gallows, as a man to his right fits a rough bit of rope around his neck. It scratches, but he doesn’t react, not feeling frightened or even especially interested. A similar rough twine is binding his hands together behind his back, keeping him from having any viable way to save himself. The crowd is calling for blood now. Hangings generally are not gorey affairs, but he did once see a drop too sudden and a rope so long that the fella wasn’t just hung, he was decapitated. Beetlejuice glances back down at the crowd, tries to imagine what direction his head would roll if that happened here, and smirks, because it seems to him the last thing he’d see would be the view from inside the skirts of some of the women standing front and center. Not the worst last sight a man could have. “You think you could hurry this along?” he asks the man fitting the noose around his neck. “Sun’s beatin’ down somethin’ fierce an’ I ain’t got my hat.” His personal possessions are back at the sheriff’s office- hat, bandana, silver plated, pearl handled pistol, and his custom belt buckle, just about the nicest, and maybe only, thing he ever paid for. God damn corrupt lawman’s probably gonna pawn his stuff as soon as he’s swinging. Maybe before. Maybe his last worldly possessions are already gone. S’not like he’ll need them, where he’s goin.

A face he recognizes is led up from the crowd, an ancient wizened body tanned for years by the all too eager sunlight and scorching sands. It’s the local preacher, who he remembers from his formative years. The old man used to give him bread and plain, unseasoned chicken in return for listening to him talk about god, and if he hadn’t been nearly starved to death half the time, he might have spat in the old man’s face. Shouldn't charity be done for the sake of charity, not proselytizing? He’d said so once, and that was the last meal the old miser had given him. Jackass.

“Beetlejuice,” the preacher begins. His name is said with disdain and a curled upper lip. It’s one of the reasons he chose it, honestly. “You still have time to repent, young man. I remember you, as a child, bright eyed, curious about the kingdom of heaven.” Well now, that’s the very definition of taking artist liberty. “Now, here, you have one more chance to repent, to accept god’s mercy, and avoid the lake of fire.” The crowd is watching, waiting to see if he will confess his remorse. Beetlejuice hums, rocks on the balls of his feet, and then sighs. “.. C’mere,” He mumbles, jerking his head to indicate the old man should step closer. The holy man does. “I got a lot to confess to, preacher man, an’ not much time.” His voice is soft. The ailing man can’t hear him, steps closer, if only a little. “So much to confess to, in fact, I oughta just… Skip th’ whole thing an’ go straight to hell!” And Beetlejuice reels back, and then slams his forehead into the old man’s face. The sickeningly satisfying crunch of cartilage tells him he’s broken the preacher’s nose, as the elderly man falls back, crying out in pain, blood gushing from his new wound. The crowd roars, furious, and he grins, and laughs. “Ain’t no good extendin’ your pious pity to me!” he calls, gleeful, as he’s pelted with whatever the people watching can get their hands on, and the old man is helped, taken away, led off of the platform. “Enough, enough, we will have order!” a lawman cries, coming up the gallow steps, to stand in front of the outlaw. It’s enough to get the crowd to settle, or at least stop throwing things. There’s still a bad energy in the air, which Beetlejuice can taste on the tip of his tongue. His smile is rictus, he’s delighted to be the cause of it all.

“This man has been tried and found guilty,” the lawman continues. The trial had been very short, and his incarceration shorter. He understands he’s being made an example of to other outlaws, bandits, and trouble makers. They intentionally didn’t give him any time to plan anything, or for any coconspirators to come and assist him. Joke’s on them. They could have taken all the time in the world. Ain’t nobody alive who cares for this outlaw. Not a soul who would dare to come and stage a rescue. He’s utterly alone. “He’s allowed his last words. Clearly,” the lawman turns, eyes Beetlejuice, who smiles flirtatiously. The other man’s expression shifts from annoyance to disgust. “He’s disavowed the advice of Pastor Neighbors.” “M’not so sure you’re usin’ that word right, friend,” Beetlejuice snorts, but he’s ignored. “Any last words?” the hangman to his right asks, his hand itching to grip the lever that will drop the floor and finally, finally, release the outlaw from the confines of mortal life.

Beetlejuice grins.

