For the warmup prompts can you do Beetlejuice and Lydia (platonic! I do not ship them romantically in any way whatsoever) with the dialogue of “I bet I can get you to say my name.” If not, I totally understand!
So for people who haven’t seen/listened to the musical the vibe is completely different from the movie LMAO less “this is our weird uncle beetlejuice the family won’t talk to him he’s wanted by the feds and can’t come within 500 feet of the house” and more “cool but still weird cousin beetlejuice who collects strange rocks, is always in danger of being actively actively on fire, and is wayyy too into dark humor”. It’s a good show! If you like comedy musicals with a rock lean to the soundtrack, you’ll probably like it. It’s got a Little Shop of Horrors sensibility to it, I think.
If anyone tags this as ship w/ Lydia and Beetlejuice I will crawl out of your screen like the girl from the ring and gnaw on your bones I’m so serious
AU where the plot of this show doesn’t take like. A week LMAO. Basically Lydia hasn’t said BJ’s name yet but she also hasn’t decided what to do with her dad yet. So they’re at an impasse. Lydia regularly goes to hang out in her haunted attic and lament because Delia won’t go up there, thus making it safe. Beetlejuice keeps doing Say My Name-style ad pitches to get Lydia to summon him properly but he’s not very good at it.
EDIT: FORGOT THE BODY HORROR WARNING OOPS!! It’s very mild but just in case anyone needs it <;3
Full-Time Spectres
Lydia’s life is far from conventional, perfectly so, but she’s started to adapt to the strangeness in the walls of her house. She doesn’t have the one ghost she wants most of all, but she’s got three that do just fine for entertainment and scheming purposes. She’s gotten used to the cold spots, the occasional flicker of the lights, and Adam’s habit of walking through walls rather than doors--he figured out that he could and never wanted to stop.
Some things she’ll never adjust to, though, like her attic being strewn with scraps of brutalized board games.
Monopoly’s been pinned to the wall with a knife, Ludo sits perfectly still on a shelf with suspicious-looking green liquid in the shot glasses, and a chess board hovers in the air, eternally aflame. It’s a massacre and she doesn’t know where half of these things came from.
“What’s, uh…what’s happening here?” Lydia kicks the door shut behind her. The door creaks open. She kicks it closed again with a frown.
Adam looks up and squints at the door. His eyes dart around as if he can see the schematics of it and diagnose the problem from halfway across the room. Lydia allows herself a tiny smile.
“Adam’s teaching me to play checkers.” Beetlejuice beams, which is unsettling in itself.
“Well, I tried to reach him to play chess, then a few other things…it didn’t go well.” Adam pushes his glasses up his nose and surveys the board in front of them. He captures one of Beetlejuice’s pieces with a triumphant little ‘aha!’.
Beetlejuice takes a long, pensive look at the board. Very thin tendrils of smoke curl out of his ears as he tries to decide which piece to play. Adam, sweet Adam, goes to help him make an advantageous move, but Beetlejuice shushes him.
“What are you doing?” Lydia sidles over to Barbara, who fumbles with an old lamp. She sets it down before she can shatter it.
“Well, it was going to be a surprise but…” Barbara gestures excitedly to a small nook in the attic. She’s rearranged various boxes of her former belongings to build a shoddy sort of booth. A heavy, ugly floral curtain hangs precariously over the doorway.
“It’s a dark corner!” Lydia gasps sarcastically.
“No—well, yes, but it’s supposed to be a kind of mini dark room? I don’t know much about them but I know you’re always taking pictures.” Barbara shifts awkwardly.
Oh. Oh.
Lydia cradles her camera in her hands, running her thumb along the outside. The pebbled texture is a kiss to her fingertips. If she concentrated hard enough, she can remember the feeling of her mom’s warm hands over her own, showing her how to hold the camera.
“If you don’t like it—“
“You made this for me?” She whispers. She tries to swallow the lump in her throat.
“Still workin’ on it, but yes.” Barbara gestures lamely.
“You…didn’t have to do that.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve got nothing but time. Might as well use it right.” Barbara shrugs. Lydia bounces on her toes.
