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annhellsing · 4 years

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A Hundred Demons

notes: i accidentally deleted my other naraku fic so have some uhhh questionable romantic liaisons rating: teen, there’s some making out but nothing heavier pairing: naraku / reader word count: 1,796

You pry up the cellar door and flinch at the smell of decay. The castle festers at its core, exacerbated by Naraku’s transformation.

He detests this state, but the struggle of holding his body together is prolonged by denying it. His most precious asset is his ability to reforge flesh, And for this process he prefers to be alone. You know that. Still, you descend.

The smell is worse with your feet in the dirt. You’re careful not to grip the ladder too tightly, should your grip make the brittle wood crumble. You closed the hatch before climbing down, the only light now from the cracks around its edges.

It’s barely enough to make out the mass in the centre of the room, but your eyes adjust. A wriggling, pulsing thing blinks it’s single eye. Then, another tendril uncoils slowly, as if in sleep. Knotted together and writhing as one are a hundred demons.

At their centre is his head, bowed in sleep.

You feel a lurching sensation, a knee jerk reaction to the dirt in the cellar. It feels like old, dried blood beneath your feet. The corruption has seeped into the support beams of the cellar. You doubt the place would stand on its own if not for his magic.

Blinking slowly, you wait for the head to notice you. A demon’s maw lolls open, it’s fleshy tongue poking out at you before it also succumbs to sleep. Naraku’s body twitches unnaturally, and then his true head finally moves.

You see two red eyes beneath his black fringe. His skin is so pale, white in the shadows like a death mask. He sneers in your direction, seeing nothing but darkness and the faint outline of a person.

“Kagura?” he snarls. His eyesight is poor when he’s in pieces. Naraku inhales sharply, recognizing the new blood that woke him is human.

“No,” you reply, “it’s me.”

“Hm,” he grunts. It’s difficult to tell if he’s still angry. “I did not summon you.”

You shift your weight to your hip, hazarding to step closer. No doubt he’s irked at his sleep being interrupted, but you understand that his desires are always a double-edged sword. Regardless of your actions, it’s his natural state to be displeased.

“I missed you,” is the only excuse you can offer.

You half expect him to dismiss it as pathetic, but instead Naraku hides his shock beneath a grimace.

“I didn’t think you were foolish enough to disturb me as I regenerate,” he finally tries, though it lacks the bite you know he can have.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” your chin is still raised to look at him. But Naraku understands that it is at once both practical and an act of defiance. Despite that, he can’t bring himself to lash out.

Instead, he laughs. It’s like dark water, pulling you in a few more steps. You’re lulled into a half-way sense of safety, worried less for your own bodily health. Perhaps it’s too soon, you fear. But Naraku seems unwilling to pin you with cruelty.

“Of course, I suppose I am the one who disturbs,” he says, “at least, for the time being.”

His cheeks are gaunt and heavy bags hang under his eyes. He looks tired, his voice is barely more than a reedy breeze. He creaks more than he speaks. You move even closer, until your toes touch the edge of the mountain of demons.

Naraku’s head is supported by a nexus of thick, gray tubes. His hair is entwined with the cellar rafters. He is hideous, you can admit that, and yet you shake your head.

“Do I not terrify you?” he asks, sounding more amused than shocked or angered by your lack of reaction. He does so love fear. “Most can’t bear to look.”

“Have many people seen you like this?” you ask, cocking your head to the side. You kneel on the body of the demon at your feet, using it as a stepping stone to get to the second.

Naraku makes a dismissive noise, unwilling to grace your question with an answer. He lacks one that will prove his point, and that annoys him.

“I thought as much,” you reply, “Kagura’s opinion hardly counts, in that case.” The demons are foul to the touch, but you manage to climb them one by one. Naraku stays terribly still as you do so, waiting and watching to see what you’ll do.

“And yours does?” he asks. A hint of thank ink-black, cruel humour creeps into his voice again. Still, you don’t flinch. He wonders if you might wish to hear him laugh again.

“Generally yes,” you kneel on the back of a sturdier demon, your eyes at level with his. “As I’m your lover,” you’re close enough for him to smell your blood, and the hummingbird beat of your heart.

You’re fragile, he thinks. But then again, so is he. And you’re looking at him with the worst kind of adoration a creature like him can fathom. Still, in his chest that’s now in pieces on the cellar floor, his heart that was once human lurches in your direction.

“You make a compelling argument,” Naraku decides. There is still a sharpness in his eyes, and it comes from ugly fear. You’re close enough that in a single, violent motion he could be dead. And your knife could be bloody.

But you keep your hands on your knees, looking at him with your head tilted. You move slowly, as if you know exactly what he’s afraid of. Maybe he has a right to be unnerved by this, but that won’t make you stop.

You lift your hands and put them on his cheeks, wiping dirt and grime from his face. His thin lips turn up into a smirk. He is a monster, a hateful, terrifying beast of hell and still you lean in to kiss him.

Your lips are human and soft. You’re warmed through, not disquietingly clammy the way he is. But you seem not to notice. You seem to reach through the haze of evil energy and the smell of decay to find the spark of heat belonging to Onigumo. That bit of life that makes you love him so.

He drags his tongue across your bottom lip, demanding out of habit that he be granted entry. Naraku gets what he wants, he’s used to that. So when you press your mouth closed, making a tight seal that his sharp teeth can’t break-- his eyes open.

“Did you come here only to torment me?” he asks, pulling away enough to be coherent. But he’s still so close.

He’s never felt more like an insect than when chasing your warmth. Naraku has looked on at moths flying headlong to their death, toward fire and now he understands why. It’s addictive, your humanity. It’s like a song that he could fall into.

He wishes he had arms, that’s what the longing in his displaced chest is telling him. He’ll wrap you up and keep you with him for hours when he’s finished remaking his body. And you won’t be able to deny him a thing.

But for now, you look at him with an amused expression he does not appreciate. You have ideas above your station and too little fear for his taste. At least, until you press your lips to his again.

It seems you grant him permission to deepen the kiss now, though he doesn’t know what’s changed. He’s the same as he was a minute ago, just as breathless and horrible to behold. Perhaps you simply wanted to prove you could control him.

That thought is simultaneously gut-wrenching and delicious. Naraku doesn’t know which is worse.

The smell of rot doesn’t register as pervasively, you notice. You put your hands in his long, black hair and drag his severed head against your mouth. Your fingers brush gray-mottled tendons and pale flesh.

He’s making decisions about which parts of him to keep even as he accepts your kiss, but he’s working a lot slower than before you arrived.

