Dead Girl Walking Version One
Summary: Reader bombs at a sorority rush party and decides she has to drop out... but not before she bangs her roommate, Lawrence “Beetlejuice.”
Warnings: 18+ Only. This is like PWP. Reader has female bits.
Pairings: Musical! Beetlejuice x Reader
Word Count: ~2500
The smoggy haze of weed got to your head. You hadn’t even been smoking, but there was just so much of it at the party that you couldn’t escape the contact high. It made you giggly. And hungry. So you drank more booze, because you vaguely remembered someone saying that when you’re hungry you’re actually thirsty so you should drink more. So it only made sense to have another shot, right? But the booze table was over by the stoners, so you ended up smelling more of the ganja and well… it was a vicious cycle to say the least. A vicious cycle that ended in you hurling on the shoes of the sorority president. You thought movies were exaggerating when something happened and the music stopped and everyone gets quiet, but then you found yourself in that exact situation.
“You’re dead. Kiss any social life you think you had goodbye,” Heather said through gritted teeth. “If you don’t drop out by Monday, you’re going to wish you’d gone to community college instead.”
She thought she was sooooo tough. But, still, the threat of your social life’s demise freshman year was essentially the same as a mafia hit. Heather might as well have threatened to have you sleep with the fishes. Isn’t it weird how the plural of fish is still fish, but people say “sleeping with the fishes”? You shook your head. Now wasn’t the time for stupid thoughts like that. You wove your way through the crowd that parted like the sea (A-haaaa sea, home for the fishes… Fish) and slunk your way out into the street.
Steam came up through the subway grates in the sidewalk as your combat boots clunked down the road. Subway steam was always gross. It was a hot smog that seeped into your pores and stung your nose. The walk home was longer than the uber to the party had been, but it helped you sober up more as you kept going.
That was when the panic began to set in.
Your social life was over. You wouldn’t be able to set foot in another sorority house—not that you absolutely had wanted to join one in the first place, but it had been part of the deal you’d made with your mom so that she’d pay for college. If you at least rushed, then she’d pay for 75% of it. If you made it into her old haunt, she’d pay for it all. Now, you’d be footing the bill of your entire degree.
Fuck.
Maybe you should just drop out. It was early enough in the semester. You could transfer back to your community college and say you were homesick. That might just work. Mom couldn’t fault you for missing her. You crashed through your front door after fumbling with the lock for a bit.
“Shit,” you muttered, hitting your hip against the table in the hall. The house was dark, but you could see the shadows from the tv in the living room dancing across the doorway. Lawrence must still be up watching god knows what on the “boob tube” as he called it. Your room was down the hall. Posters were taped at angles on the wall because you thought it looked cool. Your duffel bag was still hap-hazard in your closet from where you’d chucked it after move in day. Fabric slipped through your fingers as you grabbed whatever you could from your drawers, shoving it into the bag as fast as you could. You could practically hear your mom talk about how wrinkles form by doing what you were doing but you didn’t give a flying fuck.
“FUCK!” You heard Lawrence say from the living room.
You paused in your packing. No one was going to see you here again. You might as well have one last meal before you went. Besides…. You always had a soft spot for Lawrence “Beetlejuice”, or “Beej” or “The Juice Man” as he sometimes called himself. You wouldn’t have to live with him if it went wrong. You might as well…
Fishnets snapped against your thigh as you tugged them on. You took a look into the mirror hanging on the back of your door. Black corset, check. Lacey, cheeky underwear, check. Fishnets, check. Combat boots, check. Still, you needed something. A robe! You pulled the gag gift from your closet. It was dramatic and sexy and your best friend from high school got it for you for your 18th birthday as a joke that you could finally seduce all of those creepy old dudes that would tell you to smile while you waited for the bus. Now, a whole year later, you found yourself pulling the silk fabric up over your shoulders. You tied the bow loosely, but still had enough to play with. Good. You wanted to toy with Lawrence. Give him a show.
