A/N: This is my fic. I am re-posting onto my sideblog.
Growing up as a werewolf was hard. Growing up as a female werewolf without a pack was impossible. You had a pack that you were good friends with and asked for help and advice from, but that’s as far as it went, for now. You have yet to find a mate and enter a pack, and were currently going through heat so you had to stay indoors to avoid any…unwanted situations a.k.a. to avoid fucking random humans and/or wolves in broad daylight. You were holed up in your apartment, skin burning and your third pair of panties for the day, ruined. Walking into the kitchen and opening the fridge, you groaned, realizing that you were officially out of food and had no choice but to go to the store down the street.
You picked up your phone and dialed the Alpha of the pack you knew. Namjoon had always been willing to help you, even though you weren’t technically part of his pack. He had still always called you family.
“Y/n! Hey, how are you? I haven’t heard from you in days!” He cheerily answered, and you smiled to yourself, he always had a way of cheering you up.
“Hey Namjoon, uhm.. Well I kind of have a problem.”
Summary: Betty baits Jughead into going full dark, no stars. Real dark. Real kinky. Real consensual. You’ve been warned. (Part 3 of The Beast Within)
A/N: As with all the fics in this series, Jughead is v. dark and creepy. Only here, Betty’s the one to draw it out of him. I want to put a warning label as long as my arm on this thing, but I trust you all to know that this is fiction and not to judge me. Don’t read if you’re at all squicked out by violent sex or BDSM.
Y’all I edited this on the plane yesterday and my heart was pounding so hard the whole time, afraid someone could read my computer screen.
And most importantly, happiest of birthdays @jandjsalmon. I would not be here, and this dark Juggie would not exist, if not for you. Hopefully this fic doesn’t go too far.
“Everyone is a moon, and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody.”—Mark Twain
Betty leans over the pool table, scissoring her legs to give her the leverage to hit the ball on the far side. It doesn’t help that she’s got a leather skirt the size of a band aid covering her ass. She scratches.
The large tattooed man she’s playing with — Gator — gives her a condescending smile before smoothly sinking his last ball. She hasn’t seen him before tonight. Probably a trucker passing through. They come in sometimes. But a Serpent wouldn’t do for her plan to work.
“That’s alright, sweetheart. Why won’t you take this twenty and go get us another round of drinks while I re-rack.” He holds the folded bill between his index and middle fingers, making her come up close to him to reach it. His eyes slide down to her cleavage, on full display in the sleeveless blue button-up she’s tied just above her belly button.
“My pleasure.” She smirks at him, pressing her shoulders back as she turns.
As she crosses the room to the bar, she feels the eyes of the Serpents on her. Not the way they usually are, quick glances that bounce off of her like snowflakes, as if they’re afraid Jughead will catch them looking. He’d lost control once and now the guys give him a wide berth. The Serpent Prince had earned his name.
But Jughead’s not here now. Some use it as an excuse to drink her in, staring until she has to steel herself not to flinch under their eyes. Others look concerned, worried for the peppy blonde girl, so clearly out of her depth in a biker bar. Still others’ stares are hard and accusatory. Reminding her that they’ve never trusted her, daring her to get herself into trouble without Jughead here to bail her out.
That’s what she’s waiting for. For Jughead to catch her. He should have been here half an hour ago.
After the Chuck incident, she tried to put a lid on Dark Betty. But the more she tried to confine her, the better she got at escaping.
That is, until one day she found Jughead’s journals. With FP still in jail awaiting trial, the trailer became their safe space, their sanctuary. Every afternoon she could get away, every weekend day her mother would spare, Betty would rush to the trailer, and Jughead would be there waiting. Sometimes they just did homework, or watched TV, or talked. Passing their burdens back and forth. Often she would cook for him, and they would pretend they were somewhere far away, spinning castles in the air, dreaming of a new life. But they were still teenagers, hormones and all. In that trailer, Betty learned how to please him. And she learned how she liked to be touched.
On a cold afternoon in early November, Betty laid on Jughead’s childhood bed, watching his hands run all over her, watching him memorize her body.
Watching him shoot nervous glances toward the bookshelf beside his bed. She craned her neck to see what he was looking at.
It was a little dark blue journal, much like her own pink one, with the corner of a photo peaking out between its pages. She leaned up and grabbed it before he could stop her.