You have a nice time ruining his solitary confinement, sneaking kisses over his cold flesh. You try your best to warm him, he realizes, and the sentiment is unhelpfully pleasant. He loses count of how many times he needs to reconsider his decision to discard part of himself, you’re a beautiful distraction.

“I’m inhibiting you,” you say when you finally pause to breathe. He mirrors the action, struck very suddenly by how distant the need to do so was with your mouth to his jaw.

“Deeply,” he replies.

“My apologies,” you say, bowing your head. “I really did miss you.”

“If it would please you,” he begins, making you lift your head, “you may stay a while longer.”

“It would please me,” you reply. You kiss the corner of his mouth, moving too quickly for his poor vision to see. “I’ll be still as a mouse so you can be done sooner.”

Naraku closes his eyes, taking a deep breath before nodding. You can feel a shift in the cellar as he goes back to sleep. So much for parting remarks, you suppose. But he isn’t one for affection, especially not when vulnerable.

You sit back on your knees, watching his severed head hang from the rafters. And the sight, to your intense displeasure, inspires no fear. You know what he is, who he is, and still you make yourself comfortable.

Somewhere in the space between Naraku regrowing his neck and shoulders, you too succumb to sleep. The dark, cool cellar fades away, as does the smell of rot. You lean against the old wooden wall, the demons underfoot don’t bother you.

By nightfall, he’s finished. And you, his lover, lie curled up on the packed earth. His body is as it was, but now it’s much stronger. He feels better, more in control and sturdy. As much as he would like to look down on you with vague disgust brewing in his now rightly-placed heart, he can’t.

You’re roused hours later, somewhere just as dark but less oppressively macabre. You’re not in the cellar any more, you know by the smell. The wet, old air is cleaner in this new place.

Your fingers brush the floor, no longer made of packed earth. It’s tatami, you realize, the same tatami found in Naraku’s private chamber.

Sitting up, you realize how warm you are in this new place. Even in the blue-dark, you can’t feel anyone else’s eyes on you. You’re alone.

You look down next, wondering what’s covering you. You didn’t bring anything when you climbed down the ladder. But thrown over your chest, undisturbed by your heavy sleep is a white cloak of baboon fur.

#naraku #naraku x reader #inuyasha #inuyasha fic #anniewrites #this gets Bad near the end i'm sorry #i ran out of wenergy

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elefics · 4 years

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torment / chapter 5

A/N: I’ve barely proofread this, sorry if it’s a little wack (also the ending is a bit rushed, I ran out of motivation lmao). Thank you for the love on this fic!!! I appreciate it sm :’))

word count: 2.8k

The café was practically empty. Streetlights shone in from the sidewalk outside. There was one bald man guy behind the counter, who took orders and cooked all at the same time. When the cook called me sweetheart with a leering grin, Michael’s hand snaked around my waist protectively. I liked the feeling.

A few yawning men stumbled in occasionally for coffee, but other than them, we were alone in our booth by the window. The light inside was warm, casting Michael’s features in gold. I couldn’t take my gaze away for a second.

Michael ordered the French toast. I went with pancakes. We sipped coffee in contented silence for a while, before he finally spoke.

“I know you feel weird around me. Why didn’t you say anything to them?” Michael asked, tilting his head slightly. I thought of Cordelia and the way she crumpled to the ground earlier.

“To cover for you. Take some heat off.” I replied instinctively.

“Cover what? What do you think is going on?” His eyes darkened.

I shrugged. “I know something’s going on. I know there’s more to you. I just haven’t figured it out yet.” I waited for him to explain; I was tired of guessing.

He hesitated, tearing at the corner of his napkin and biting the corner of his lip.

“I need you to tell me, Michael. If I know what’s happening, I can protect you.” I said, meaning every word of it.

He smiled softly, grateful. “There’s just too much to explain,” He sighed. “I don’t know how to.”

“Michael Langdon, prince of debonair, doesn’t have the right words?” I teased.

He rolled his eyes. I spotted a tiny tremble in his fingers as they interlocked with mine across the table.

“How about we start with questions. How goddamn old are you?” I asked, smiling. I was getting sick of my own voice asking the same question, over and over.

“It’s complicated. I don’t age like...you.” Spotting my confused look, he continued. “I don’t age in human years. I guess I’m something like twenty, but I feel…ancient.” He sighed with the weight of a thousand years on his breath.

Maybe it was the nerves, but I burst out laughing. Michael’s brow furrowed, and I saw his walls going up right in front of me.

“No, no, Michael I’m sorry. Human years?” I asked.

“This is stupid. I can’t.” His jaw clenched as he stared out the window. I watched a nerve in his temple jump as he avoided looking at me.

I said, leaning my head closer to force him to look at me. “Hey, I have all night. I’m here.”

“I think it’ll be easier if I show you. Can I?” He asked, taking my hand in his warm ones.

I nodded slowly, my pulse racing. His skin seared against mine, but I refused to pull away. Michael closed his eyes and exhaled slowly through his nose. In seconds, I sunk through the ground into darkness.

Through the murky blackness, I saw a small child, covered in blood.

I heard a deep voice whisper, snake-like, behind his ear: kill, kill, kill. I saw dead animals across the child’s bedroom floor, and how he used their insides like finger-paint. I felt his ears burning, then pure rage. I felt the sticky warmth of the priest’s blood on his hands.

I felt the stares of other kids his age prickling the back of his neck, the feeling of being watched like a tiger in a cage. I felt his bones crack and stretch, aging a decade overnight. I felt the ache in his chest when his grandmother feared him. I felt his fathers abandon him, his birth mother ignore him. I felt the terror, the longing for guidance. I felt the darkness creeping in when he was lost, when he felt he had nowhere else to turn. I felt a void.

Then, I felt the searing heat of the dark room, and heard the circling crows outside, as the hooded people came. I felt sleep in his eyes as he stumbled down the stairs. I felt how their admiration made his heart soar. I felt how he finally, almost, maybe…belonged.

When Michael let go of my hand, I snapped back into reality. My breaths came panicked and hard, and I felt tears sliding down my nose. “What was that?” I asked shakily.

“I’m not normal. Not human. My father – he’s bigger than all of that.” Michael’s expression was blank, assessing my every movement.

“Michael, who is your father?” I asked, staring at the table.

“You won’t like it.” He whispered, staring at his cutlery. He didn’t look up.

“What is he?” I asked again, tears beginning to blur my vision.

“Satan.”

Dread filled my insides. Before I could cry or scream or recoil, I summoned that blue light inside me again, filling myself with calm. I tried to keep a level head, for Michael’s sake. I could see his bottom lip trembling and his eyes darting across my face frantically. He needed me right now.

“Are you afraid?” He asked quietly.

