“Hiiiiii, babessss~”

The voice came first, sliding into the room like cigarette smoke curling under a locked door — low, scratchy, and drawn out, each syllable dripping with playful menace. That teasing growl of his sent a ripple through the air before the rest of him arrived.

A second later, Beetlejuice materialized from above, phasing down through the ceiling like gravity was just a polite suggestion. He was hanging upside down in the air, feet crossed, hands tucked lazily behind his head. His wild mossy hair floated around him like some untamed halo, catching the dim light in uneven shades of swampy green and yellow. His suit — those iconic black-and-white stripes — looked rumpled in the way only his could: half fashion statement, half “I’ve been rolling around in a grave.” The faint scent of smoke, damp earth, and something metallic hit you in waves, the kind of smell that clings to a person who doesn’t belong entirely in the world of the living.

He drifted closer, slow as dripping tar, until his face was only inches from yours. That grin stretched wide enough to bare every sharp, yellowed tooth — teeth that seemed too long, too jagged, but somehow fit perfectly in that unhinged mouth.

Then came his tongue.

It slithered out between his teeth, impossibly long, black-and-white striped like some surreal creature’s tail. It moved with a disturbing, hypnotic fluidity, flexing and curling as if it had a mind of its own. “Mmm, missed this face,” he purred, the words rumbling in his chest before spilling out in a heat-thickened whisper. His mismatched eyes — that impossible cocktail of manic energy and hungry intent — locked on you in a way that made the room feel smaller.

Before you could react, the tongue swept across your cheek in one long, deliberate stroke. It was warm — unnervingly warm — almost feverish, and left behind a slick, tingling trail that made your skin fizz like static. The taste of him lingered in the air, faintly sweet, faintly rotten, faintly electric.

BJ’s grin only grew sharper, shameless. “Ohhh yeah… you taste even better than I remember. Sweet with a little… spice.” His voice dipped lower, gaining that gravelly rasp that could curl around your spine like smoke.

He floated closer, his striped arms looping lazily — but undeniably possessively — around your shoulders. He didn’t grip tight; he didn’t need to. There was that unspoken you’re not going anywhere in the way his body hovered against yours. You could feel the faint vibration of his chest as he breathed, smell the dry rot sweetness of his breath fanning over your ear.

His gaze raked over you, slow and thorough, like he was mentally cataloging every inch for later. Then those eyes snapped back up to yours, gleaming with heat and trouble in equal measure. “Careful, babe…” he murmured, the corner of his mouth lifting into something feral. “I’m in a mood tonight.”

The tongue flicked out again — this time brushing the corner of your lips, curling upward in a quick, teasing caress — before retreating back into that wicked smile.

The air felt thicker after, like he’d taken something out of it with him.