“If any of you have a message for th’ devil, give it to me!” he shouts, with a cackle, and he watches in rapt and morbid delight at the way the faces in the crowd twist. “I’ll carry it down to hell for you!” The crowd is furious enough it almost seems to him they’re going to storm the platform, and maybe beat him to death. The wave of gasps from the women folk is particularly amusing.

“Enough of this!” He hears the voice of the lawman, disgusted, and the hangman must agree, because the last thing he hears is the lever being thrown, and the floor gives out under him, and he’s falling, falling, falling.

His ass hits a chair.

There’s a moment of blinded confusion, because he's gone from the unbearable dusty sun of midday California, to a cool, dark, musty smelling interior. His eyes need a moment to adjust to the change. He’s sitting in a room he doesn’t recognize. The chair under him is plush, but just thin seated enough to be a tad uncomfortable. He squirms in it, confused, and finds his hands are still tied behind his back. He turns his head. Seated across from him is a young woman.. Well, little girl might be more accurate, she’s maybe fourteen. There’s a wicked looking hoofprint emblazoned on her right temple. The blood that’s leaking from the wound has gone a sickly old color. They stare at each other. “Did that hurt?” she asks, first, and he squints, because he’d been about to ask the same question. Her hand has gone to her throat, as she looks at him, and he looks down, pressing his fat face into his fat neck to create an unflattering double chin as he does so. He can feel the rope around his neck. He follows the line of it with his eyes, and turns to look up. The rope travels up from him, into the ceiling. It’s still taught, like he’s suspended by it, but his ass is touching chair, his boots are on the ground, and he doesn’t feel choked by it’s presence. He tuts. “Didn’t feel a thing. That hurt?” he tries to gesture to her wound, but again, he’s reminded his hands are bound behind him. She stands. “Hurt a bit, but then I got so dizzy I didn’t hardly feel it, after,” she tells him, and then, like the good little frontierswoman she is, she produces a knife from inside some pocket in the volume of her skirts, and gratefully, he leans forward. She rests a knee on one of the chairs, to get a better angle, as she uses her bowie to cut through the rope at his wrists. “Awful kind of you, half pint,” he tells her, and she smiles. “Ain’t nothin.” She settles into the chair next to him, which is a little surprising, but he doesn’t mind, over all. “You’re an outlaw, then?” she asks. He grunts, and then turns to face her, with a grin. “You probably heard of me. They called me Th’ Ghost, on occasion, cause I could slip away without bein’ caught-” he watches her eyes travel up the line of his noose, and then settle back on his face, a little less impressed than she ought to be. He responds by pinching her nose, and she swats at his hand, and laughs. “I do think I heard of you,” she concedes. “I’m Presley.” “Presley, alright. You got a clue where we are, kiddo?” “I just was told to wait.” “Told by who?”

Across the room, a window he hadn’t registered as being there slides open. This place vaguely resembles a bank, he realizes, and so that means that’s the teller’s window. A woman with a tired expression on a pretty face peers out at him. “Hey, dead beat,” she calls, her accent thick around the words. “Juno wants to see you.” He motions to himself, questioningly. She raises an eyebrow in silent confirmation. “Should I care?” he asks, and her upper lip curls in the most beautiful version of a sneer he’s ever seen. “You’re real funny. Get in there before she loses her temper.” And she reaches up, and slams the window shut.

He looks to Presley, and they both share a little shrug, before he stands, and takes a step. The rope going through the ceiling moves with him, not along any visible track, that he can see, but seeming rather more like a toy balloon on a string, bobbing along as though after a child winding their way through the crowd of a state fair. There’s a door by the teller’s window, and he makes for it, only for the window to slide open again, and that beautiful face to reappear. She looks him over, not seeming particularly impressed, but also not outright cruel. “Where’s your handbook?” she asks. Beetlejuice tilts his head. It lolls a little comically to one side, presumably because his neck is broken. She sighs, pinches the bridge of her nose. “You can’t be serious. You didn’t bring your handbook?” “Listen, lady, even if I had whatever book you’re talkin about, I couldn’t read it,” he counters, and she pauses, at that. “Illiterate. Of course. What’s even the point of the handbook when so many folks can’t read it?” she mutters to herself, and then she waives him at the door, the conversation apparently over. Alright.