“No.” I replied slowly. It was a lie, but I didn’t want it to be.

“I know you are. This is stupid. I shouldn’t have told you that. I really shouldn’t-” Michael was spiralling.

“Miriam,” I said softly, pieces falling into place in my memory. “She’s who you lived with, after your family left?” I asked.

He paused, then smiled and nodded. “She’s the best.”

Talking about Miriam seemed to put him at ease. I was suddenly very aware that he likely had tenfold the power I had and could snap my spine clean in half, if he felt so inclined. Maybe it was a good idea to keep our conversations light. But I couldn’t help myself – I was standing on the edge of the cliff, and I wanted to jump. I had to know what Michael was and break him down to pieces, make sense of every part.

“And she’s a…Satanist?” I asked, trying to keep my tone level and respectful.

“They just have a bad reputation. It’s about freedom, and choice. It’s about not setting limits and constraints on yourself. Everything is within your reach.” He murmured, lining my fingertips up with his.

An image problem. That’s what the issue was, according to Michael. I knew a little about religion – enough to know what this boy was and what he was designed to bring about. I swallowed fear with every gulp of oxygen.

“I need you to say it, Michael. I need to hear it.” I whispered, staring at the ground.

“I’m the Antichrist.” He said flatly. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. I guess to him, it was. He’d lived with that label, that target, on his back.

I remembered how uneasy Cordelia was around Michael, how she looked at him like he was a freak, an anomaly. If only she knew what I knew. If only she knew I was here now. Deep inside myself, wound tightly between my ribs, I felt like I was committing treason, some crime against humanity. Maybe I was, and just didn’t know it yet. My Supreme – it wasn’t Michael, at least it didn’t feel like it yet – didn’t trust this boy in front of me. But being here, talking and listening, learning about each other, I knew it couldn’t be all true. I’d felt his anguish, viscerally. I’d felt how lost he was. I knew him.

“What does that mean for you?” I asked.

“I don’t know yet. I’m supposed to bring about the end times, but I haven’t gotten my instruction manual in the mail yet.” He said bitterly.

“Is that what you want?” I asked.

His eyes met mine and I saw a flicker of panic in them. Nobody had ever asked him that before, I thought. In that moment, I saw a boy who was so deeply lost, he didn’t even know himself. I saw a boy who wanted to be good, desperately. I saw a boy with a future and destiny imposed on him, but one which he was never really sold on.

“I – I don’t know.” He replied softly. My brain buzzed with questions but was swiftly interrupted.

“Order up,” The bald cook smiled, sliding our plates in front of us. “Beautiful couple, by the way. Enjoy.”

“We’re not-” Michael and I spoke at the same time, then smiled.

Michael didn’t hesitate to dig in – all this talk of fate and apocalypse certainly hadn’t ruined his appetite.

“What about you? What shit did your parents put in your head about your future?” He changed the subject thickly through a mouthful of syrup.

“They thought I’d be a doctor or a lawyer when I was younger,” I laughed. I remembered my toy stethoscopes and the shelves of books I’d often escape into growing up. “Guess that went out the window a few years back.”

“You’re not a disappointment.” He said suddenly, eyes serious. My stomach flipped.

“Never said I was.” I smiled teasingly, but my insides warmed at his reassurance. I had a feeling it was something we both needed to hear, as much as each other.

“Where are they now?” Michael asked.

“My Dad left a long time ago. I barely know him. Mom – Mom doesn’t really talk to me anymore.” I faltered.

Michael nodded, his knee brushing mine under the table.

“Can you see into my dreams?” I asked suddenly, remembering I’d never asked. There were so many other, more important things we should have been talking about, but I had no idea where to start. It was like staring into the sun. All I could do was squint.

Michael smirked, “And change them.”

My mouth fell open. “What else?” I asked.

“I can do lots of things,” He smiled like a proud child. “There’s a lot I haven’t figured out yet, but I can feel it growing, inside me. Like a current.”

“Must be quite a feeling.” I said quietly, scraping my fork across my plate. Silence spread across the table like fog. It was a weird thing to say, and I knew it immediately. It made me look jealous and insecure. Maybe I was. But he didn’t need to hear that.

“You’re a force of nature. I like being around you.” He said simply. I didn’t know how to reply other than to smile.

Michael shifted in his seat. “What are you thinking about?”

“Can’t you hear it anyway?” I asked, rolling my eyes.

“Only when I really want to. It’s like radio static, I have to tune into it to hear clearly.”

“What else do you hear?” I asked softly.

“My father, sometimes. When he talks, it’s like I have no choice but to listen. It fills up my whole skull until I feel like it’ll burst.” He explained.

“Does he talk to you…often?” I asked nervously.

“Not really. There isn’t exactly a bring your son to work day in Hell. We don’t play baseball on Saturdays,” He said wryly, before his expression changed to something more serious. “We’re not that close.” Michael confessed.

I could tell this hurt him. After allowing me into his memories, Michael felt so much more familiar to me. I understood him, at least more than I did yesterday.

“Have you met him? Like in person?” I asked. I thought of my own father and how I’d forgotten if his eyes were brown like mine, or a deep hazel, like Mom’s.

Michael smiled, the way you would at a small child asking you to play with them. “He’s not human, Lyla. He doesn’t have a body. If I did meet him in person, I’d just feel bad for the vessel.”

That sent a prickle of cold anxiety up my spine. Vessel. Hearing him talk about people, flesh and blood human beings, as merely a means to get from point A to point B, was unsettling.

“What are you? Human? Or a vessel, too?” I pressed.

Michael smirked. His hand under the table brushed higher up my knee. I felt goose bumps spring up along the hem of my skirt. “If I was a vessel, could I do that?” His other hand reached for mine, bringing it up to his warm lips to kiss my knuckles softly. “Or this?”

“Yes, you probably could.” I sighed.

“Smart girl. Too smart for me, maybe. Only trouble comes from that.” He murmured. It seemed like a reflection to himself, like field notes on an animal he was studying in the wild.

I wriggled in my seat, uncomfortably hot under his stare.

“You’re scared. I can hear your blood rushing.” He observed, leaning back against his booth seat. His arms hung loosely – one along the back of the seat and one by his side. God, he was pretty. But the more I looked, the more I noticed: the way his skin sunk back under his eyes, faint greyish circles of fatigue. A tiny freckle on his chin. The sharp curve of his cheekbones. Before long, I was staring back, meeting his gaze without batting an eye. We sat there for a long time in silence, drinking each other in. We weren’t even touching and somehow it was one of the most intimate things I’d ever experienced. I felt like he knew me, inside out and backwards. I felt like I was starting to know him the same way.

