Work Text:
I'm looking for a place to start
And everything feels so different now
Just grab a hold of my hand
I will lead you through this wonderland
Water up to my knees
But sharks are swimming' in the sea
Just follow my yellow light
And ignore all those big warning signs
“Yellow Light” by Of Monsters and Men
It’s a rainy Friday night when she hears a knock on her door.
Betty frowns at the sound. It’s almost 10PM, which means it’s almost bedtime for her, and she’s not expecting anyone. Briefly, she wonders if it’s a serial killer at the door but serial killers don’t typically knock on their victim’s doors before they attack so it’s probably not.
She sidles up to the door and checks the peep hole.
His face, distorted through the glass, is not what she expects.
She feels her upper body collapsing against the door and it takes a concerted effort to right herself up again. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.
What is he doing here? How did he know where she lives? Why is he here?
A million questions race through her mind and she immediately flips the light switch off next to her, shrouding herself in darkness. Maybe she can just pretend like she’s not home.
“I know you’re home,” he says through the door.
He must be leaning up against the door because she can hear his voice through the wood, clear and unbroken. She presses her head back and pushes it into the door, steadying herself against the pressure. She unfurls her fingers from her palms and splays them out against her thighs. After a few deep breaths, she finally spins around, turns the light back on, and opens the door, flinging it open.
He looks almost exactly like she remembers him from five years ago. His dark inky hair is tousled and a tiny bit shorter than it was before. The rebellious curl still hangs down on his forehead. His blue eyes shine brightly against his tanned skin and the dark circles that used to be so prominent under his eyes, seem to have disappeared completely. He’s wearing a dark blue and green plaid flannel and tight black jeans.
Meanwhile, she’s dressed in her pajamas: a camisole and some sleep shorts.
Neither of them say anything and she can feel his gaze heavy on her body as they rake over her. She suddenly has the immense desire to cover herself up and to shield herself.
She’s not going to say anything. She refuses to be the first to speak. She counts down from twenty in her head and when she hits one, she takes in another deep breath and as she exhales, she starts to close the door, ready to shut it on him.
His right hand comes out to stop it from closing all the way. She tries to push against the resistance to no avail. Without any effort at all, he easily opens the door wider and brushes past her as he walks into her apartment without a word. She can feel all her nerves standing on edge at the contact.
There, standing in the middle of her living room, is Jughead Jones in the flesh.
He’s not a figment of her imagination. She’s not delusional. Well, maybe a little bit.
The hysteria is starting to build within her the longer they remain silent. She sighs and leans against the door, shutting it with a click. She doesn’t move closer. She can’t. She just stands there, waiting for him to speak.
He doesn’t say a single word. He simply stands still in one spot and looks around her living room, as if trying to absorb every detail about it. It’s all very confusing and disconcerting. He’s invading her space -- her apartment is her own private bubble and she almost never has people over for the sole reason that she likes having somewhere that’s just hers that she can retreat to when the occasion calls for it.
She doesn’t speak. She seems to have lost the ability to form words.
“This is a nice place.”
After five years of not speaking to each other, these are the first words out of Jughead Jones’s mouth that are directed towards her. She resists the urge to throw something at him.
“Thanks,” she bites out shortly. “What are you doing here?”
“I thought it was time to visit an old friend.”
The bitter laugh that escapes her doesn’t even sound like her own voice. It’s foreign to her. “Is that what we are?”
“I’d like to think so.”
“What do you want, Jughead?” She asks, crossing her arms in front of her chest.
“I want to talk.”
“It’s been five years. I think the time for talking has long passed, don’t you?”
"I don't think so."
He's just as stubborn as he used to be, when they were teenagers. When they were in love, this might've been endearing but now, five years later, when they haven't spoken a single word to each other in that period of time and when he ignored every single one of her attempts to reach out, it's not endearing. It just pisses her off.
She swings her door open with more force than she realizes she's capable of. It hits the wall with a bang and she gestures towards it.