The door, predictably, leads to a hallway, a bit unlike anything he’s ever seen before, in terms of sheer length of the thing. It twists around like a snake, and the number of doors along the hall leads him to believe wherever he is, it’s massive. The hallway is empty, save for a man at the far end, mopping, and there doesn’t seem to be anything around for him to tuck into his pockets. Too bad, he mopes, as he carries himself down the hall, boots clacking in a way he finds tactile and pleasant. He passes the custodian, who stares at the floor behind him and sighs, and Beetlejuice looks back to see a mess of dusty footprints he’s left on a previously slightly damp but otherwise pristine floor. With a snort, he spits into the bucket of mop water, and the other man jumps back, disgusted, as Beetlejuice cackles, and continues his leisurely walk down the hall.

At a certain point he realizes he’s got no idea where he’s going, but it doesn’t especially matter. Wherever he is now, whatever version of the afterlife this is, because clearly, that’s what this is, it doesn’t seem to be fire and brimstone and all that bullshit, so he takes it easy, opening doors at random and peeking through. The things he sees don’t always make sense to him, feel like they’re out of place from the world as he knows it. He opens one door, and suddenly he’s staring at what must be a city, but the buildings are so tall they’re touching the sky, going up past the clouds, up into the heaven he doesn’t believe can really be up there. The people are dressed strangely, men and women wandering around in little more than underclothes, which he likes, instantly, and the streets are black with painted yellow lines, instead of dust and earth. Some kind of metal.. Something, a trolley without a track, moves on it’s own down the street, and he catches a glimpse of faces inside. He gets lost in the contents of this door, staring for a long time, entranced, and then it’s slammed suddenly. He turns, catches sight of the custodian with his hand on the door, and growls, an animalistic sound he didn’t know he could do. And then he stops, and turns to look, because the custodian is still a ways behind him, mopping with spit water. It’s the same man. “You don’t need to go poking your snout into places it doesn’t belong,” the man says, simply, and then in a blink, both versions of him are gone from the hallway. Maybe that’s just an… afterlife thing.

He reaches, after what feels like a boring and dragging eternity of twenty whole minutes, a set of saloon doors, the swinging kind. There’s a void of blackness behind them, but the draw he feels is unmistakable, and he pushes them open, and walks through. Instead of a room black as ink, he finds himself… standing on the wooden porch of a bar he remembers frequenting fairly often, in his younger days. At least, he has clear memories of walking into the bar. How and when and why he ended up outside of it, well… whiskey has a hell of an effect on a man’s memory. It’s a fairly chilly desert night. The chirping of crickets and the long ways away lonely baying of a dog is a sort of familiar comfort, but god damn it, he’s just left this world. He wasn’t intending on coming back to it, ever. The dusty streets are dim, illuminated only by the moon, the stars, and the few lamps still burning in windows. The town is quiet.

On the dirt road in front of him is a woman, staring at him. She’s small, older, nicely dressed, with hair shorter than he’s ever seen on a lady, and a mouth sort of like a toad, long and downturned. There’s an unlit cigarette between her fingers. She’s watching him, curious and apathetic all at once. He returns the look. “Juno, then?” he grunts, stepping off the porch. No dust lifts when his boots hit the unpaved road, which he notes. Maybe he’s not really here. Maybe he’s a ghost. Fitting.