“Hey, lovebirds. We close in twenty. Finish your coffee before it gets cold and get out of here.” The bald man called from the kitchen, breaking the spell between us.

Michael blinked a few times, like he was seeing sunlight for the first time in days. I idly wondered what he looked like first thing in the morning, right after he woke up. He smirked like he knew.

Producing a slim black wallet from his pocket, Michael threw a fistful of bills on the table. It was way more than the cost of what we’d ordered, but before I could say anything, let alone try to pay for myself, his hand was around mine as he pulled me into the night.

We walked in silence for four blocks. I counted our steps and tried to keep my heartbeat under control. It was embarrassing that he could hear it sometimes, and that when I tried to read him, all I got was flustered.

“Thank you for paying.” I squeezed his hand after a while.

Michael frowned and shrugged, like he’d forgotten already. He pulled me closer against him, wrapping his arm around my waist. He laughed softly.

“What’s funny?” I asked.

“Nothing.” He shook his head, grinning at the pavement.

“What is it?” I whined, hoping it wasn’t me he found so comical. Like he’d finally realised I wasn’t worth it, an ‘aha’ moment, after which he’d shortly disappear into thin air like a daydream.

Michael stopped abruptly, grabbed my hands and tugged me into an alley. In one fluid movement he had me pinned against a brick wall, his body hot against my skin.

“Lyla, Lyla, Lyla.” He whispered my name like he liked how it felt on his tongue. “What am I going to do with you?” He murmured, his face so close to mine I ached to kiss him.

I stared up at him, only one thought stuck in my mind: I could stay like this forever.

“You know what I am. Why aren’t you running for the hills?” He asked tenderly.

“I don’t buy it. I don’t think you’re as bad as you say you are, as everyone thinks you are.” I said defiantly, jutting my chin up at him.

Michael smiled. “Maybe you’re not as smart as I thought, then.” He hooked his forefinger under my chin, holding my face still with his thumb.

“If you were me, what would you do?” I asked, looking directly into his icy eyes.

“I would go somewhere very, very far away, and never speak to me again.” He whispered.

“Is that what you want me to do?” I asked. His eyes grazed down my neck, then back up to my lips.

“Not at all.” He said. Then he pressed against me, kissing me hard. I thought it was impossible to get any closer, but he proved me wrong every few moments, pushing my back against the cold brick behind me. His lips were soft against mine but his tongue had total control; I was completely dizzy in his arms. His hands trailed to my waist, fingertips tracing and tugging at the stitching of my skirt. My head reclined in pleasure and he took the opportunity to pepper my neck with sloppy kisses and bites. In the shadows of the alley, I wanted all of him, and I knew in my heart he felt the same.

I knew things just got complicated. I knew they were only doomed to get worse. We were different, Michael and I, on molecular levels. I knew this was wrong and that his lips against my neck were some kind of betrayal. But in this moment, I couldn’t care about anything else if I’d tried.

taglist (i can’t remember who asked to be on here so if you want to be added or removed let me know!): @theneverendinghunger @outpostmichael @leatherduncan @langdons-butterfly-deactivated2 @angelicmichael @drasangel

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oathofmaestro · 5 years

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echoes;; a ronin/clint barton fic [1/?]

(( style/rating: allseeing, ephemeral, wanton ))

suggested song: knee socks - arctic monkeys

word count: 2,030

tw: this story will have dubcon - mentions of demons/succubi/incubi - blood - gore - death - aimless killing - mentions of sex work and sex workers - mental illness - ptsd - manic episodes - anxiety and depression // dark!slightlyderanged!Ronin(Clint) x fem!mutant!reader // this is sensual smut and lots of angst with a plot, so expect a part two. this is post-blip, so mcu/mceu clint/ronin. clint’s family does not come back, nat is still ko, clint is a free man. also: this is for @buckysthot ‘s writing challenge. thanks for hosting, i had way too much fun with this one! ****please remember to read the trigger warnings!!! they are there for your protection!!!****

m/n: i’m only here to make you feel good. conducting symphonies is my speciality; for this piece, i have chosen to go sensual!, so please keep that in mind when (listening) to this particular symphony. should you read this and have a request, feel free to inbox me, I would love to turn your thoughts into a masterpiece. from me to you, i wish you many happy days, and please enjoy the concerto below.

until next time,

( MAESTRO )

They were never far behind, the jitters.

When they started, Clint didn’t have a clue, but he had the scars to prove their condition was a real one.

They always came on like a shock in the blue and for Clint, that usually meant several hours of scratching along his flesh, raking over his arms, legs, chest, and what he could reach of his back.

Perhaps they began when he no longer could take the strain of being alone, of sleeping in his house of memories that included his deceased wife, maybe it was not seeing his boys… Maybe, it was the vision of Natasha falling farther and farther away from him as she always did in his nightmares.

Somehow, he always saw them – his family enjoying themselves in bliss, teaching his daughter how to shoot, how to defend herself… suddenly torn from him, their presence lingering like a phantom limb, all pain, all the time.

So, he scratched and scratched, digging so hard sometimes that he drew blood and it was only then that he was certain that this wasn’t some fever dream and the ones he held so dear were gone from him forever…

Until Clint met you.

He was well on his way to being a vigilante then; killing those he deemed worthy and sometimes, those he did not. Morality was not something he had much of these days and sanity wasn’t exactly at the top of the list.

Whispers on the wind started calling him Ronin, and thus Clint shed himself from the ideal family man and freedom fighter to indiscriminate killer who made his judgments as quick as his blades cut throats, and he relished in those feelings because they gave him purpose. They gave him a sense of direction, hope, even…

They gave him you.

The bar was dingy and smelled of cigarettes, but the music was loud and that was what Clint wanted for the most part. He’d had been on a hunt for a bounty he had taken as job and had stopped at the first dive he saw, craving something strong in alcohol volume to consume and burn away any lingering doubts he was having.

He could vaguely hear the music being played as he went up to the bar and ordered himself a scotch from the barkeep, settling into one of the many stools littering the place. It was quite empty for a dive, but then, with half of the world gone up in cinders and ash, he supposed that was only fair.

He was barely paying attention when the lights dimmed and at the same time, his drink was passed to him, to which he paid with cash immediately, noting to the barkeep that the change was his to have.

A crackly voice came over the loudspeaker to announce a name he could not discern and he watched as the few men in the place began to move in unison closer to the stage, sitting obediently like puppies waiting for their master to come home.

You got the lights on in the afternoon And the nights are drawn out long

His head snapped around at the music, and he felt something tugging at his consciousness as he sipped at his scotch, eyes darting left and right as he looked for the source of the sound.