"Leave."
The demand is spoken forcefully but he acts as if she hadn't spoken at all. He doesn't listen or comply, he just sits down on her couch, shifting his weight a few times to get comfortable. She stares at him, something ticking in her jaw.
"Leave," she repeats.
Why is he still pretending like she hasn't said a single word?
"You know, it took me a while to track you down. I guess that makes sense considering as a result of your previous actions, you managed to alienate everyone from me that I would’ve asked for your current information.”
He says this so nonchalantly.
She lets out a sigh and shuts the door once again. Walking over to him carefully, she perches herself by the kitchen island, a safe distance away.
"Who finally told you?"
"Cheryl."
Betty holds a hand to her temple. "Of course."
"Your dear cousin didn't divulge much at first though. She spent a few hours grilling me on why I would want the information and after I painstakingly answered every single one of her questions, no matter how intrusive they were, she provided your address."
Betty is only vaguely listening at this point. Her imagination has run wild with all the ways and means in which she will torture Cheryl for betraying her like this.
"So talk. You came all this way. You might as well get it all out." Betty looks at him expectantly, her face a mask of neutrality.
"Are you still in love with me?"
If she hadn't been leaning against the island, she may have stumbled at his words. Thankfully, she's still able to maintain some semblance of grace. She rights herself back up to a fully standing position.
"What makes you think you have the right to ask me that anymore?" She bites back acerbically.
"I think you owe me," he says matter-of-factly, like he's listing off statistics. "You lied to me and cheated on me. I deserve to ask you a few uncomfortable questions. It's the least you can do."
"I don't have to do anything, actually. So now that we've had this wonderful conversation in which you have decided to reopen old wounds for some perverse reason, I will kindly and politely ask you to get the fuck out of my apartment."
He clicks his tongue at her in the smuggest fashion and she resists the urge to climb over the couch to slap him across the face. "When did your mouth become so filthy?"
"Excuse me?" She retorts. "You don't know me anymore, Jughead. It's been five years. Of course, I've changed."
"Are you still a liar?"
“Okay, we are not having this conversation anymore.” She walks over to him and attempts to forcibly pull him off the couch so she can proceed to throw him out of her apartment and her life. He doesn’t budge a single inch and she curses him for being so much stronger than her. Her hand curls around his bicep and she tightens her grip, feeling the muscle pulse underneath her touch.
“You need to leave.”
“I don’t think so.”
He pulls her body down towards the couch and she braces herself for the impact. Except there is no impact, not really. He catches her and brings her down gently, his touches confusing and messing with her mind. He’s not allowed to do this anymore. She scrambles to get back up and off of him but his hands grip her hips tightly and he pushes her back down so she’s essentially straddling him.
It’s the most intimate position that she’s been in with anyone in over five years. She’s having a hard time believing that this is all happening right now. Did she imagine this? Maybe this is just a very vivid hallucination.
She thought she had stopped dreaming about Jughead years ago. But maybe she hasn’t.
She sits on top of him, her entire body stiff and she tries again, a futile effort to escape from his arms to put some much needed distance between them.
She can’t think when he touches her like this. It’s still the same.
With one touch, she’s putty in his hands and willing to bend to his every command. One hand goes around to the back of her neck and he pulls her down, ever so gently so that their faces are inches away from each other. He smells so familiar and comforting -- like leather and sandalwood, spicy and woodsy. She can feel his breath hot against her skin and her brain is screaming for her to abort, abort, abort.
But she can’t move. She’s powerless against him. Briefly, she wonders if this is his sick way of getting revenge and retribution for all the pain that she caused him years ago. Is he just messing with her?
“Are you still in love with me?” He repeats his question from before.
How is she supposed to answer this? Her brain whizzes at a hundred miles a minute and she can’t slow her thoughts. She feels like each one is pounding against her temple, shoving one another away from the forefront, trying to dominate.