“Lawrence “Beetlejuice” Shoggoth,” she says, as he comes to stand in front of her. “Took you long enough. You realize I’ve been waiting here for days. You get lost, or something?” Her tone is sharp, like a schoolmarm with too much on her hands and not enough energy for it all. He feels a little sheepish, if only because no, he hadn’t realized that. “Gimme a break,” he says, instead of an apology. “I just died.” “Like that makes you special,” she huffs, and then, waving her unlit cigarette in his face, machine rolled, not hand, he notes, she asks, “Have you got a match?” He produces one from one of the many pockets of his moss green duster, strikes it on his thumb, and holds it up for her. She has the decency to look grateful, as she leans in, cigarette to her lips, and lights it from that little flame. “So,” she exhales smoke, and it curls from the corner of her lips, and out a previously unspotted slash to her throat. No wondering how she died, then. Speaking of, he glances up, to see that his noose is no longer floating above his head, and turning, he catches sight of it dragging on the ground behind him, long and snake-like in the way it’s twisted and coiled. Juno snaps her long red nails in his face, brings his attention back to her. “You weren’t supposed to die, you know. You’ve mucked things up for me.” “Whut?” he grunts, a bit thrown. She rubs her temples. “You were supposed to go in your seventies. Catch tuberculosis and wither away in obscurity. How old are you?” “Thirty four, or abouts,” he croaks, and she takes another drag. “You let yourself be caught,” she accuses. Well.. yeah. But how the hell does she know that? “I got pinned down in a shootout. Lucky they didn’t blow my head off, right then.” “You’ve gotten out of worse.” She looks almost.. Disappointed. “And then you put down your weapons, instead of fighting it out.” “I was surrounded.” “You were sloppy.” “What’s it to you, anyway?” he growls, again low and animalistic, which Juno ignores, as she walks circles around him, studying him. “You let yourself be caught, and you let yourself be hung. You didn’t even try to get away. You might not have killed yourself, but you let them kill you, for you,” she says. “And it’s giving me a hell of a time, both because it’s changed you, and because I have to put you somewhere, Beetlejuice, and now no one knows where you should go.” “So what does that mean?” “It means, my little statistical outlier, that you’re going to be staying up here, probably a lot broader a time than it would have taken you to just live your life and die at seventy,” she sighs, rubbing at her forehead. “Which is a shame. Because.. I was looking forward to.. To you. And now we both have to wait longer,” and here, she finishes her circle of him, to stand face to face with him again, and she flicks his ear, the way he always imagined an frustrated mother might. “Because you gave up. You weren’t supposed to give up.” “Wasn't much worth livin’ for,” he says, and it’s got more emotion behind it than he meant to give it. Juno’s hand goes to her throat, and she looks pained. “I guess that’s an inherited trait,” her voice is soft, and he squints at her, confused. Instead of giving him any context for that, she points down the dusty main road. Shining under the moonlight, he can see, vaguely, a dark shape suspended in air, near the gallows. “Go put your suit back on,” she says dryly. “And try not to cause enough trouble that I have to come up here and get after you, understood?” “What part of outlaw ain’t you gettin?” he snorts, and she responds by giving him an affectionate pat to his scruffy cheek, before she takes another drag, and vanishes inside the swirling smoke. He’s left standing on his own.

His “suit” is still hanging, he notes, looking up at himself. He’s strung up on a tall pole by the platform, leaving it free for more use, if need be, with his body on display as a gruesome reminder for potential criminals that this is a hanging town, and they’ve even hung their most despised son. His neck is bent at an ugly angle, a little bulge at the side betraying how exactly his bones had shattered, and his skin has gone a bad color, gray and foul looking. But aside from that, he’s not rotted the way he would think he ought to be. Juno’d said she’d been waiting for days, presumably meaning it has been days since his death, but his body is looking remarkably unbuzzard pecked and unrotted. He shimmies up the pole he’s hung from, his ghostly noose trailing behind him, and the moment he touches his own boot, the world spins, going upside down and inside out in a way that’s too painful to try and perceive.

“Gahh-” says Beetlejuice, because he’s back in his body, which is still being hung by that god damn noose, and he realizes, annoyed, that he has no way of cutting himself down. He kicks, pointlessly, one hand going to the rope at his neck, to clutch it and try to keep it from choking himself again, and the other grabbing at the rope further up, gripping it to pull himself up, give himself some slack, instead of hanging taught. It’s not the most coordinated he’s ever been. At least there’s no one around to watch him struggle.

“Holy shit, the body’s movin!” he hears someone holler. Oh, come on.

Read the rest, right over HERE

[bunnys-beetlejuice-blog]

it's been a solid grip since i was able to update this story, cowboys got me by the throat, yall. but now there are two new chapters to hurt you the siblings are back together! what could possibly go wrong?

