ｃｈｕｇｈｅａｄ ♡

life in the vivid dream

credits to ladyflamingo via archiveofourown.
warning; consists pg rated content!
———

He’s trying to sleep, but he can’t. He is tossing and turning, rolling in discomfort until a noise stops him.

“Juggy?”

Betty and her sweet voice, her hair loose and falling into effortless blonde waves, blue eyes shinning in the darkness, full lips in an adoring smile. 

“Can’t sleep?” she asks, without necessity, which was odd, because his insomnia is never a problem around Betty Cooper. Her touch and her voice lull him to sleep easily. She moves on top of him, wearing his ’S’ shirt, one of many, one leg on either side on him. They never admit it, but they both love when he sneaks in through her bedroom window, or walks silently through the front door without her family noticing, hands on her while she giggles on their way her room. 

He sighs deeply, hands comfortable on her smooth thighs, his smile lazy, he's content.

She leans down and kissed him, a hot press on his mouth, a loving hand to his cheek. His body melts into the mattress.

“I can put you to bed,” says Cheryl Blossom, seductive like the snake.

His eyes fly open, and there she is, long hair perfectly straight, a night gown, red and lacy. Her skin is so pale she glowes like the moon. Jughead looks around, and to his absolute horror and utter confusion, they are still in Betty’s room, in her bed.

He opens his mouth to speak, and she silences him with a single crimson nail to his lips. 

“Don’t pretend you don’t want me,” she whispers in his ear, pressed against him, as he run trembling hands over her body. She's like the supernatural femme fatale of his nightmares, and he's having sex with her in the love of his life's bed, and it's fucked up how much it turns him on, “We both know the truth. Once you can get away with. Twice…” his eyes stutter close with a cite his earlobe, “…and you’re addicted.”

And then Jughead Jones entirely too startled for his liking, and entirely too stimulated. He slows down his breathing and squeezes his eyes shut, willing the image of Cheryl Blossom, who was quite literally the spawn of Satan, and her breasts out of his mind. He closes his eyes, frowns deeply, hitting his the back of his head on Archie's floor.

“Dammit.”

—

“Betty’s not talking to you,” Archie says, almost conversationally, as if he is informing Jughead about the weather and not stepping all over the pathetic remains of his heart.

“Yeah, I got that,” he snaps.

Archie makes a face, “Sorry. Ronnie just kept bringing up how fucked up it was for you to have sex with Cheryl like…a day after you broke up—“

“About 18 hours, actually,” Jughead sighs miserably, “Not even a day.”