“I’ve still, um, gotta clear out all of our junk. Adam and I don’t need it anymore, not really, and you need room to breathe. I know it’s not much, but--”
Lydia crashes into Barbara for a hug. She’s icy to the touch, but her touch is the most comforting thing Lydia can imagine. Barbara pulls her in close, cradling the back of her head with her cool hands. There is no heartbeat in her chest, but Lydia can feel that it’s not empty.
A memory of her mother prickles at the back of her mind. She pushes it down.
“Do you want help?” Lydia pulls away and looks towards the dark room, ignoring the twinge of grief in her gut. She can see its potential around the edges.
“It’s your surprise! You can’t help with that!” Barbara gasps, affronted.
The curtain falls heavily from the hooks and thumps into the ground. A plume of dust kicks up and Lydia coughs.
“Okay. Maybe you can.” Barbara scratches her head. Together, she and Lydia hoist the heavy curtain back into precarious-looking hooks embedded in the wall. As they back away from it, silently begging it to stay in place, Beetlejuice sits up ramrod straight.
“Adam, Barbara’s throwing away your coin collection,” Beetlejuice gasps and points over Adam’s shoulder.
“What? They’re vintage!” Adam whirls around. Beetlejuice moves a bunch of pieces around, making a bunch of captures, and eats a piece for good measure. He winks at Lydia. She fondly rolls her eyes.
“You know I would never.” Barbara says. Adam deflates. She kisses his forehead. He grumbles a little but accepts it.
When Adam turns back to the board, Lydia has the express joy of watching him go through the five stages of grief in real time. He looks from Beetlejuice to the board in sheer despair.
“Why do you keep eating the pieces?” Adam puts his head in his hands.
“Because, Adam dearest, it makes you mad.” Beetlejuice pats his shoulder solemnly. Lydia snorts.
“Well, I’m officially out of games.” Adam pats his thighs and stands. He ambles over to Barbara and appraises the curtain. He puts his hands on his hips and starts muttering about supports and tracks. Lydia tries to follow along but her eyes near-instantly glaze over.
“Sooooo, Lydia.” Beetlejuice slides over to her. “Have you given my offer any more thought?”
“You still haven’t given me a convincing argument. Calling yourself ‘the worst of the best’ isn’t exactly a glowing review.” Lydia wrinkles her nose.
“These two like me!” Beetlejuice points at the Maitlands. Barbara gives a teasing ‘meh’ gesture just to see him splutter in offense. She laughs softly.
“I’ll admit, I’m coming around on him.” Adam chuckles.
“Thank you, Adam. Mwah.” Beetlejuice blows a kiss in his direction. Adam turns a little pink and goes back to working on the curtain. Barbara whispers something in his ear that makes him turn even pinker.
“They like anyone. I’ve met cardboard with stronger opinions than them.” Lydia scoffs, then turns. “No offense.”
Adam and Barbara both shrug.
“Fair point. Counteroffer: you hate your dad, I hate your dad, let’s kill him.” Beetlejuice gives his most enthusiastic jazz hands. Lydia stares at him blankly.
“Denied.” She pushes his hands out of the way.
“On what grounds?”
“On the grounds that you suck. Your fate hinges on me and you can’t even get me to say your name. You spend all your time cheating at board games because you need me more than I need you. That’s pretty lame for a big, scary demon,” Lydia says mockingly, curling her fingers into claws. When Beetlejuice gives her the finger, she gives two right back with a smirk.
“Lydia, be nice,” Barbara chides, goosing Lydia’s side. She yelps and smacks her hand away.
Beetlejuice gasps. Lydia slowly meets his sparkling eyes.
“No.” Lydia points at him. Beetlejuice smiles slowly, wicked and full of mischief.
“I’ll kill you. I’ll bring you back to life just to kill you--”
Lydia steps back, Beetlejuice steps forward, and all hell breaks loose. Lydia springs over a pile of Maitland junk and ducks under Adam’s arm. She shoves him into Beetlejuice’s path.
Beetlejuice simply picks Adam up and deposits him elsewhere like a Maitland mannequin. He squeaks and leaps out of the way of their chase.