Honestly, she thinks. She needs to answer this question honestly. Because she’s not a liar, not anymore.
All her brilliant, complex, and well thought out answers seem to die on her tongue and the only thing that she manages to force out is a whisper.
“Yes.”
He holds her chin up, forcing her to look into his eyes, as if he’s trying to determine the truth by the veracity of her gaze. Whatever he sees, it seems to satisfy him because before either can say another word, his lips come crashing down to hers.
He tastes exactly the same -- an intoxicating blend of coffee and smoke. He pushes his tongue into her mouth and she opens it for him, letting him in. His grip tightens around her waist and he moves his hands up across her back, searing her skin with every fluctuation. Her camisole is thin and she can feel the heat from his hands burn through.
He breaks the kiss and his lips move to the apple of her cheek, the curve of her jaw, the slender line of her neck, and down to her ample bosom. He pulls her silk tank top down forcibly, freeing her breasts. His mouth hovers over one and he flicks his tongue out to tease her nipple. It immediately hardens against him and her hands come up to grip the sides of his head, holding him close as he sucks.
She can feel the straps of her camisole tugging at her shoulders and a part of her just wants him to rip off all her clothes. It’s an innate desire -- something that she hasn’t felt with anyone else but him. He always makes her lose her mind like this.
He pulls her top off with one swift movement and suddenly, she realizes with glaring clarity that she is sitting topless, straddling her ex-boyfriend’s lap.
She should stop. They should stop. This is a terrible idea.
Jughead’s hands come up to cup her face again. He speaks and his words are muffled against her mouth.
“You’re so goddamn beautiful.”
This is a terrible idea. But she doesn’t care. She just wants him, in whatever way possible. Her body aches for him and she feels something clawing at her heart, something that desperately wants him closer.
So, she gives in.
She buries one hand in his hair, his raven locks feeling as soft as she remembered them being and she grinds her body into his, feeling his hardness poking at her through the thin fabric of her sleep shorts. Their bodies move in sync together like that for a few more moments until he pulls back, staring into her eyes once again.
She feels like he sees straight through her, like he’s gazing deep within her soul. She wants to shirk away from him but he’s holding her so tightly that she can’t. So, she distracts him. She pulls his shirt off his torso and up over his head; he lifts his arms to help. She leans forward, skin touching skin, and returns her mouth to his, pouring all her conflicted emotions into the depths of the kiss.
She’s missed this -- kissing him, being close to him, and breathing in his scent. He’s like an addiction. She’s been in withdrawal all these years and now that she has a taste of him again, she doesn’t know if she can ever go a day without it.
His mouth sucks at her pulse point and she throws her head back, exposing more of her neck to him. He bites into her skin and she knows that tomorrow, there will be a mark. She’s almost thankful for it. It’ll be evidence that this actually happened and she’s not just losing her mind.
Maybe she still is. At least it’s a sweet descent into madness and she willingly follows wherever he leads.
He lifts her up and shifts her body so that she’s lying on the couch on her back. He’s on his knees, resting on his heels. With darkened eyes, he watches her and takes her in: her milky smooth skin, her supple breasts, and the seductive dip in her stomach. He rests his hands on the waistband of her sleep shorts and stares into her eyes, silently asking for permission. She gives him the briefest of nods and that’s enough for him.
He pulls her shorts and underwear off, then his jeans, and finally his boxers and then they’re both naked, wrapped in each other’s arms. He hovers over her, his hand moving further south until he’s grazing his index finger over her, groaning into her neck as he feels her wetness. He presses his knuckle into her clit and she lets out a short gasp that he captures with his mouth. He pumps his finger into her slowly while his tongue mimics his actions in her mouth.
It’s not enough.
She pushes her body into his hand, needing more pressure. He smirks against her mouth and moves progressively lower, kissing the underside of her breast, her stomach and then he’s right over her clit. He blows on it and her back arches from the sensation. He flicks his tongue out, loving the taste of her.