And you’re kissing to cut through the gloom With a cough-drop-coloured tongue

A gloved hand parted the show curtain for the stage and out you stepped, head to toe in golden body glitter and clad in a white toga, a sultry smirk curling your lips as you ran that same hand up the slit on your toga, which you undid so so slowly and Clint watched on, savouring you and the drink at the same time.

Goddess, indeed.

And you were sitting in the corner with the coats all piled high And I thought you might be mine

Out of the toga, you were clad in only a black thong as you run your hands along your breasts, lip between your teeth as you twisted and turned on the stage, gripping the pole as you went round and round and round again, and Clint thought he could watch you do that forever.

In a small world on an exceptionally rainy Tuesday night In the right place and time

Up you went, and so did Clint’s eyes, and he found himself getting closer to the stage to get a better look at you; he wanted to see the show, that much was true, but somehow he felt like you were probing his mind and he had to know how you were doing that.

When the zeros line up on the 24 hour clock When you know who’s calling even though the number is blocked

You came back down and began to dance again after the show you had put on, and as the dollars piled up, you caught Clint’s gaze and smiled at him and he felt a pang in his body, heat rising slowly from his feet all the way to his ears.

When you walked around your house wearing my sky blue Lacoste And your knee socks

He was near the stage now, noting how your smile grew, taking this opportunity to turn this show into a one on one, enjoying the feel of his eyes on your body as you worked your magic, music fading into oblivion as the haze began.

Everything and everyone was still and he wanted to marvel at this… except you were there, and that only made Clint trod closer until he stepped up and was right next to you on the stage, his body flush against yours as you looked up into his eyes before capturing his lips within your own.

The people fell away and it was just this motley pair, you with no name and Clint with all of his baggage and well earned torment.

He let you kiss over his eyes one at a time, head bending just so to accommodate you, and his voice came out as a whisper as he stared back into your face.

“Is this real?” you met him with a smile as you pulled away to begin pulling his shirt above his head and tossing it into the now empty club, your fingers trailing his chest as you carefully choose your answer.

“Only if you want it to be.”

O’ did he want to be. Carnal feelings that he did not know he had fell away as he lost himself in you, grasping the whole of you roughly and grinding deeply against you, the feel of your body on his own almost enough to sate the Beast he had become.

He nipped, sucked, and ate at your flesh like his last meal was upon him, drinking in your essence as he lost himself within the confines of you.

For Clint, time felt as if it was catching up to him, and he hastily undid his own pants and kicked them away while you shed your thong and kicked it aside, carefully bringing the both of you to the floor before hovering over him, cunt rubbing delicious friction along his already throbbing cock.

His head laid back at this feeling and he was keenly aware it had been some time since an act of this magnitude had happened, and he wondered if he had need for condoms only for him to be guided into your heat, a long and throaty moan leaving him as you sank down to the hilt.

You didn’t move, and Clint was grateful for this as he grasped your full hips and you bit back a moan as he twitched so magnificently inside your pulsing heat. You gave him a full minute to adjust before you began riding him slowly at first, a hand bearing against his chest for leverage as your hips cracked down into his own. He wouldn’t last long, both you and he knew, but this was not for you, but for him.

“Give it to me.” You began and Clint’s head snapped back up, and you held his gaze for a moment before leaning in to steal another kiss. This one was just as heated as the first and you both started to chase highs that were not so far off.

Something clicked for Clint and he realized that he was crying; crying for his family, this world, and mostly for himself. He cried hard enough to choke, and your hand came up to shush him, calming his nerves as you continued to grind against his pelvis with your own. His tears mixed with his sweat and eventually faded into the air as you took within yourself all of his sorrows and heartache he had to give, and you sighed in a sort of beautiful and sad way, your fluttering walls now calling his bloom to the surface.

He felt you and he answered, head now thrown back in pleasure as your hips met his meticulously and it was moments later that he spilled hot ribbons of his seed deep within you, your head buried into the crook of his neck as you milked him for his worth.

He held you like that for some time, hands bruising your hips, glitter now flecking his own flesh as he pressed you flat against himself. You pressed a kiss to his jugular as you finally sat up to look at him, letting him slip from your folds as he softened.

“Someday…” you began, and Clint began to see black at the edges of his eyes, almost as if he was going to pass out.

“When you’re ready, I’ll give your tears back to you.” was all you said, and before he could answer, you smiled down at him and clapped your hands together, vision now black.

–

Clint was startled awake by the sound of someone tapping the glass window of his car, and he looked up to see the barkeep impatiently telling him to roll it down. The familiarity of being in the driver’s seat was jarring for him, but he complied, wiping remnants of sleep from his eyes as he did so.

“Bar’s closed; go home, mate.” was all he said as he walked off to his own car, and Clint watched the whole way as he did, even letting his eyes trail after the vehicle as it drove off into the darkening distance.

He was convinced this was a dream as he started his car and began to drive, trying to recall what had happened with fervor. He was still convinced it was nothing but his own thoughts when he began the trek back to his home, dreading the trip and what it would bring.

Except dread no longer plagued him as it had, and for the first time in a long time…

Clint could b r e a t h e.

Nothing constricting, no short breaths, nothing greeted him like the anxiety he was used to.

Something caught his attention more as realizations hit him like a freight train, and he saw his reflection in his rear view mirror, head tilted as he studied the smudged black lipstick that had littered your full lips, now upon his neck like a tattoo; a mark, a thread, a road to you.

There was a definite something he was feeling…a inkling he couldn’t quite place; but felt more compelled to prove you were real in his haze, in that little snippet of the darkness within him, darkness you had taken with you… darkness you would keep until he was ready for you to give it back to him.

All he had to do was look for you.

And you, would be waiting for him.

—

Well you cured my January blues Yeah you made it all alright I got a feeling I might have lit the very fuse That you were trying not to light You were a stranger in my phone book I was acting like I knew ‘Cause I had nothing to lose When the winter’s in full swing and your dreams just aren’t coming true Ain’t it funny what you’ll do

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lilibug--xx · 6 years

Text

something good will come

This is a missing moments bughead fic for 2x06, Chapter Nineteen: Deathproof.

Read it on ao3 here! :)

Thanks to @strix for being my beta, much much love. And to @a92vm for reading over my stuff, like always, and providing me with so much feedback and encouragement.

Betty felt the world turning below her feet, but it was like she was moving in slow motion. The anxiety, the guilt, the anguish; it was weighing her down, grinding her into the dirt. Black Hood was catching up to her, and she needed to turn the tables. She was going to take back her power, her friends, and her sanity.

