Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/13921821.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Riverdale_(TV_2017)
  Relationship:
      Betty_Cooper/Jughead_Jones
  Character:
      Betty_Cooper, Jughead_Jones
  Additional Tags:
      bughead_-_Freeform, Challenge_Response, Romance, Angst, Gritty, Dominant
      Jughead
  Series:
      Part 13 of Bughead_Stories
  Stats:
      Published: 2018-03-10 Words: 2267
****** Jackknife ******
by ForASecondThereWedWon
Summary
     Originally posted on Fanfiction.net. Sweaty, naked, curious, Betty's
     ready to find out what Jughead really wants. If you think he's going
     to disappoint, then you haven't read enough of my Riverdale fics.
     This is my second E-rated addition to the stories I've written for
     NeonDomino's Bingo Challenge on FF.net. You can find my entries of a
     lighter rating under the title "Numbering Their Days."
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
“Can you think what that would be like, Betty? To be fucked with crystal clear
abandon? Loose limbs wrapped around a tense, hot throb?”
The humidity was pouring in the windows of his father’s trailer like steam
spreading into a mug milliseconds before the slosh of scalding tea. Jughead
walked around behind her, lifting her ponytail to inspect the line of her neck
from the back. When he pressed his lips against her damp skin, she shuddered,
her bare thighs unsticking and re-sticking on the cheap wooden coffee table.
She shook her head to respond, though they had both already known the answer.
Jughead wound her hair around his palm, the motion an imitation of bandaging,
bracing for impact.
“I wanted you from the beginning, did you know that? Your short skirts in the
fall, though the weather turned cold early. I wanted to tear your pantyhose
with my teeth.”
Betty heard the metallic flick of a jackknife opening. Jughead wedged the blade
under a loop of her hair elastic and twisted. It snapped. He fished the broken
thing out like he was discarding a plastic wrapper. She felt fresh-out-of-the-
box. She felt mint-condish. She wanted to tell him about the limited edition
Christmas Barbie her mom bought for her when she was five, then wouldn’t let
her play with because it ‘would be worth something someday.’
The rough ends of his fingers sunk into her hair like he was scraping together
a snowball. It was natural, unavoidable, to moan. Her scalp was awake to a
sensation like a dozen bees weaving between the strands, collecting her blonde
hair like pollen.
“So?” she asked. She’d been quiet long enough to become aware of her lips when
she spoke.
The knife clicked the table beside her when he tossed it down, blade out.
Jughead tugged his fistfuls of her hair gently and exhaled next to her ear. His
palms rubbed down her neck and over her shoulders like he was pushing against
something much less yielding. Betty leaned back into the touch, not wanting to
slouch or fold. She was naked and collapsing in on herself wouldn’t do her
figure any favours.
Jughead’s fingers ran appraisingly down her arm and he circled her. His white
tank was gone, but the flannel shirt knotted around his hips remained. The
jeans looked as soft and warm as a security blanket. Betty sucked her lower lip
back under her front teeth, then set it free. He sat down across from her on
the couch and their knees touched. Apparently, he was going to ignore her
question.
“It was the worst when you became a cheerleader. Not because of the skirt.” He
leveled a rigid, accusing finger at her like the assumption had been waiting to
spring from the tip of her tongue. “How was I supposed to date a cheerleader? A
cheerleader, for fuck’s sake.” He said ‘fuck’s’ so slowly, looking her right in
the eye, like he was matching it to the speed of the viscus arousal seeping
where she sat.
“You got me.” Betty spun her ankle, kneading her toes into scratchy carpet.
“You got me,” he corrected. “And now what?” He threw his hands up, glancing
from her boobs back to her eyes. “You’re here for the Jughead Jones
Experience?”
Betty raised her hand, draping her fingers over her open-mouthed smile.
“Depends. Do I have to buy a ticket?”
His hand came towards her and Betty raised both arms eagerly, like a lady in a
deodorant commercial. One finger tapped at her side, high up, on the ribs, over
the tattoo she’d gotten of his initials. Just black, like the hair in his eyes
when he lowered his head to look.