It’s both familiar and foreign at the same time. All he knows is that he needs more of it. His hands grip her ass and he pushes his face into her, needing to surround himself in her. He licks a thick strip upwards and shoves his tongue into her, his nose nudging at her clit. Her moans only encourage him and he needs her to fall apart.
It’s like a compulsion within him, his need to possess her.
Her fingers grip the edge of the couch cushions and her toes curls when she feels her orgasm crash through her. He’s still sucking and licking at her center, taking every drop that she gives. Her vision blurs and she blinks a few times, feeling the numbness in her senses start to fade.
She can feel his hard cock pressing up against her center. Her mouth won’t move, refusing to speak the words. He drags himself over her and then moves a hand down to his cock, slapping her clit with it. A moan escapes her and she hates herself for loving this and loving him.
She’s not supposed to desire him anymore. But she does. She really fucking does.
He tilts her face towards him and says gruffly, “Look at me.”
Her gaze immediately settles on him and he pushes her thighs open a little wider, settling himself at her entrance before he pushes himself into her, filling her completely. He holds his body against hers, still and unmoving, letting her adjust to his size until her fingernails start to claw at his chest and she’s begging him to move.
He fucks into her hard and fast, his eyes traveling down to where they’re connected in the most intimate of ways, watching ravenously as he disappears into her. His hand reaches out, grazing her cheek and then grabs hold of her chin, forcing her to look at him.
They stare into each other’s eyes, his body moving into hers at a punishing pace. She meets him, thrust for thrust, arching her back, her entire body almost lifting off the couch.
She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, completely lost in the feeling of his cock pulsing inside of her. He slows his thrusts until they become shallow and her eyes fly open in confusion and want.
“Say it again,” he says roughly, the words breaking through her haze. His thumb comes down to rub at her clit.
“What?” She asks dumbly, barely coherent. Her hands reach out to his abdomen, raking downwards as she tries to get him to move faster.
“Are you still in love with me?” He grits out through clenched teeth. He pulls himself out until his tip is barely inside of her and then shoves his cock all the way in again.
She gasps out a moan at the action. “Yes, yes,” she says, her words choppy and broken. “Yes, Jug. I’m still in love with you.”
His grip on her hips tightens and he pulls out completely before he thrusts back in, sharply and suddenly. “Again.”
She lets out a low moan and bites her lip, refusing to play this asinine game of his. When she doesn’t respond, he repeats the action, slamming himself into her and holding still. Her body feels like it’s about to spontaneously combust, all her nerve endings on fire.
He stares down at her and thrusts into her lightly, his lips coming down to kiss hers. He whispers his demand against her mouth. “Again.”
The words tear themselves away from her lips. “I’m still in love with you.”
This seems to satisfy him and he resumes his pace from before, his hips meeting hers at a frantic pace.
“You’re mine. You never stopped being mine,” he says through his thrusts.
She thinks she’ll agree to anything at this point as long as he never stops. His hand comes down to her clit and he rubs at it roughly. Her orgasm rips through her unexpectedly and she throws her head back as she falls over the edge. She clenches tightly around him. He pounds into her a few more times before he grunts, finishing in one last thrust, coming harder than he has in a long time, white spurts painting her inner walls.
She thinks she might’ve lost consciousness at some point because the next thing that happens is she feels herself being picked up by him and then tucked into bed. Her hand shoots out before she can stop herself as she reaches for him and he slides into the bed next to her, holding her body tightly against his.
He kisses her hair and pushes a strand out of her face. They’re both quiet for a long time and when her breathing evens out, he lets out a sigh of relief that she’s finally fallen asleep.
Her hesitant voice against the silent night startles him. “Are you still in love with me?”
He wants to lie so that he doesn’t expose himself to her again but he knows that he can’t. This is why he came here in the first place and why he spent so much time and effort to find her again. It’s an undeniable fact of life that he will now and forever, always be in love with Betty Cooper.
“Yes.”
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