“We’re meant to lose the people we love. How else would we know how important they are to us?” — F. Scott Fitzgerald, “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button”

A sense of impending doom washed over her like a tidal wave.

It assaulted her with such fervor that she dropped the wrench from her hand with limp fingers. Betty heard the crack of it against the pavement, but it was lost on her. Her lungs were burning with the breath she couldn’t quite catch, and she grasped her hand around her throat. Green eyes were clouded with the steady stream of her anguish, her chest constricting and stuttering as the world started to quiet. Everything was muted, the only thing Betty could hear was the blood pulsing in her veins like the beat of a drum, volume steadily intensifying.

Betty slid down the brick wall of the building, the chill of the stone and air doing little to bring her to her senses. Her legs had carried her outside, away from the auto shop, away from Jughead.

The look on his face had broken her heart, splintering it into even more pieces.

Betty, you did the one thing that could actually hurt me...

His words were burned into her brain; the tense lock of his jaw, the dark bruises on his face, his split lip, and hunched shoulders. The bite of his words were stronger than she had anticipated. The shake of his head as he turned away from her, crossing his arms, had her lips parting to form words that wouldn’t come.

She wanted, needed, to get him through this race. Had to keep up this façade for the Black Hood a little longer. But Jughead was making it so very hard.

It would have been slightly easier if they didn’t have to see each other, but Betty was the only one who could help. Reggie had offered his car for the race against the Ghoulies, and sure, it was a gem on the outside, but it wasn’t sparkling under the hood. Archie had volunteered her services immediately after getting the okay from Reggie, blurting it out as they had all left the jingle jangle den the day before.

The grit of Jughead’s teeth was audible as he brushed past her, leaving them all behind. The clench of his fists as he rasped out for her to meet him at the Riverdale Auto shop tomorrow — today.

Betty had put on a brave face and had started out resilient. Her resolve started to break at Jughead’s tone, his words pushing her to a point she wasn’t going to be able to hold. He was right, he was vehemently right, and there was no denying it.

She had choked out an, I’m sorry, Jughead, before trying to tell him that she would explain eventually, but of course, he didn’t quite understand what she meant by that. Betty didn’t blame him — it was her fault, or rather, the Black Hood’s fault. She was just trying her best to keep everyone safe.

It was exactly like Archie had said; the Black Hood was torturing her. They were playing this game of check-and-mate and Betty wasn’t sure which piece she was playing anymore. She hadn’t slept, at least not without nightmares since Fred was shot, little more than two weeks ago. Everything kept her up at night, particularly naming Nick St. Clair to the Black Hood.

Once that phone call had ended, Betty had felt this tremendous guilt well up inside, threatening to spill out of her in an anguished howl. It had ebbed a miniscule amount when she recalled Cheryl’s situation,what Nick had done to her, and what he deserved because of it, but it was still there. It didn’t leave when she had ran to his hotel room to find him alive and well; and it certainly didn’t leave after talking to the Black Hood again.

She was nothing like that psycho, Betty knew that. Still, his words had haunted her. She was deeply unsettled, right down to her very core, when he had called her true colors beautiful.

It was eating her alive, twisting and thriving in her gut — all these feelings and no outlet. Betty had explained some things to Archie, but not everything, not every fine grain detail. She was lucky to have him; lucky that the Black Hood hadn’t made her step away from Archie first. He would be able to comfort Veronica, at least. Betty felt incredibly guilty over the way she had spoken to her.

She had only gone to Nick’s party for an opportunity to cut Veronica out in a public setting; one where her friend would be less likely to question her motives, and instead feel humiliated with their friends watching. The sadness reflected in those brown eyes when she told Betty to leave if she was such a monster, was overwhelming.

Broken and feeling like she was falling down a hole she would not be able to climb out of, she succumbed to the pressure and confessed everything to Veronica when the other girl pushed in the right direction, prodding Betty with decidedly a no-bullshit-permitted type of question. There was no way she was going to survive this if she didn’t have another force behind her. She felt a little better, at least, with Veronica knowing the truth of her torment.

Betty cried every night, and suffered from seemingly a permanent headache. Her hair hurt to wear up in a ponytail — it was suffocating and she swore she could feel someone tugging on the strands when no one was around.

Blindly, her hand reached up and yanked the elastic out of her hair roughly, the bun she had tied her hair into falling out and around her like a golden curtain. Tossing the tie to the ground, Betty brought her hands to her face, covering her eyes. Her fingernails digging into her forehead as she heaved a sob into her palms.

Betty could feel the grime on her hands mixing with the wet tracks on her face,feel the deep indentations on her palm from where she had been channeling her anguish, transferring it into physical pain.

“Betty?”

Her ears were ringing. The name like whispered caress through her muffled senses. It took her a while to realize it was her name, that someone had called.

Hands were pulling hers away from her face. Betty’s lips trembling, fingers shaking as she looked up to Jughead.

“ Betty…”

There was a soft echo in her ear, like he had been saying her name a little while, more than the twice she had caught it.

Through her blurry vision, his lips were turned down into an uneasy frown, eyes boring into her with a look of apprehension caught in their stormy mists.

Betty’s lungs were still burning, and she had realized now that she wasn’t even breathing her quick, shallow breaths anymore. Her lips parted in a rush and she sucked a gulp of air in, eyes going wide as she scrambled away and out from where Jughead had stooped down to her.

Shuffling on her knees away from him, Betty reached the edge of the sidewalk, leaning over it and staring into the loose gravel littering the road. She gripped fistfulls of the rocks, grinding them into her hands as she counted the little divots in the road, one by one.

By focusing on something else, Betty was able to better control her breathing as the dread eased back from its tight grip on her shoulders. She felt Jughead’s hand rest on her lower back gently, the bottom of his palm pressing against the skin of her back where her shirt had ridden up. The touch grounded her, the warmth of his skin a light in her blindness.

“Betty, breathe. Slowly, baby; in and out.”

His voice was raspy and despite everything, she could hear how distressed his tone was. She tried to do as he said; taking a breath and holding it longer, letting it out in a shaky exhale. She repeated it several times, all the while aware of the pad of Jughead’s thumb rubbing small circles into her back just above the waistband of her overalls.

Once the numbness went away from her limbs and her ears were processing normal sounds, did she realize she was leaning far into the road. He tugged her back and Betty released the rocks in her hands, sitting with a huff as her back collided with Jughead’s chest.

They were sitting on the sidewalk, Betty half in his lap with Jughead’s arms wrapped tightly around her middle. She had placed her hands on his thighs, gripping for purchase. Her head had fallen back onto Jughead’s firm shoulder, eyes sliding shut as she fought the sudden exhaustion she had been hit with.