“Why don’t you just sit there?” Jughead’s voice was nasty, but his eyes had a
‘meet me in the parking lot at recess’ hungriness.
Betty’s arms fell like tired wings. On the table’s surface, her palms smacked
and squelched. Stamps on an inkpad.
“But, fuck, you could never just sit there, could you?” Jughead dove for her,
mouth first, mouth only, touching her nowhere else but where their knees rested
against each other. Betty thought she might hyperventilate, if she could manage
enough quick breaths to work up to it. She forgot how to kiss. She forgot how
to stand. It was a good thing she was sitting.
It was simple and unusual and essential. It was black licorice. It was getting
what you want when you never thought you would. It was waiting too long. It was
moving too fast.
Betty clapped her hands to his face as if she was going for the snooze button.
Her fingers trickled down like rain to feel his jaw working, prying her mouth
open. His mouth was strong, the motions of his tongue beyond argument. She
heard the knife hum on the table next to her as Jughead played a round of
belated backstreet spin the bottle, flicking it between his fingers. Touch me,
she thought. Touch me, touch me, touch me.
He ground the heels of his hands into her skin, either side of her spine, and
rubbed them down to the small of her back. Jughead’s chin nudged her fiercely
as he rocked her mouth deeper into the kiss. He grabbed for her hips and her
ass lifted off the table with a sound from Velcro’s wheelhouse. Betty landed in
his lap, knees in a wide, casual slump like she was posing on a beach for
Sports Illustrated. He held her tight, but still leaned in; she was trapped as
though she’d fallen into an organic crack between his chest and his rasping
hands.
The smallest press against his denim lap was electric for her. Jughead let her
get her hands in there, though she only used his hall pass to struggle the knot
of his flannel apart. The corner of her eye rubbed his cheek when she dropped
her head. No doubt the heavier black liner she’d dared to ring around her eyes
had been smeared out to her temple. She belonged on a tan stone wall with
Egyptian queens.
He bit her just beneath her jaw and Betty gave in, dragging herself over the
stiff swell he was offering up like a wave to a surfing addict. Jughead’s torso
contorted as he flipped her onto her back, laying her lengthwise down the couch
cushions. She picked at the soft sleeves of his untied shirt and sent it
fluttering to the floor.
Jughead’s tongue found her, up between the legs, the whole flat of it at once.
He shaped her slick entrance and puffed, sensitive clit. Betty’s stomach
muscles quivered and she fought against the decrepit squishiness of the
cushions to get up on her elbows and watch him. He closed his teeth around her
and sucked. Her voice warbled towards a scream. Jughead tilted her hips up on
one side to slap her sharply on the ass then redoubled the precise circling of
his tongue until she came, soaking and heaving.
Betty wiped the back of her hand across her eyes, which were wet. She let her
head fall back to horizontal. The overwhelmed tears she didn’t catch up with
were already lukewarm in her hair. Jughead leaned over her, tipping her from
side to side when his fists pummeled into the cushions. He kissed her, hard and
closed-mouthed. His face moved away and Betty panted her exhale. Jughead
squeezed one of her breasts to immobilize it while her lungs recovered, her
ribcage on hydraulics. He edged her nipple with his teeth, sweeping his hands
around the curves of her breasts as if to paint them.
Betty watched the ceiling like she was admiring a celestial spectacle, weaving
her fingers in and out of his thick dark hair. He pulled back, then gave in and
dropped his head to lick luxuriantly over her nipples. She wanted him again,
though her legs were limp and tingled like static shock. She felt down her body
to his hands resting atop her hip bones and pulled one over to the glossy place
between her thighs. Jughead didn’t wait for her; two fingers were stuffed up
inside and curled, hooking her. Betty wasn’t sure whether she was the catch or
the bait. He sat back, kneeling and looking like he was the catch. She pressed
her thumb to his sternum and stroked down, bumping over his abs to the
tarnished button of his jeans.
He took his hand away too and Betty swatted his stomach, backhand. Jughead
grinned and grabbed her wrist, throwing it down over her head. Persistent, she
reached for him with her other hand, so he gripped it too, brought it to her
chest, and contracted his fingers over hers, forcing her into caging her
breast.