The two of them circle each other around an unbuilt dining room table kit, Lydia just barely keeping out of arm’s reach. She bolts past a dilapidated spin-your-own-yarn kit and dives through Barbara’s legs to hide behind her.
Beetlejuice stops and visibly considers the consequences of doing the same. Barbara gives him a withering look. He tries to circle around her, but Lydia’s excellent at moving her around like a meat shield. Beetlejuice visibly starts scheming.
Barbara looks at Lydia, looks back at him, and slides out of the way.
“Barbara!” Lydia screeches in outrage but there’s not enough time to screech and run. He grabs her and pulls her into a bear hug.
“Thank youuuu, Babs!” Beetlejuice grins at her. She shakes her head fondly and honorably discharges herself from the battlefield.
“Hey Lydia…I bet I can get you to say my name.” He cackles evilly. Lydia hisses at him, but damn it, she’s already giggling nervously. He swoops his hands over her stomach, wiggling his fingers but not quite touching.
“B-Beetlejuice!” She squeaks and rocks up onto her toes in lieu of running.
“That’s one!” He singsongs, finally touching down on her stomach. She folds into his hands—unwise, really—and curses Beetlejuice to the high heavens and below.
“Think we should help her?” Adam leans over to Barbara. They both watch Lydia worm around in Beetlejuice’s arms, not making much of an escape attempt despite the volume of her threats.
“Nah.” Barbara moves a crate of nearly-unused embroidery hoops out of the way with tender care. The curtain collapses again. Both Maitlands sigh.
“Beetlejuice, you fucker!” Lydia growls, but quickly loses it to laughter. He’s doing this infuriating little pinchy-thing to her sides, one that makes her leap clear off the ground each time. She tosses her head back and cackles, her whole face scrunched with the force of it.
God, she hasn’t laughed like this since…well, it’s been a while. She’d forgotten that she could.
“Eh, that probably counts. One more!” Beetlejuice finds a deathly spot on her lower ribs and decides not to leave it alone.
“Beeeeeeeeeeeee--AHHH!”
“Hm, yeah. See, now we’re gonna have to start over.” Beetlejuice tasers her sides, right at that spot, and feigns disapproval. Lydia makes a noise at a pitch audible only to dogs and demons.
Crunch.
Lydia’s foot connects directly with his face in a frankly-stunning high kick. He drops her roughly. Something goes flying across the room and hits the wall with a quiet thump. Barbara gasps sharply and covers her mouth in shock.
Beetlejuice touches his nose—or rather, the space where it used to be, and a thick hush falls over the attic. Everyone’s eyes drift to the nose, now fallen among jars of the most rancid-looking kombucha on the face of the earth. It twitches plaintively.
He laughs, loud and boisterous. His lack-of-nose whistles as he does. Adam picks up the fallen nose and gags before tossing it to Lydia and wiping his hands on his shirt.
“Got your nose,” Lydia giggles weakly, depositing it into Beetlejuice’s hand.
“Nice shot.” Beetlejuice chuckles, uncomfortably nasally, and shoves his nose back into place with an awful crack. He takes a long, wheezing inhale and gives her a thumbs up.
“So…” He sidles close to her, bringing back the jazz hands.
“No.”
“Yeah, that’s fair.” He sighs.
“Lydia, are you alright?” Delia’s voice curls faintly up the rickety staircase. She climbs up, but not all the way—Lydia can tell by the shuffling of her awful shoes.
Everyone freezes.
“Lydia?”
She opens her mouth to answer Delia and Beetlejuice squeezes her sides. She yelps and whirls around, but he doesn’t even have the decency to feign innocence. He just does it again, waiting for the precise moment she goes to speak.
“Y-Yeah, I’m o-okay.” Lydia wrestles with Beetlejuice’s hands, her voice shaking with barely-restrained giggles.
“Oh god, please don’t make me come up there.” Delia’s ‘whisper’ is anything but. Beetlejuice snorts.
“I’m fine! Just, uhm, doing spring cleaning.” Lydia calls back, stomping on Beetlejuice’s foot. He doesn’t even flinch.