By the time he’s had his fill of his suicidal fantasy, the house has changed quite a bit. He’d drifted through it, passively, bored, watching strangers change the house that was meant to belong to him and his partners, and their kids, someday. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. He teleports himself back onto the roof, and he’s sitting there, lamenting, when familiar footfalls catch his attention. Lydia. She looks bad, but that isn’t new. They’ve all looked rough, since mom left. She settles herself, legs tucked under her body, as she scribbles something out on a paper, rubbing at her eyes as she does. Oh, cool, she’s journaling. The big brother in him wants to hover over her shoulder, read her thoughts, use it to embarrass her, later. Instead he watches her, tired, numb, entirely purple, as she writes, scratches something out, muttering to herself. “Utterly alone,” he hears.

Yeah, well. That makes two of us. And now they can’t even be alone, together.

Lydia gathers her paper up, grips it in her hand, and approaches the edge of the roof, looking over. That grabs his attention, and he stands, from where he’d been, pushing through his mental exhaustion at the panicked understanding of what his kid sister is about to do. He promised Emily she’d reach old and gray, and now she’s going to just plummet, and he’s got no way to stop her. She reads her suicide note, because that’s what it is, you dunce, you absolute fucking moron, she reads it aloud, to an audience of no one. “By the time you read this, I, Lydia Deetz will be gone. There’s nothing for me, here. I am utterly alone.. Forsaken.. Invisible,” her grief bubbles up in her throat with the last word, and she moves, to take her last step. “No!” He appears, in the air in front of her, pointlessly.. Or so he thinks. But she shrieks, and steps back, and he doesn’t know for a moment if it’s over second thoughts, or because- “Who the hell are you!?” she cries, her eyes wild.

The Deetz siblings stare at each other, silent as the grave.

“You can see me?” BJ asks, finally, eyes as wide as her’s are. “Y-yeah?” She manages, heart clearly still working it’s back down her throat, after that scare. “You can really, seriously see me?” He has to ask, again, and she loses her patience. “Yeah, man! You’re a floating purple haired weirdo in the ugliest, nastiest suit I’ve ever seen! Wh- wait, wait,” she pauses, and sticks a hand through him, which usually he hates, but right now, he couldn’t care less. “You’re a ghost.” “I’m a demon, but-” he corrects, automatically, and her eyes widen. “BJ?” “Lyds!” he cheers, and goes to wrap his arms around her. He goes through her, of course, but he’s able to pretend, for a moment. Lydia shivers, as he lets her go. “I’ve got my best friend back!” He cheers, giddy, delighted, laughing like he’s mad. “Back? Wait, what’s happening? Why can I see you?” She asks, turning to watch him, as he twirls around her, dancing across the rooftop. “Cause you just survived a near death experience!” He says, way, way too cheerfully. “Wait, doesn’t that mean like, car crashes and elevators falling and nearly drowning? I don’t think not stepping off a roof counts.” “You,” he says, turning to her, excited. “Were supposed to die, just now. You were gettin’ ready to end your life, you ran outta minutes, your clock wound down, your goose was cooked-” “Finish the though, BJ, for the love of god.” “You didn’t die. You’re a beautiful, depressed little outlier!” He sees her wrinkle her nose, at that. “Well, great. Probably shouldn’t keep the afterlife waiting,” she says, and goes to step closer to the edge, again. “NO! Hold on, hold on, where are you goin’?” He stretches his arm across the roof, cartoonishly, and she pauses, her brain taking a second to catch up to the fact that she could walk though his limb, if she wanted. “No, Lyds, come on, how about instead of,” he floats over, glances over the side, “impalin’ yourself on that birdbath, you say my name, three times?” “This, again. I told you no already, didn’t I?” “Come on, we’re pals,” he whines, dropping to his knees. “I’m beggin’ here, Lyds, you say my name, I can make all your problems disappear, I promise!” “Big talker,” she folds her arms, and he jumps up, grabs her suicide note, and sets it on fire. She’s not going to need that, not with her big brother back. “Hey! Jackass!” she growls. “You can’t fix anything. No one can. That’s why I’m doing this. Once I’m gone, my dad’ll be sorry-” “No, kiddo,” he says, appearing in front of her, again, but she doesn’t flinch, this time. He’s running out of time to convince her. “You’ll just be dead. An’ stuck workin’ in an office, for th’ rest of forever, cause suicides don’t do too well, where you’re tryin’ to go.” “I don’t see an alternative,” she says, sounding exhausted. He gets it. He really, really does.

