Beetlejuice is not mine. I have my own ghosts haunting me.
He loved making her smile.
The way her face lit up at his jokes, no matter how corny, the way her eyes twinkled with mischief he never thought he'd see, save in his own reflection. The way her lips would quirk as she tried not to laugh, or how she'd grin from ear to ear when she finally gave in and let loose with a cackle of pure glee.
The way she'd smile, breath hitching, when he touched her. Especially, he thought with a wicked grin, at certain places that they discovered were very sensitive indeed. The way she'd smile contentedly afterwards, as if all were right with the world...at least for a while.
Her ecstatic grin as they soared through the sky in Doomie, racing the winds and sometimes winning. The little smirk she always wore when she beat him at Scrabble. The intent, tongue-poking-out smile she got when she was sketching, her mind focused on the drawing taking shape beneath her pen.
And then, the smile he knew only he could evoke: that fiendish grin she got when she had something devilish – and very fun – on her mind. The kind she wore when she had a plan...always involving him, and sometimes, involving leather or whipped cream, or other...interesting items.
Yes, he loved making her smile.