“Okay.” A long, heavy pause from Delia.
“You can go now!” Lydia yells. Delia’s heels click quickly down the stairs, back towards the dreary living.
“You’re insufferable,” Lydia hisses at Beetlejuice, punching his shoulder. He holds his hand over his heart and gives a grand, sweeping bow. When he stands up, he smacks his head against the dagger in the wall. Lydia snickers at him.
He turns around like a penguin, never one to do things normally, and makes a delighted noise at the pierced Monopoly board. He pulls the knife out of the wall and pokes his finger with it a few too many times, fascinated with the sharpness of it.
He stretches, makes a bunch of vague measurement and aiming gestures, then lobs the knife straight upwards. It lodges into the ceiling with an enthusiastic ping! The blade warbles with the force of it.
Beetlejuice slaps the Monopoly board down on the floor and plops down in front of it. Adam bemoans the state of the attic ceiling as Barbara consoles him.
“Wanna play?” Beetlejuice snaps his fingers and the board changes, shifting into black, whites, purples, and greens. Graveyard moss creeps along the edges of the board. Monopoly components spawn into existence on the board, appearing in puffs of fog and comically-quiet wails of the damned.
“Sure.” Lydia sits opposite him. She pokes at some of the moss. It sprouts to meet her touch.
“If you get stabbed, you lose?” Beetlejuice casts a cursory glance to the still-wobbling knife. The blade shifts slightly out of the ceiling.
“Deal.” Lydia sticks her hand out to shake. Beetlejuice takes it with gusto.
“You guys wanna play?” Lydia turns to the Maitlands. Barbara and Adam look at each other, communicating in that telepathic way of theirs. Barbara grins and leads Adam over to the board to sit.
“I call thimble!” Adam reaches for it. Beetlejuice swats his hand. Adam reaches again. Beetlejuice swats him a little harder.
“You can’t have the thimble. I’m the thimble.” Beetlejuice pinches it between his fingers.
“Can I have the thimble?” Barbara leans close to Beetlejuice and looks up at him through her lashes. Lydia never would’ve guessed that a demon could blush, but sure enough, Beetlejuice’s face takes on the slightest bit of color.
“I sense that I’m being manipulated.” He narrows his eyes.
“Is it working?” Barbara smiles.
“Yep.” He slaps the thimble into her hand. She passes it to Adam. He beams. Beetlejuice rolls his eyes but his gaze lingers on them for just a bit too long.
“Well played, Babs. Well played.” Beetlejuice scoops up the racecar piece and frowns at it. Its tiny metal form melts and reconfigures into a small hearse. Satisfied, he places it right next to the cat piece—Lydia’s, of course. Barbara takes the top hat with pride.
When Beetlejuice jumps Adam for his extra get out of jail free card—of which there are a suspicious amount in Beetlejuice’s version of the game—Lydia laughs and swipes a bit of Beetlejuice’s money. Adam’s hiccupy cackles are the backdrop for Barbara robbing the bank in broad daylight, taking as many bills from the tray as her heart desires.
Lydia’s life is certainly very strange and painfully unusual, but she wouldn’t trade it for the world. She can only hope that her mom will love being part of the attic’s menagerie of ghosts and ghouls as much as she does.
(Part 3 of the what-if-Hela-was-Loki’s-secret-childhood-friend AU. You can find Part 1 and Part 2 here.)
Loki chose to believe that Hela was real, if for nothing else than for his own sanity. Of course, that brought with it the question of who, exactly, she was, and why she’d chosen to do this.
He read up on everything he could find about astral projection and complex illusions, concluding only that that Hela—her living, breathing body, anyhow—likely wasn’t far from Asgard, and perhaps was even on the same branch of the World Tree. Her identity was trickier to pin down. Searching for records of powerful sorcerers in the Nine Realms with only a description to work with was like looking for a pin in a field of wheat, if that field encompassed the entire universe.
Hela herself was frustratingly close-lipped, and Loki was reluctant to push too far and reveal exactly how desperate he was for answers. The favour of an Asgardian prince was a powerful thing, and the thought that perhaps she was—grooming him, or something, had crossed his mind once or twice. What a clichéd plot that would be, to befriend the younger, weaker prince and plant dreams of kingship in his mind.
