Disclaimer: I own nothing. I am but a penniless amateur aiming to please the hungry masses, and hopefully feed my own demons.

A/N: I know, I know, what am I doing starting another story when I have a trilogy to finish? It's been awhile since I've written in a creative sense and I wanted to practice, I'm a little rusty. I'm currently rewriting and refining parts I and II of my trilogy before I continue on with part III, as there are a lot of things I am unhappy with in the first parts that are making it difficult for me to continue.

What follows is a variation of events from my AU trilogy, starting from the line "You may kiss the bride." Lydia and BJ are the same characters with the same history and feelings. You probably don't need to have read my other story for this to make sense to you, but it helps. I don't expect this to be more than 5-10 chapters, if that.

I've always seen my alternate universe as kind of a modern remake and have always pictured Krysten Ritter in the role of Lydia, mentally. As such, I write her with longer hair. I'll always love Winona Ryder, but I'm obsessed with the idea of this woman playing this role. As always, picture whoever you want. This is fanfiction! :)

WARNING:

Sexual Content with a Minor, Bloodplay, Mentions of Severe Child Abuse, Underage Consumption of Alcohol, and Excessive use of Profanity. Expect general unpleasantness all around.

I

"You may kiss the bride."

She barely had time to process the words before he was on her; cold and heavy, stealing the oxygen from her lungs. Lydia was vaguely aware of the Maitlands, her father, and Delia making a ruckus in the background, clearly unhappy with the recent developments.

This was not a normal kiss. Yes, it was with a dead man at an impromptu wedding ceremony to a minor out in the middle of bum-fuck-nowhere, with two other deceased guests serving as unwilling witnesses. Not to mention, Lydia was about ready to jump the gun and say that the acting priest was not a ghost, but was, in fact, an extraterrestrial life form. Anything was possible at this point.

Yet, it wasn't the alien priest, the magically animated sculptures, the plethora of dead people in attendance, or any of the fantastical illusions that made the kiss abnormal. It was the sharp zap of pure energy that shook her to her core the moment his lips touched hers. It hurt, a sharp ache in her chest as though her body just ran a mile after chain-smoking a pack. She might have fought or pulled away if the sensation didn't leave her paralyzed, the breath knocked out of her.

He seemed unaffected. Both of his arms were wrapped tight around her, trapping her own to her side. The hand that wasn't holding her deadlocked against him- only the tips of her toes were touching the floor- was greedily roaming over her backside, fisting the material of her gaudy dress. Then, the hand dared to dip too low and grab a handful. As best he could, anyway, through the many, many, many- Betelgeuse was beginning to regret his choice of dress- layers of gauze.

Pure claustrophobic panic took over, knocking her out of her temporary paralysis. She was able to slip an arm free, thanks to his current distraction, tear her face away from his- his tongue from her mouth- and bring her ring-bearing hand to his cheek with a hard, resounding SMACK.

He let go of her immediately and she stumbled backward from the slight drop, gasping for breath and clutching at the high neckline of her suddenly unbearably constricting dress. It occurred to Lydia that she could no longer hear the cries of the Maitlands or her parents. For that matter, it didn't look like they were in her living room anymore. What little light that was present before was absent here, and when Lydia couldn't will her eyes to adjust quickly enough to the abrupt change of scenery her panic evolved into sheer terror.

Betelgeuse was flattered.

For months he watched her; studying the handbook, taking her macabre photos, curling up in the attic with a stolen glass of her father's whiskey while reading all matter of ghastly horror stories from late night into the early morning- never once smelling fear on her. Even his serpentine form hadn't been able to elicit that kind of delectable response. Hell, she was even fascinated by him at first- lips parted in awe, spiced honey eyes gleaming brighter than he had ever seen them- until he made it irrevocably clear who he was and what he wanted. She only deemed to cower in the face of death and even then he didn't sense real fear in her. Just anxiety in anticipation of pain that would never come and an unsettling acceptance of her impending demise.

She was lovely.

When she did speak, everything she had to say dripped with sarcasm. Every inquiry from her parents about her day- these were few and far between- was met with an eloquent quip that denoted her bitter distaste with life. Still, with all her bite she was soft. Soft enough to sacrifice herself to him for two losers she barely even knew just because they showed her the slightest bit of kindness. That was a level of crazy even he couldn't relate to.

She wasn't the mark at first. This was supposed to be a normal job; swoop in, scare a couple breathers half to death, and rope some baby ghosts into a binding contract that would inevitably favor him in a hilariously gratifying way. He wasn't supposed to fall off the deep end and commit himself for an eternity to a depressive girl-child. Nevertheless, shit happens and here they were in his Neitherworldian home. And she was terrified.

The stabbing pain in her chest had faded to a duller, throbbing ache, but her skin still hummed with pinpricks of electricity. It made her flesh heat up and sweat, but it was freezing in the dark pit he'd dragged her to. Sweat-slicked goosebumps slid and scraped against the cheap material of her gown. The sudden realization that they were alone kickstarted her survival instincts. She scrambled away, crying out in fright when she fell back onto what could only be a couch. He was going to rape her. No doubt about it. Why else would he take her away from her home and family to this cold dark place? Involuntary tears streamed down her face and she huddled, curling her arms around her face protectively, entire body tense.