“I’m your alternative! Come on, kid. You could use a buddy,” he tells her, floating around her, trying to give her the big sell. “You need someone awesome on your side, makin’ things better. I’m just th’ demon for th’ job! You let me out, you say my name, an’ I’ll have all my powers. I can make anyone you want miserable, I can kill anyone you want killed, we can have so much fun, really fuck with th’ old man, if that’s what you want!” “And what do you get out of this deal?” She crosses her arms, and glares. “Smart, smart, I love that about you, Lyds, you’re a smart kid,” BJ praises. “You say my name, my curse should be broken.” “What curse?” “I told you about it, already. My family-” “They can’t see you,” she remembers, and then realizes another piece of the puzzle. “Wait, so, you have a human family?” He opens his mouth to speak, and he feels the curse close it. Instead he nods, frantically. “And you need your curse broken, so they can see you,” she says, and he nods again. If he could cry, he’d be on the verge of tears. She looks very sympathetic to his plight. “I.. Ugh, even if I was going to summon you, which I’m not saying I will,” she pinches her nose, glares up at him. “I don’t even know your name.” “Well, I can’t say it. I’d have literally spelled it out for you, if I was allowed.” “So that’s a no for writing it, too. Probably couldn’t even hold the pen. Maybe..” She pauses. “Charades?” “Yes! Okay, yes-”

Despite not really being a game night kind of family, she guesses his name fairly quickly. “Juice Beetle,” and he motions for her to flip the words, which she does with the smallest hint of a laugh, at his over excited face. “Beetlejuice?” Something painful catches under his ribs, and tugs at him. He grits his teeth, because it hurts, but he can feel something he hasn’t felt in a long time- hope. “Yes,” he tells her, grin maniacal. “Beetlejuice,” she says again, crossing her arms, and smiling. Hearing his name hurts worse than anything he’s ever felt, before. The burning from Juno’s nail, lodged inside of him, it’s insane, it’s intense, it’s almost too much to handle, but now, swirling through the air, he can feel it. His powers. He’s lived his life, up to this point, totally non restricted, having access to the whole host of his demonic abilities. To suddenly have them taken away was exhausting. To be on the verge of having them back is intoxicating. “Yessss!” he hisses at her, snake slit eyes intense on her face. Lydia smirks. “Beeeee-” “Come on, kiddo, come on!” One more and she’s going to remember him, his curse will be broken, this entire miserable nightmare will end and they’ll be a family again- “-eeecause you’ve been so trustworthy so far, ditching me when I need you, I’m going to take some time to think this over.”

He hadn’t realized he’d been floating until he falls.

From his position on the roof, sprawled on his ass, he stares up at his kid sister, confused, angry- hurt. “You don’t get to jerk me around like that!” He jumps to his feet, and her smile is mean spirited. It doesn’t fit the face of the Lydia he remembers, but it’s almost the only kind of smile this new Lydia can make. “Seems I get to do whatever I want. You’re the one who needs me, BJ.” “You need me just as bad, you little brat!” “Funny, then, how I’m not the one begging.” “Lyds, come on, I’m offerin’ you a full time ghost pal, how does that not sound awesome?” “It does sound awesome. It sounds too good to be true,” She says, eyeing him. “So maybe you’re missing your family, or maybe you don’t even have one, and that’s a lie to tug my heartstrings. I don’t know if you’re sincere, and I don’t know if you can actually do any of the things you’re promising. I don’t know you from Adam.” “You’ve seen Adam?” They stare at each other, squinting and tilting their heads in opposite directions, a habit she picked up from him, a habit he picked up from the swaying head motion of his aspect animal. “Wait, back up, I think we’re gettin’ confused, here,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose, in time for Adam, Barbara in tow, to come through the attic window, and step out onto the roof. “Didn’t I tell th’ two of you to stay inside?” he grouses, but it seems the roof is a safe space, thankfully. They ignore him. Betelgeuse hates being ignored.