He hoped that wasn’t the case. Hela didn’t seem to have any great affection towards the royal family, but neither did she do anything to put them in danger. And as the years wore on without incident, he began to accept her presence as a seemingly benign, if puzzling, fixture of his life.
To his everlasting shame, it ended up being something Thor said that finally made the pieces click in Loki’s mind.
They were in the library, his brother floundering between the towering wooden shelves like a whale in a forest. Berating him about something or another; Loki had long since stopped listening.
Thor didn’t seem to notice his inattention. “Hogun is still most upset with you, brother,” he insisted. “Surely you wouldn’t let a poorly timed joke stand in the way of your friendship?”
Oh. Was he still going on about the hunting trip from last week? Loki flipped a page in the tome he was reading. “The mud washed off, did it not?”
“The serpent almost swallowed him—“
“But it didn’t, and he and the rest of you killed the creature easily enough, once it was out of the cave.” He kept his eyes firmly fixed to the text in front of him, hoping that Thor would finally get the hint and move on. Surely he had better things to do than play unwanted mediator.
A heavy sigh sounded from somewhere behind him. “You spend too much time with your books, and too little time with other people. You’re becoming as dry as the pages you read.”
“Mm. Fascinating.”
“Loki.”
“Thor,” Loki parroted, mockingly. He waited, but Thor remained silent. Silent and present; he could almost feel the judgmental gaze stabbing into his back. Finally, he sighed, and turned around, meeting his brother’s eyes. “Fine, I’ll…go soothe Hogun’s hurt feelings, later. Are you pleased? You can leave now.”
Thor’s lips tightened, ‘no’ clear in every line of his face. “I only want you to reconcile with one of our friends, is that too much to ask?”
“One of your friends, Thor. You’re the one who keeps dragging me along to your adventures. Against everyone’s wishes, might I add.”
Loki could almost trace the red that rose up into Thor’s face. Thor unlocked his jaw long enough to grit out, “It’s good that this library was practically made for you—you’ll find little welcome elsewhere if you keep behaving so childishly.” And then swept out of the room before Loki could shoot back some retort about certain others’ childish behavior.
What did Thor know? Perhaps if the man actually spent longer than ten minutes in a library, he’d stop attempting to imitate Odin and find something actually interesting to say.
In any case, while it was true that few of the Aesir spent as much time here as he did, he saw that as a failing of this kingdom, not him.
He’d seen the famed libraries of Nidavellir and the vaulted universities of Vanaheim, with their floors upon floors of the accumulated knowledge of the ages. Asgard’s library was large, yes, and filled with important treatises and histories as befitted the realm’s importance, but it was an afterthought in a country full of people more likely to star in a heroic saga than read about it.
More often than not, the library was a dusty and deserted place, with books stacked up to the ceiling forgotten even by those that put them there. Frankly, Loki preferred it that way. With no one (except the occasional persistent brother) to bother him, he was free to do and study whatever he liked. To this end, the palace library was almost frighteningly well-equipped to satisfy his magical studies.
It was at this that he paused. Because his studies had long since departed from the standard fare offered by the schools in Asgard, especially when he’d made it a point to learn as much magic from Hela as he could. He’d developed his own tricks, of course, often having to visit other cities for research. But when it came to Hela’s own spells, Asgard already had everything he could possibly want to know.
For the first time, he wondered who the library was made for. Who’d stocked it full of magical theory and research, and then never returned to use it? Who misshelved the book about practical applications of extradimensional space, and left behind the ink stains on the study of auditory illusions? And on the heels of that thought was the old question, rising back into the forefront—why had Hela chosen Asgard?
So, Loki started investigating.
She found him in the throne room, staring up at the ceiling.
“Hello, sister,” he said, when he saw the tell-tale shimmer of her arrival. Hela had chosen to appear in Odin’s seat, sprawling carelessly over an armrest. Her dark hair was a curtain across her face.
It wasn’t the first time she’d casually disrespected the Allfather’s authority—how had he not figured it out before?
