Chapter One: If Eric and Ariel Were Drunk Teenage One Night Stands

It happens when neither one of them expects it too. Or ever too. She's sat on a barstool in the White Wyrm, the only place that wouldn't dare to refuse her after the Blossom's extensive alcohol collection burned with half of the Thornhill Mansion, nursing as glass of whiskey, her long red hair falling into the glass, floating in the amber liquid, drifting anytime she even twitches.

He's sat across the room, his own whiskey in hand, he'd say it has a lot to do with his breakup with Betty, but honestly after all the shit that's gone down in the past couple of months, getting drunk is on the top of his priority list no matter the breakup. His new Serpents jacket is draped across his shoulders and the leather creaks gently every time he raises his glass to his lips, eyes trained on the red-head at the bar, because not that Jughead would ever admit it he's worried about Cheryl Blossom, sat in a dingy bar, drinking whiskey straight, after trying to commit suicide so she could be with her dead twin brother, who died in said bars basement. Yeah, maybe he should admit that he is a little worried.

He contemplates going up to her, but remembers the last time he had tried to willingly have a conversation with Cheryl Blossom. He bites his lip, directly were her nails had split it open when she had slapped him, and finds the pain from that particular slap lingers slightly despite that it happened almost two weeks ago and his lip has long since healed.

She knows he's watching her of course, even when slightly drunk she has senses like a fox, or and eagle, but she finds the fox more appropriate, after all the share the same signature shade. From the corner of her eye she can see the worry that glitters in his own, and muses if it were anyone else it would be considered sweet, but she isn't sweet, and she's pretty sure he's as sour as the cherries she herself eats religiously.

She purses her lips at that, she remembers Jughead Jones The Third being sweet with the one and only Elisabeth Cooper, but then again, they had broken up and Cheryl finds herself fairly certain that the boy perched across the room, watching her like a snake ready to strike, is just as bitter as she is at the moment. She stands before she can change her mind and saunters up to the table that the raven haired boy is sat at, feet up and crossed on the grimy wood that wobbles on uneven legs any time he dares to move.

His eyes follow her movements which she would find disconcerting if she hadn't got used to the way they had lingered on her all night, before coming to a stop when she does. They glance quickly up and down her red leather mini skirt and long-sleeved black crop top ensemble before meeting her own and she's momentarily stunned by his glassy blue-green orbs before she regains control and quickly blames her laps in normality on the whiskey.

Cheryl grins, teeth bared as she sits, as gracefully as one can when slightly impaired by alcohol, in the stained plush chair opposite him. She watches as he raises his glass to his lips, knocking back the remaining liquid before he simultaneously licks the lingering drops of liquid off of his plump bottom lip, and runs the long, slender fingers of his right hand through his dark, hatless locks. The part of her the knows to admit when someone is aesthetically pleasing sounds the alarm before she too raises her glass and knocks down the amber liquid. She ignores the burning as it slides down her throat, instead focusing on the bob of Jughead's adam's apple as he swallows when her own tongue darts out to wet her blood red lips before speaking.

"You've been watching me," she says in what's meant to be a teasing tone but ends up sounding raw and husky. He grins slightly, and even if its only a little, its still the darkest thing she's seen cross he face, even when her hands were pounding against his chest his face was impassive, if slightly saddened and resigned. She supposes she finds the look that flashes on his face attractive because before he minds even processed it and low, short groan rumbles from her throat.

His eyes widen slightly, but its his only indication of surprise, before his replies, grin still fixed on his lips, "I suppose I was worried about the girl alone in the bar where her brother was murdered," he rasps, his own voice husky from the whiskey he's consumed. She thinks for a moment that the comment was meant to be biting and cruel, but it lacks the usual edge his comments usually do and the relaxed look on his face seems more tired than at home than it did now that she's close enough to smell the surprisingly pleasant mix of mint and whiskey on his breath.

The comment still brings tears to her eyes, but this time they don't fall. She doesn't respond with her own bighting remark either because if she being completely honest, and for once she is, he looks just as broken as she is up close, so instead she lets out a muttered,

"Well no one can kick out the under aged girl from the bar her brother died in, after all she could just be mourning, not drinking by herself until she passes out."

He tenses slightly, jacket tightening over the muscle as her does. His fingers twitch slightly where the rest on his thigh, like he wants to reach out and comfort her, but his pride won't let him, she scoffs before grabbing the hand and pushing her own palm flat against his, her small fingers curving around his significantly larger hand. He tenses even more against the touch before she squeezes against the cold skin of his palm and his grips slackens, fingers curling to cradle her hand against his.

Cheryl admits now that they're at an awkward angle, both leaning forward over the small table between them, her right hand clasped in his left, swinging lightly between their bodies, hovering slightly above the table. She raises her eyes from their moulded hands and realizes that their eyes are level. It takes her all of five minutes, looking into the strange glassy colour of his eyes and glancing so often at the plump bottom lip that he keeps biting slightly, before she decides she wants to kiss him.

Jughead freezes against her when she surges forward and presses her lips to his, time seems to stand still in the moments before his eyes close like her own and his mouth starts moving against hers, his right hand moving to tangle in her fiery locks as her left reaches up to grips at the leather of his left arm, blood red nails leaving tiny half moon indents in the black material as her hand curves around his bicep.

The groan that rips from his mouth as she nibbles on his bottom lip, in the exact place he had been doing the incessant biting, resonates through her whole body, she tightens her grips on his arm mouth opening for his probing tongue, moaning a little herself as it slides against her own before the need to breath burns her lungs and the catcalls and whistles from the rest of the bar make there way to her ears.

She pulls back, a string of saliva dropping from both of their raised, red lips as they move their heads further apart. Cheryl takes in shallow breaths, chest heaving slightly as her eyes slowly open and she makes eye contact with the boy in front of her. The shocked look passes on his face seems to be the same that she wears from what she can see of her own reflection in his eyes.

The Jones boy grins again, this smile less dark than the last one, more lusty before his head nods subtly towards the door, hand tightening around her own, still gripped together between them when she nods slightly as well, before he stands and drags her after him from the building.