While Betelgeuse was initially pleased that he had finally been able to extract fear from her, his pleasure was short-lived. This was not the reaction he expected out of her. She was pitiful, curled up in his spot on his couch, silent tears streaming down her beautiful face, shivering. This girl had faced down monstrous undead anacondas for crying out loud! All he did was kiss her and grab some ass! Well, shit. He was no good with crying women. He took a careful step forward, freezing when she flinched at the minuscule movement.

"Babe..." He forced himself to take the next couple steps, hating how she cringed with each one, before crouching down to her level. For once, he kept his hands to himself. "I ain't gonna hurt cha."

After a long agonizing moment, she dared to open her eyes. They only stayed with him for a second before darting past his head, all around the room, not settling on anything. "Why- where- I-" a sob stopped any further attempts at stringing a sentence together, but she slapped a hand over her mouth to keep it from escaping and indignifying her further. Was this a trick? She didn't trust herself to speak.

Lydia was ruining all of his half-assed plans. She wasn't supposed to be this scared. She was only supposed to be somewhat scared. That way, all the cards would be in his hand. His little bride was going to force him to bare his throat like a lamb to the butcher and prove that he was harmless- where she was concerned, anyway.

"It's okay! Don't cry! Is it the digs? I know, my place is a piece o' shit, but this is just temporary. We gotta sign us some paperwork before I can go get us somethin' better." He paused painfully, waiting for her to say something, anything. Her wide frantic eyes had finally settled on him unblinkingly. Her lips trembled, but she didn't speak. "I was thinkin' somewhere in Jamaica or-" he stopped speaking abruptly when her lips parted, eager to hear what she had to say.

"Where am I?"

He had to strain to hear the softly spoken inquiry. "Let's just say we ain't in Connecticut anymore, Dorothy."

She sat up some more, still tense and guarded, back ramrod straight, and took in the surroundings. Having adjusted to the dim lighting- an oil lamp sitting on a coffee table- she was able to see that they were in a living room, his living room. It was filthy. Beer bottles and crumpled newspapers littered the floor. There were cigarette burns on the couch she sat on, which was a deeper, bloodier red than the bright, garish thing she wore. An old-fashioned tube tv sat in the center of the room, complete with asymmetrical antennas. A renaissance style portrait on one wall caught her attention for a moment before her gaze was drawn to the front door.

Her heart plummeted into her stomach. There must have been a dozen locks lining the frame, running from thick padlocks to deadbolts. Why on Earth would anyone want to break in here? Unless they were meant to keep something in, not out. Was he lying about not hurting her?

His gaze followed hers and he answered the unvoiced question. "You wouldn't wanna go out there without me- even if you could get through those locks." She was tense and shaking again, eyes wider than before. Damn, that probably came out more threatening than he meant it to. "Shit, that's not what I meant- just-" he groaned and ran a hand over his face in frustration, "c'mere."

She squeaked when he grabbed her by the bicep and dragged her up and over to one of the large, square, curtained windows that framed the front door. When he pulled back the drapes, she was momentarily blinded. A vast stretch of highway lay before her, levitating amidst a torrent of sand-twisters. It disappeared beyond the horizon, swallowed by the storm. Despite the furious weather, the sky was a bright neon orange, not a cloud in sight. There were no stops on the road between his home and oblivion.

"Where am I?" She repeated, more insistent this time.

He couldn't help but grin. Still timid, but better than the docile crying thing from a few moments earlier. "You're in, kid."

It was too much. She was going to faint. Her knees buckled, and when he felt the slight quiver in her body the hand around her bicep slid around her waist to keep her up. She was out like a light. He rolled his eyes before hefting her up into his arms easily. Betelgeuse thought he'd have her moaning his blessedly uncursed name by now. With a grunt, he kicked his bedroom door open before carrying the blushing bride through. Some traditions never die, even if the participants do.

She was so light, barely there really. He should've known better than to take her here first thing. Something about her had him going crazy. Shit, she hadn't even been properly wine'd and dine'd yet. He was so eager to get the paperwork signed and everything officiated, every i dotted and t crossed. Then he would be free, and she would be his, and for fucking once everything would work out for him the way it was supposed to. His fantasy had never before included a wife and white picket fence, but fuck it. He could work it in.

Wrinkles furrowed her brow. Her sleep was restless. That dress didn't look very comfortable. He wanted her writhing in his bed, but not like this. With a gesture from him, the garment was replaced with a long white nightgown of silk and her hair was unpinned from its coils. He really was a romantic at heart. Now that the pale flesh on her arms and shoulders was bare, he could see where her hairs stood on end with the chill of the environment. Only a select few mortals had ever been unlucky enough to make the trek to the Neitherworld with him, he forgot how cold it could get for them down here.

A thick, clean blanket emerged from the ether to creep up the edge of his coffin and encase her, neck to toe. The furrow in her brow smoothed.

"Sleep tight, honey bun."

It was time to pay Juno a visit. Something tells Betelgeuse she'll be expecting him.