On a Friday afternoon, Betty decides it's about time she get out and explore her new town. For three weeks she's been tied up in nothing but boxes and an unhealthy amount of pining over the neighbor boy. After whatever the hell it was that had occurred last Saturday, she's not so sure her pining is one sided anymore.

"You lost princess?"

Snapping out of her thoughts to the low, possibly angry voice behind her, Betty stops dead in her tracks. Turning around slowly, she's met with the scowls of three young men of varying heights, all looking far too cool in their leather jackets in this god awful heat.

"I asked you a question," the taller reiterates, taking a step in her direction.

"I, uh-" she swallows hard.

"Looks like we got ourselves a new play thing boys," the taller calls back to his buddies with a smirk, his eyes never leaving hers. "What's your name Blondie?"

"Hey," an angered voice yells from somewhere further off.

"Fucking Jones," the taller grumbles, spitting on the pavement before holding his hands up in show that he's done nothing to the girl.

"The fuck are you guys-" his sentence falls away as he strides up closer his eyes falling on Betty with surprise. "Alright, shows over," he grits, waiving off the three guys in annoyance.

Betty watches, confused as all three of them walk away, the taller shooting a glare back over his shoulder at the boy beside her.

"You shouldn't be here," he grits, a concerned scowl settling over his brow.

"Shouldn't be where," she questions, taking a look around, "on the sidewalk?"

"No smartass, on the Southside," he corrects, fighting off a smirk.

"The Southside," she scoffs, "what is this, West Side Story?"

"Hardly," he says unamusedly. "Let me take you home." He leaves no room for argument, grabbing her, surprisingly gently, by the arm and pulling her along to his motorcycle. She's seen him ride it a few times, but when she'd imagined getting on it with him, it was nothing like this.

Betty stands silently at his side, taking in the aged Whyte Wyrm sign hanging over the building a few yards away. In another surprising gesture, she is weighed down by the sturdy leather jacket he had been wearing and handed his only helmet. Glancing down at the helmet, she realizes that this may be her one and only chance to speak to the boy she's been writing pages about in her journal.

"What's your name," she asks quietly as she lifts her gaze back up to meet his questioning brow.

"People call me Jughead," he shrugs, "yours?"

"Betty," she offers, "well, Elizabeth, but I'm not a fan."

"Well, Betty," he grins, "let's get you home before Pea comes back out to try again."

With a curt nod, she pulls on the helmet and sticks her arms in the sleeves of his jacket. He helps her get settled on the bike, guiding her hands to rest dangerously low on his abdomen. He may or may not be taking advantage of the fact that she's obviously never ridden a bike before, but if it means he finally gets to feel her hands on him, he'll gladly deal with the bad karma later.

It's only a short ride from the Wyrm to their street, and Jughead is almost grateful for it. Almost. A bigger part of him wants the curl of her fingertips back at the waist of his jeans and the ache in his groin longs for her hands to touch his skin.

"Next time you want to go for a long ass walk, go that way," he says with a smirk as he points in the opposite direction from where they came.

"Only if you tell me why," Betty challenges as she hands him back his jacket.

"How much time do you have," he laughs, expecting that she surely has something better to do than sit down and discuss the shitty side of town.

"I'm free now," she shrugs, her lips turning up into a coy grin.

"Uh-" he scratches at the back of his neck, his brow knitting together as he contemplates his next move.

He should absolutely, without a doubt, tell her he has to be somewhere. Just the thought of being alone with her has him sporting a half chub in his jeans and there's no telling how long he can handle himself. He has a girlfriend for christ sake.

"Yea, alright," he shrugs coolly, "my place or yours?"

As Jughead closes his front door behind them, locking it in case Tina decides to drop by early, he is shoved swiftly against the door. Before he can even grasp what's happening, Betty has her tight little body pressed firmly against his, her fist curled into the neck of his t-shirt.

"Does your girlfriend know you think of me when you fuck her," she breathes against his ear.

Jughead swallows hard, wide eyed as she leans back to catch his gaze.

"And this," she slips her hand between their bodies to cup the prominent bulge in his jeans. "Does she know you get hard for me when she's not around?"

"Fucking hell," he groans, his hips shifting forward to gain more pressure against the resistance of her hand.

"Tell me," she starts, "what were you trying to pull last weekend?"

Jughead lets a pitiful whine as she steps back, removing all stimulation from his straining arousal to cross her arms over her chest.

"I, I don't know," he shakes his head, trying to gain his composure with the accusatory look on her face. "Are you pissed about it?"

"Hardly," she offers, reusing his unimpressed response from their earlier conversation.