“You can keep yourself busy for a minute, can’t you?” He asked like there was
no other option.
Spread out under his stare, Betty traced her smooth skin, orbiting her nipple
until her arousal clung to both ticklishness and clenching desperation at once,
like a strip of double-sided tape. Jughead, her audience, gratified her with a
groan, then flicked his button open and jerked down his zipper. Like air, his
erection nudged forward to occupy the expanded space. Like air, she craved the
way it would fill her.
He worked the layers down to his knees, then let himself crush onto her, a
teambuilding trust fall. Jughead’s body slid up the fairer stretch of hers.
Betty pushed at his jeans with her feet until he was free. He pressed his nose
to her skin and dragged his lips up her throat. His mouth was open so she could
hear the thick, horny way he breathed.
His pressed into her, spreading her with his fingers and running the head of
his cock in their wake. Betty kept angling her hips for him, but he toyed with
her.
“You don’t know what you want,” he whispered into her hair.
Betty went to argue, but Jughead laid one finger to her lips. She arched her
back to influence him, to let him know she got it. He was taking his time.
“But I know what I want.” He turned his head a little and she felt his teeth
against her cheek when he smiled. “And that’s why you came. You’re dying to
know what I want.”
Jughead lurched inside her, lighting her up with every spot he hit, connecting
like he was going for a pinball high score. Betty’s knees jumped up to hang
over his hips, her head tossing to the side. He caught her bottom lip, her ear,
with his teeth, then smacked their palms together above her head. Their fingers
linked with a feeling of permanence and Betty sighed. Finally, a sign that he
meant it.
He bucked up into her, on her, friction inside and out. Betty bent her wrist
back to touch Jughead’s bare chest. His heart was clenching and pulsing to the
rhythm of the muscles she had closed around his dick. She was suffocating, sunk
back into the couch while Jughead laid her out and the humidity flung itself,
sticky and insistent, on his tensing back. Betty knocked her hips into his
until it felt so automatic that she didn’t think she could stop.
Jughead tunneled his forearm under the back of her neck, propping her up. When
she looked in his wild eyes, he held her hand even tighter in the grip they
shared above her head. He kissed her, started to release her, then manipulated
her mouth even more persuasively. Betty clawed at his chest before smoothing
her palm down to his abdomen. His sweat and his scent were all she could smell.
Betty started to tremble. To start, it was timid, like a child’s first
handshake, but quickly it became an untameable quake. Jughead rubbed at her
with his hips from the outside, pulling her clit into a desirous burn. She
snapped her hand out of their hold, encircling his waist with both arms and
shout-sobbing into the bend of his neck and shoulder.
Nothing would obey her. Her knees weakened so that her legs dropped. Her hips
stopped pitching from one thrust to the next. She couldn’t make her eyes open
or her teeth unclench. She was baring down on her orgasm at light speed and
Jughead just yanked her up in his arms, slanting his weight towards his upper
body, and loosed that tethered, black-clad boy who had stared at her with hot
eyes in the hall at school for far too long, driving into her until they were
both shuddering and couldn’t go on.
She moaned into his ear as she climaxed, but he still had energy enough to
murmur her name back:
“Betty.”
“Betty.”
“Betty.”
“Sorry!” Betty smiled brightly around the dining room table. “I must have been
daydreaming.”
Her mother narrowed her eyes then nodded towards the butter dish sitting at
Betty’s elbow. Betty picked it up and passed it across the table to Jughead’s
father because his eyes were the only ones that looked expectant.
“It’s so nice we were able to do this this week.” Alice smiled intimidatingly
around the table. Betty couldn’t match her mother on false enthusiasm for
family dinners.
Instead, she reached sideways under the table. Jughead, next to her, was the
picture of a well-mannered boyfriend over at his girlfriend’s house for dinner
on a Thursday. He offered his outstretched hand to be held, but Betty darted
past it, squeezing his upper thigh. The ting of his fork hitting his plate was
deafening.
End Notes
     The prompt for this story was: (Trope) Just a Dream. Obviously,
     stating that at the beginning would've been a spoiler.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!