The photo was of her. Of her sleeping. And it had been taken by someone inside her bedroom. She lay splayed on her stomach, the blankets pulled down to her calves. Betty could see the curve of one of her ass cheeks peaking out of the cheer shorts she slept in. She normally put her hair in a messy bun before bed, but in the photo someone had pulled it down and fanned it across her pillow.
She remembered that night, a few weeks prior—she tried not to sleep in her cheer shorts, always wanted to wash off the sweat from practice before bed. But that night Cheryl had kept them late and she was so tired by the time she got home, ate dinner, finished her homework, that she’d crashed. And then she’d been so confused when she woke in the morning and her hair tie was on the nightstand beside her.
She should have felt repulsed. She should have felt scared. Her sweet, gentle, caring boyfriend was sneaking into her bedroom at night to manipulate her body like a doll and take her picture.
Instead, she felt excited. She glanced up at Jughead. He looked trapped, like she’d backed him into a corner. His eyes kept flicking from her face to the door.
“Turnabout’s fair play, right? I mean, you read mine.” He swallowed and nodded. She reached out to grab his hand with one of her own and eagerly turned the pages. Eventually, she got so absorbed, she drew her hand back so she could flip through his entries more quickly.
This journal was relatively new—the first entry dated from July. He talked of his lonely summer without her, and without Archie. Of going days only talking to Pop and to himself in his writing. He wrote of his anger, of something within his chest he struggled to control. He wrote of stalking her. Of breaking into her room when she was there and when she wasn’t. Of the things he secretly longed to do to her.
As she read, Betty felt a weight lifting off of her. Jughead knew some of her darkness. She thought she knew all of his. She was wrong.
He had curled in on himself while she scanned the pages, his elbows resting on his thighs. He chewed on the corner of his thumbnail and avoided all her attempts to catch his eyes.
So she placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back until she could swing a leg on either side of his hips. She kissed him with a hunger she hadn’t realized she’d been repressing.
That was the day she discovered how to control Dark Betty. Or, rather, that Jughead could control Dark Betty. A regular diet of Jughead’s obsession and his depredation and the fugue states stopped. Her anger stayed in its box and her nails stayed out of her palms.
But Dark Betty escaped today. Betty remembers why she’s here, remembers the process of getting ready and driving here, the steps she laid out ahead of time. She just doesn’t remember making the decision to come. Or the decision to delete the draft of Jughead’s novel off his laptop.
They work because their darkness balances. Like the controlled release of a bomb. But Jughead has been slacking on his responsibilities. Apparently, Dark Betty had decided to remind him. They’d both been so busy lately, Jughead hadn’t had time for anything more than a quick fuck late at night before they both fell into bed, exhausted. And she needed him. She couldn’t control the darkness inside herself without him. She thought they had that in common, that they were equals in that way.
She’s worried that maybe now he wants them to be normal. Well, she was trying to be normal for him. Dark Betty wouldn’t let her.
When she returns with the beers, she watches him take a long pull out of his as she places hers on the windowsill behind her.
“So what brings you to Riverdale,” she swallows, “Gator?”
“Doin’ a long haul job, Orlando to Montreal. Gotta get them oranges up to the Canucks.” He smiles, and she can see a silver cap on one of his molars.
They play another game, during which he grows increasingly bold. He offers to help her correct her stance, the way she holds her stick, and when he passes behind her, his hand grazes her ass. He smells like stale beer and unshowered male. Both odors, she surmises, are accurate.
“What do you say we take a break? Maybe grab a drink and get to know each other a little better?”
Betty’s heart sinks into her stomach. The clock’s run out and Jughead didn’t show. But she tries to smile, tries to seem like nothing’s wrong. “Sure. Why don’t you find a table while I run to the ladies’ room?”
She grabs her purse and makes a beeline for the dark hallway behind the bar. She swallows the tears that threaten and gets ready to call Jughead and tell him what she did.
As she passes a doorway, someone grabs her wrist and yanks her inside. Whoever it is presses her face against the door and twists her arm up behind her back until she winces. A blanket of fear alights on her stomach. Maybe she went too far. Maybe one of the Serpents…
When he speaks, every bone inside her melts. “Sometimes I think you have a death wish.”
His voice is rough in her ear and it send shivers down her spine. “I’ve been watching you. You were so distracted by your new boy toy, you didn’t even notice me across the bar when you got that drink. Tut tut.” He lets go of her and she turns around.
“You’ve been here that long? And you waited?” Before she knows what she’s doing, she slaps him. “You sick fuck.”
He smiles but it’s foreign on his face. Not the way he usually looks at her. Lethal. “That was a mistake, little girl.”