The sound of his voice was soothing in her ear. Jughead was speaking softly, his lips hovering at her temple. The tips of his fingers pressing into her sides securely.

“On soft Spring nights I’ll stand in the yard under the stars — Something good will come out of all things yet —”

Betty recognized the words; he had said them to her before. She had a similar episode when Polly had gone missing from the Sisters of Quiet Mercy, only they hadn’t been together then. Jughead had spoken them to her when she was cuddled into him in the backseat of her mother’s car, on the long and uncomfortably quiet ride back.

Betty had been on verge of a panic attack, but he had grabbed her hand gently within his own and slung his other around her shoulders. Jughead whispered the words into her ear, his breath tickling the skin of her neck. It had stopped her, made her think, to focus on something else other than her fears and her worry.

“—And it will be golden and eternal just like that—”

Jughead sighed against her, she could feel the gentle swipe of his fingers on her skin, sneaking under the edges of her shirt.

“There’s no need to say another word.”

He repeated the quote from “Big Sur” by Jack Kerouac again, the softness of his voice soothing the ache in her heart.

With her breathing back to normal, Betty turned in Jughead’s lap, her head nuzzled into his neck; she needed the physical comfort his arms brought. Betty breathed him in; the scent of pine, old books, a hint of aftershave — combined with the new addition of leather, eased her into a calmer state. Her hands tightly gripped the sides of the shirt he had borrowed from the auto shop.

“Juggie…”

He squeezed her tighter, hauling her against him. “It’s okay, Betty. We don’t have to talk if you’re not ready. I’ll wait.”

Betty’s eyes fluttered closed, her lips pressing softly against the hollow under Jughead’s jaw. She heard his audible swallow, felt his fingers twitch against her before he was clearing his throat and tugging her to stand.

“Let’s go inside, I’ll get you a water and we can take a break from the car for a while.”

She nodded, pulling herself, reluctantly, away from the warmth of Jughead’s body. Betty held onto Jughead’s arm as they walked back into the shop. The rest the day was a little bit different, but a little bit better.

It was still awkward, there was still tension; but Betty could see a light at the end of the tunnel. She wasn’t shrouded in complete darkness, there was a redemption at the end of this painful arc.

Andwhen Betty lay down that night, the tears didn’t come. The nightmares continued — she was getting closer to the Black Hood every night. This latest one was a crowd of people wearing black hoods and taunting her with the mistakes of her past; dangling her friends in front of her, just out of reach.

But each day when she woke, she was a little bit stronger. No matter the assault that the Black Hood was forcing on her, she was going to grow.

Betty took a cold shower to bring her senses out of their sharpened state before Veronica came over. They had searched her all too pink bedroom for something worthy of the unusually warm day. They decided on a pair of highwaisted denim jeans and white ruffled crop top. Veronica curled her ponytail for her and suggested a red bandana.

"Very Rosie the Riveter, I like it,” she ran a finger along the edge of the bandanna, smile lighting her face.

Veronica had clasped her hands behind her and smiled at her, their eyes meeting in the mirror. “It’s a look, but you own it my little grease monkey.”

Betty shooed the raven-haired girl away, eyes rolling.

They rode with Reggie, Archie, and Kevin to the agreed meeting spot. Of course it wasn’t exactly as low-key as FP would have liked. Considering it looked like a street party gathered around a group of cars and motorcycles.

Jughead was there, leaning against Reggie’s car, arms crossed over his chest. As they pulled up beside the car, Betty was able to admire the stretch of the leather across his broad shoulders. She got out of the car slowly, trailing behind everyone.

Once their peace was said and Tall Boy had announced it was time to get this show on the road, Betty grabbed Jughead’s elbow.

“Wait,” she called, and thankfully he turned back to her. They were standing further apart than she would like, but there were people looking at them. Betty eyed the group of Southside Serpents staring at them as they crowded around their bikes. She couldn’t quite decipher the look on Toni’s face.

Looking back up to Jughead, she began the words she had rehearsed.

“Before you get in the car, I need you to know…” she looked down at the gravel, toeing it with the edge of her converse. The intensity of his blue eyes on her was startling in this heat. Betty looked back up, wiping her sweaty palms on the backs of her thighs.

“I never stopped loving you, Jug. I’m not sure I can…” her voice was starting to crack and she gave a little shake of her head.

Jughead’s gaze softened then, his lip twitching as his eyes darted over to Archie a ways away. He brought his gaze back to her, not quite so dark as it had been before. The frown lines around his mouth eased up and she could see him hunch his shoulders into his slouched posture that was so familiar rather than the rigid stance he had been holding himself in.

“Also, remember…” Betty trailed off, she wanted to tell him everything. About the Black Hood, about her, about Archie, Veronica, Cheryl and Nick, and the Sugarman. But this wasn’t the time nor the place.

She wanted to tell Jughead to kiss her, to take her away for real, like they imagined at Pop’s.

With a tilt of her head, eyes squinting slightly in the light of the sun, Betty changed direction.

“Don’t ride the clutch and don’t let it slip between gearshifts, okay?”

Jughead shook his head at her, eyebrows raising slightly, “You’re an enigma, Cooper.”

He shuffled, taking a step towards her. His arm reached out as if to grab her waist and his head started to dip towards her. Betty’s stomach started fluttering in time with the fast beat of her heart. But, Jughead must have realized he couldn’t kiss her because he pushed off to her right before anything else happened, barely clearing her shoulder as he walked away. Her eyes caught the clench of his jaw before he passed.

Betty let out the the breath she had been holding. She had wanted nothing more for him to grab her and kiss her breathless, senseless. With a shake of her head, she turned around and moved to Veronica’s side. She tucked one hand into the pocket of her jeans and rested the other against Reggie’s truck.

She watched the cars rev their engines and she hoped she had done enough to give the car more of an edge that it had before. Betty was chewing her lip as Cheryl raised the flag with a flourish. They had all been cheering, running after the cars as they sped off. Her heart was in her throat as she stuck two fingers in her mouth and let out a sharp whistle.

Betty shielded her eyes from the sun, standing with a hand on her hip as she watched Archie and Jughead, and the Ghoulies, disappear into the distance. Everyone had gone back to their spots, sipping on their cups of Trash Can punch that someone had brought in a big red cooler. She continued to stand there, in the middle of the road until she felt Veronica dragging her back towards their group of friends.

It didn’t last long, because Reggie’s car was coming back down the road — no Ghoulies in sight, but also entirely too soon. Something was wrong.

It turns out the police — Sheriff Keller — had been on the other side of the bridge. Archie had called the police prior to the race. Betty had winced, shaking her head. Of course, he hadn’t discussed that with anyone.