“Loki.” She nodded at the book in his hand, “I see you’ve been catching up on your history lessons.”
“It’s the only book I could find that mentioned you by name. Truth be told, I didn’t expect to find answers in a poorly written memoir from a court painter.” Loki wanted to stare at her, scrutinize all the small details that he’d missed over the years. See the clothing, trimmed subtly with gold, distantly reminiscent of Odin’s armor. See the empty belt, a heavily reinforced loop just large enough to hold the handle of a hammer. Instead, he tilted his head up again. “Do you think he had the ceiling repainted, or completely rebuilt?”
Hela snorted. “Painted, probably. Odin’s never been good at lettings things go.”
“He’s done a pretty good job with you.”
“Not well enough,” she said, tightly.
“Judging by the effort it took to find even this book, I beg to differ.”
She bared her teeth, and leaned forwards. “Joke all you want, little brother. You feel secure in your little family unit, now. But there’ll come a day when Odin decides you no longer fit into the story the way he wants, and he’ll erase you so thoroughly from this realm that the only records of your existence are the scribblings of a,” she cast a disdainful eye over the book, “court painter. Never liked that woman, anyhow. She couldn’t get the nose right.”
“What do you want, Hela?” he asked finally, regretting it almost instantly. He was called the Silvertongue, wasn’t he? The prince of petty lies and flattery. What he couldn’t cajole outright, he could bide his time and manipulate later on. Blunt questions didn’t suit him, and it showed; the words dropped from his lips like lead weights and echoed in the empty hall.
Hela smiled thinly. “What, can’t an older sister visit family? Perhaps I simply wanted to know how things were in Asgard. It’s been so long since I last truly set foot here.”
“Odin barred you from this place,” Loki realized. “Not just this city, or surely someone would have known you. He’s blocked you from this entire realm, hasn’t he? And you’re looking for a way back.” His hand started to shake, minutely, and he gripped the book tighter.
“You may believe what you like.”
“I’m not an idiot, Hela!” The words burst out, louder than he’d intended, and he hastily tried to bring it back under control. It was the middle of the night; the last thing he needed was to draw guards to the throne room with the sounds of a confrontation. “And I’m not a traitor, either. If you’d hoped to—to get me to turn on my family, somehow, or open a gateway for you to stroll back in here, then I apologize, because you will be disappointed.
“I don’t know why Odin drove you from this place, but I trust that he loves—that he loves his country, and if he’s decided that it was too dangerous for you to remain here, then he must have had his reasons.” He could see Hela’s eyes glint at his moment of hesitation, and couldn’t stop retracing her words in his mind. There’ll come a day when Odin decides you no longer fit in…
She stood up, unfolding herself gracefully from the throne. Loki was suddenly reminded of all the reasons why he hated talking to Odin in this room—between her height and the raised platform, he had to crane his neck to look her in the eye. “I suppose you know everything, then,” Hela said, mildly. “You’ve chosen your side already?”
He wanted her to come down, so he could face her properly. He didn’t want her to come down, because then she’d be closer to him, and he suddenly wanted to keep as far away from those clawed hands and that knife-like smile as he could.
“It wasn’t a choice,” he insisted. “I’m flattered you chose to visit me; certainly, I’ve—I’ve enjoyed spending time with you. But…Odin wouldn’t have gone to such lengths to erase you from the histories on a whim. There must have been a reason…”
She descended the steps, then, strolling right up to him. It was all so familiar; he could recognize the cadence of her footsteps with his eyes closed, just as he could with Thor, or Frigga, or Odin. She was as much a part of his life at the palace as any of them were, and he suddenly, fiercely, wanted that back, wanted a return of his ignorance.
Did Odin see some aspect of Hela in him, he wondered. See some echo of whatever was so horrible that he’d banished her from this realm, in every spell Loki cast and every bit of green that he’d worn? Was that why he favored Thor—golden-haired, loud, blundering Thor—
Hela laid a cool hand on his cheek, stilling his thoughts.
“You’re right,” she said, softly. “You do disappoint me.” And then she vanished.