"Then, what," he questions, feeling scolded under her gaze.

With a careful eye, he watches as she again closes the distance between them. Her eyes scan his face as she leans closer, and rising on her toes she presses a feather light kiss to his lips. He draws back initially, staring down at her with obvious confliction straining his features before diving in with force. He pulls her hard against him, threading his fingers into her hair as their tongues wrestle for dominance. As he pulls back for air, she drops to her knees, shoving his shirt upward to press kisses to the dark trail of hair beneath his navel.

"Fuck," he scolds himself as she tugs open his jeans, "I'm so fucked."

"Should I stop," she challenges, pausing to look up at him from beneath his tented boxers.

"Don't you fucking dare," he grits, shoving his boxers down and pushing her head towards his waiting erection. His swollen tip nudges against her tightly sealed lips, and the smirk playing in her eyes ignites something primal within him.

With a rough hand, he grips her face, his fingers pressing into the hollows of her cheeks and forcing her lips apart. In his other hand, he grips his cock firmly, rubbing his near purple tip against her shiny pursed lips.

"Suck it," he demands, pleading with his eyes.

Without another moment of hesitation, she takes him between her lips, his hand releasing her jaw to fist her long blonde locks.

"Fuck, just like that," he moans, his hips thrusting to meet her every push and pull. Her tongue does wild things along his shaft, bringing a weakness to his knees that has him gripping the door behind him.

"Sh- shit," he chokes out, a deep groan following directly behind as she pushes his length past the resistance of her throat. It takes everything he has not to blow his load in her throat. He's almost relieved when she allows him to slip from her lips, only to be swallowed again. The warning he'd meant to give her dies on his tongue, being overthrown by a guttural moan as he pours himself down her throat, his hand holding her firmly in place by the back of her head. As his abdomen quivers, the heat of his climax cooling to a dull flame, he releases her head, dropping his back against the door.

"Fuck," he breathes, a light chuckle to his undertone.

"Good," Betty questions, smirking as she comes up to stand.

Jughead eyes her lazily, a smirk of his own lifting the corner of his mouth. "I don't even want to know how you learned to do that," he chuckles.

"I'm just going to assume your girlfriend isn't any good at giving head," she declares proudly.

"Couldn't tell you," he shrugs as he does up his pants. "She won't even do it."

"You can't be serious," Betty argues, shooting him a doubtful glare.

"Sad but true," he nods. "Speaking of, you need to go."

"Excuse you," she spits in offence. "I just sucked your dick and you're kicking me out?"

"Yes, you did" he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Look. Tina, my girlfriend, who I have been dating for two years, is going to be here within the next ten minutes and if she finds you here I am entirely fucked."

"So that's it," she huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. "I gave in to whatever little game you were playing at last weekend, you got what you wanted and now we pretend it never happened?"

"No, I-"

"Save it," she cuts him off, "you know where to find me when you figure your shit out."

With that, she shoves past him and storms out the door without so much as a glance back in his direction.

Later that night, Jughead still can't stop thinking about Betty. Even with Tina tucked snugly into his side as she watches her favorite reality show, he can't even begin to care that she's there at all. In all honesty, things have never really been ideal between them. She comes from a wealthy family, and has a taste for the finer things in life, but for whatever reason she's chosen to slum it with the boy from the wrong side of the tracks. Sure, he lives in a nice two story house on Elm Street now. Up until two years ago, when his dad inherited a large sum of money from a great aunt he hadn't even known, they'd lived in a trailer park on the Southside of Riverdale. He should have put it together when Tina was suddenly interested in him after years of scoffing in his direction. At the time he was just grateful to be seen by a girl at all. Hell, she doesn't even know he's a Serpent. She still thinks the snake on his arm is some sort of matching father and son tattoo.

Upstairs, Jughead lies awake in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling as Tina traces patterns on his abdomen. Mentally, he cringes as her hand slips beneath his waistband, her fingers coaxing his flaccid member to participate.

"J," she questions, "is something wrong?"

He shakes his head, "I'm fine."

Ignoring her questioning glances, he closes his eyes, squeezing them tighter with each of her failed attempts to get him going

"Can we just go to sleep," he huffs, rolling onto his side to face away from her.

"Did I do something," she asks, sounding hurt enough to urge him to roll back over.

"No baby," he assures her with a kiss to her forehead. "I'm just tired. Come here." With a strong arm, he pulls her backside flush against his front and presses a kiss into her hair. His actions convey comfort, not wanting her to feel badly for his own issues, but his mind is entirely occupied by the angry blonde next door.