There was tension all around. Jughead and Tall Boy arguing, Sweet Pea getting in Archie’s face, Jughead and Archie standing chest to chest. The testosterone was a bit overwhelming.

They had to leave. Everyone was scattering and she saw Jughead heading for Reggie’s car. Betty turned to Archie with a look that she hoped he understood. Simultaneously saying this isn’t over, and why would you do that, Archie?, with her eyebrows as she pulled the passenger door open on impulse and got into the car with Jughead.

He glanced at her, but had opted against saying anything. Just peeled down the road and, yep, the car has some kick now, she thought as she pressed her back into the seat.

Jughead’s hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, ever so proper at ten and two. Green eyes traced the tight line of his arms up to his face. “Slow down, Jug.”

He relaxed at her voice, the tightness in his shoulders lifting as his lips parted in a quiet sigh.

“Let’s go home,” Betty offered softly, her hand reaching out and gently resting on his elbow. It was time for them to talk.

When they got to the trailer, they had settled in on Jughead’s couch and Betty took a deep breath. She welled up all the courage she had been saving during the car ride, her shoulders set strongly as she spun her tangled web of encounters with the Black Hood.

“...So, then the Black Hood told me to figure out who the Sugarman was. That if I could, he would stop, whatever this is, that he’s doing.”

Betty reached a hand up to wipe the tears that had started to fall from her eyes when Jughead’s hand grabbed her wrist.

She looked up to him, his eyes holding that soft look that made her insides melt. That look of vulnerability that always crossed his features when they talked about really serious things. Betty looked away, down to their hands.

Jughead had let her tell the whole story, her motivations and actions, her dealings with the Black Hood without interruption. He held her hand the whole time, thumb brushing her palm, over the scabs there.

Betty had started her story by turning her hands over for him. Jughead had kissed each one of her fingers and both her palms. Curling his hands around hers protectively, drawing her closer to where they were facing each other on the couch. She felt the tickle of Hotdog’s shaggy hair on her back where he was curled up behind her.

Jughead brought a hand up to cup her cheek, his fingers swiping at the wetness. Betty leaned her cheek into his palm, the comfort and warmth radiating all down her spine.

“I love you, Betty,” his voice flooded her ears, all soft and gentle, a tone reserved only for her. She opened her eyes, not realizing she had closed them. Jughead’s eyes had that look of vulnerability so reminiscent of the precious times they had proclaimed their love for one another. Her heart felt like it was bursting from her ribcage.

“I love you too, Jughead, I told you, I don’t think I—”

His lips were crashing into hers, the words she had been trying to say swallowed between them in the sizzle of heat. Betty’s eyes fluttered closed, as she leant forward, pressing her lips more firmly to his. Jughead dropped his hand from her face to slid around her waist, tugging her forward and into his lap.

They shifted together, Betty straddling Jughead as he stretched his legs out in the space she had made. She leaned him back against the armrest, pushing their chests together.

The steady beat of their hearts were in sync, and the warmth from their closeness was so uplifting; Betty felt the weight of the whole Black Hood situation leave her and she felt breathless. She wasn’t sure if it was their kisses that had grown so heated or her racing thoughts and fluttering heart that was making her so dizzy.

She did know that Jughead’s hands were sliding from her waist down and over the curve of her bottom, pulling her toward him with unrestrained fervor as he grazed her lower lip with with his teeth. Betty moaned quietly against his lips, Jughead’s hands squeezed her in response.

They lay on the couch, just kissing for what seemed like forever. Eventually they had settled down, with Betty laying on the edge of the couch, Jughead’s arm curled around her as they napped.

She had woken to the sound of her phone buzzing. It was laying on the floor, Hotdog snoring softly beside it. Betty wiped the sleep from her eyes with one hand and reached for the phone with the other. It had only been a couple hours since the race, but she felt the most well rested she had in awhile.

Phone in hand she settled back against Jughead’s chest. Glancing back at him she marveled at his relaxed state when he was asleep. No frown, no tension in his eyebrows, his eyebags looked better. Her heart was swimming with a wash of delight at seeing him like this.

Betty smiled as she looked to her phone. There was a couple messages, but notably one from Veronica asking to meet her at Pop’s.

Chewing on her lip, she turned a little in Jughead’s hold. She nudged him with her nose, nuzzling his neck.

“Juggie, I’m going to meet V for a quick milkshake and then I’m going home alright?”

He mumbled sleepily and she nudged him in the belly with her elbow. Jughead cracked an eye open at that, lips twitching.

“Yeah, heard you. Milkshake, home. Just call me okay?” his sleepy and slightly confused voice was almost her favorite.

Betty smiled at him, pecking his nose and lips several times with short kisses. “Yes, of course. I love you.”

“I love you too, Betty.”

And so she wiggled out of his embrace and dropped a blanket overtop of him as he stretched out in the space made available. Hotdog gave a yawn, blinking at her. Betty patted his head, running her fingers through his shaggy hair down his back.

“Don’t forget to make him feed you.”

“Hey, I heard that…” Jughead mumbled sleepily, swatting at her thigh.

Betty smiled, hand grabbing his and tucking it back to his chest.

“Bye, Juggie."

Later that night, her phone started to ring, as expected. Betty couldn’t help the smirk threatening to take over her face. The ring tone she had assigned to the unknown number making making the hairs on the back of her neck stand up in response.

Their conversation went about how it normally did and then he asked for the name of the Sugarman. Betty’s hand clenched into a fist at her side. She held her resolve, kept her voice steady as she spoke about turning the name over to the police for real justice instead of facing the Black Hood’s execution.

“You’re playing a risky game.”

Betty shook her head, despite the fact he couldn’t see it. She walked to her window, looking out through the blinds to the empty street.

“Yeah, but it’s my game now,” her eyes scanned the dark points that the streetlights weren’t touching. Wondering if he was watching her. Her fingers twitched against the blinds.

“Which is what, Betty?” she could hear the indignation in his voice.

“A game that ends with me catching you.” Betty was confident, especially with her friends at her side. He wasn’t going to tear them or her, apart again.

“I found out who killed Jason Blossom. I found out who the Sugarman was,” Betty paused, letting her words sink in.

“You’re next, Black Hood. I’m breathing down your neck,” The inflection in her voice was unperturbed, chilling. She felt powerful; in charge of the situation.

“Can you feel it? ...Can you feel me?”

The phone clicked off and Betty let the smirk bloom on her lips.

Game on.

“Life’s challenges are not supposed to paralyse you, they’re supposed to help you discover who you are.” — Bernice Johnson Reagon.

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