“Lydia, thank goodness, after you just stormed away-” “Oh, I can see you guys, now,” she marveles, and then sticks her hand through Adam’s gut. He blanches, and steps away. “Yuck, that feels bad. Maybe don’t do that.” “Honey, come inside, away from the stranger, and we can discuss this,” Barbara tries, gently. “It’s not safe out here.. For a lot of reasons.” Her eyes land on BJ, and she studies him over. Presumably she’s curious about the sudden color change, but he’s not about to explain anything if he doesn’t have to. “That’s right. Mr. Beetlejuice is, uh, he’s working through some volatile emotions, currently, he’s..” Adam’s voice drops, to a stage whisper. “A dangerously unstable individual, Lydia. Come inside, where it’s safe, and we can talk about this-” BJ snorts, at the attempted sparing of his feelings. Sweet, sweet Adam. And then he balls up a fist, and pitches his mind at his two partners. Possession, while an easy trick, is going to be the last thing he’s able to do today, he can feel it. That’s why giving Lydia the hard sell is so important, right now. She wants to see him do something impressive? Fine, he’ll impress the hell outta her. It only makes him feel marginally rotten that he’s puppeting his partners along without them having any say in how he moves their bodies. It’s okay, he tells himself. It’s all for the end goal of being together, again. They’ll forgive him. They have to. “Beetlejuice is sexy!” Barbara chirps out, the smile plastered on her face a mix between overly happy and absolutely panicked, at the loss of control. “Beetlejuice is smart!” Adam adds, his own smile a mirror of his wife’s. They extole his virtues, and he even makes them do a silly little dance, moving along with them as their bodies, or what counts for bodies on ghosts, at least, throw themselves around at his behest. Lydia looks from them, to him, watching the way his movements direct theirs, and with a flourish of his hands, he lets them go, posing them with Barbara’s hips to Adam’s ass, because while he loves them, Adam did call him “unstable” a moment ago. True as that is, he doesn’t especially like hearing it.

Lydia’s watching, her head tilted, arms crossed, looking interested. He gives her a little showman’s bow. “Possession,” he tells her, straightening up. “One of th’ easier tricks. Any second rate ghost can do it, an’ luckily for you, I’m not a second rate ghost,” he grins. “I’m a demon. You let me out, I can do that, an’ anythin’ else you’ve got in mind. You get it now, Lyds? I’m more powerful than anythin’ you’re ever gonna encounter. An’ I’m your buddy,” he stresses. “I’m on your side. What do you say, kid?” Lydia’s black eyes are thoughtful. “That was pretty cool,” she concedes. “So, okay, you’re not just bullshitting. But, you said… any ghost can do that possession stuff?” His salesman’s smile falters, confused. “Well, yeah-” “So then, Beetlejuice-” the nail under his ribs burns like fire- “what do I need you for?” She smiles, still mean, and she goes to stand by Adam and Barbara, instead.

Huh? read the rest of this chapter, and a second, on my AO3

elevator dinging noise to aLERT YOU TO A NEW CHAPTER, KIDDOS this is set in my BJ Deetz au. For context on that, you can start here, or just jump in, with the knowledge that you're robbing yourself of some pretty okay writing. tw for mentions of suicidal ideation and self harm

Of course something like this would happen, Lydia thinks, staring down at the linoleum of the hospital hallway. She’s sitting alone. Barbara and Adam are lying in hospital beds, in critical condition, and to see them, all she would have to do is stand, and enter the door to her left. She sits there. You’re being stupid. You’re being childish. Dead Mom didn’t even waste away in a hospital. Adam and Barbara need you. All you’re doing is sitting there, thinking about yourself, and two people are barely clinging to life, you miserable stupid freak LOSER. She uses the heel of her right boot to dig into a cut on the back of her left leg. She hears a noise, to her left, the door opening and closing, and her dad steps into the hallway. She can tell it’s him from the tired sigh, but her eyes never lift from the floor. “So?” she asks, voice raw. “They’re stable,” Charles says, not sounding nearly as hurt as he should. They’re family friends, and her dad sounds like he’s describing something of no consequence. The weather, maybe. Sports news. Not something serious, and important. He’s already pushed this down, in the same place in his chest where his pain over Dead Mom must live. She almost envies that skill. It’s like he can choose not to feel the hurt. All she can do is carry her broken heart around with her, and it cuts her hands and arms and leaves her raw and bleeding. Lydia picks at the hem of her dress.

“They said it was a stroke of luck we found them when we did,” Charles says, and then glances down at his phone. “I’ve got to make some calls. See about getting that floor replaced.” “Why?” “Because the house is in my name, Lydia. If someone goes in, takes a tumble through the floorboards, who do you think they’re suing, the comatose couple, or the New York real estate mogul?” “Oh,” she says, and then, “Adam would want the floorboards to be original. They spent all that time, sanding and polishing and shining the floors. We-” her voice breaks in a way she hates. “We were supposed to spend next summer there.”

A plan left over from before her life had gone to hell.

She turns to look at her dad, and blinks. He’s halfway down the hall, already on his phone. She can’t guarantee he even heard her. A nurse wheels someone in a wheelchair by her, and she winces, and turns her attention back to the floor. “Lydia?” she hears Delia call to her, and she focuses her pain into anger. “What?” she snaps, not looking up, not risking having to see someone else pass by her in the hall, on their way to death. “Do you want to come in, and see them?” Delia’s voice is very soft. “There’s no blood. It’s not scary.” “I’m not afraid of blood,” she says, the cuts in her skin aching. “I just.. Don’t want to see them laying there. Still.” As death, she thinks, but doesn’t finish.

“I won’t push you,” Delia says, clutching at the amethyst necklace around her neck. “But I think you might regret not coming in, and seeing them. I can step into the hall, give you a moment, if it’s.. Me, that’s keeping you away.” Lydia looks up, sees the hurt on the older woman’s features, and then sees her try and smile past it, as their eyes meet. “I bet they’d love to hear your voice, Lydia.”

Come on, come on, she chants to herself. Don’t leave them lying there, alone. Come on. It’s showtime. She steals herself, and stands. Delia steps aside, lets the teen move past her into the room, and Lydia takes in her two friends, laid out in blue hospital sheets, heads wrapped. Tubes are shoved everywhere, down noses and throats, hooked into arms. It’s a nightmare. She studies the heart monitors, listens to the steady sound of one heartbeat. At that, she nearly panics, until she realizes that she can only hear one noise, one blip, because the machines are sounding off together. Their hearts are beating in time with one another’s. That’s so them.

She stands between the two beds, looking from Barbara, to Adam, back and forth, studying their faces. Even though the Maitlands are still alive, it’s still like seeing Dead Mom, laying there, in her parent’s bed, stiff and cold. It makes her wince, makes bile rise up in the back of her throat. She powers through it. Both are twitching, mouths almost looking as though they’re struggling to form words, from within the depths of their unexpected, unwelcome slumber. Delia speaks, from outside the doorway. “The doctor says their brains are very active,” she says. “That’s good news. They’re both still in there. They just need to wake up.” “You’re not really in the hall,” Lydia points out, and Delia makes a little “oh!” noise, and ducks back out, but Lydia can tell she hasn’t gone far. Fine, whatever. The illusion of respect over her privacy is apparently as close as she can get. She reaches her hands out, takes Barbara’s, takes Adam’s, and holds them, for a long time, serving as a connection point for the two of them. “Please, please,” she begs, softly. “Please wake up, you guys. Please don’t go. How many times do I have to watch people leave?” she asks. Maybe this is what life is. You love people, love them so hard it makes you dizzy, leaves you breathless, and then they’re taken away, pointlessly, and you’re just expected to pretend that you’re alright, even when every part of you feels like it’s coming apart at the seams.

Barbara’s hand twitches in her’s, and she rubs her thumb over the top of it. finish reading over HERE

[beetlelandsweek]

We thank you so much for all of the amazing works you did during the week, AND THIS IS SO CUTE AWWWW LOOKT AT THEM AWWW

-mod purple

Day seven: free day

The final beetlelands week piece, made it just in time. Here’s to many more!

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