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"Come on, Juggie," Betty uses the puppy eyes.
Jughead both hates and loves the puppy yes.
Puppy eyes gets her what she wants. Jughead is secretly convinced that she uses actual magic to pull it off, because, dammit, he's Jughead Jones the Third, and he will be damned before he falls prey to a look from a girl.
But unfortunately, Betty is a goddess.
"Please?" Her lips, soft and pink and sweet as candy floss (trust him, he's tried), quiver whilst she speaks.
And of course, he's powerless to give in, relenting with a small smile.
She beams, dragging him to the nearest photo booth.
Twenty minutes and two strips of romantic photos later, they're out and he wants to win her a giant stuffed panda, because girls apparently like that kind of thing.
Not that he's really into girls. He's never been properly in love before Betty, never felt the entire all-consuming need to protect he like he does with her (he hypothesises that he's never had this much to lose, never had the threat of actual death looming over his loved ones like he does right now). But maybe, just maybe, it's just Betty. And he wants to win her that giant stuffed panda.
Knowing that perhaps brute physical strength is not his forte, he heads over to the ball-throwing stall.
Of course it takes him absolutely ages and a ridiculous number of tries, but its worth it to see the smile on Betty's face as he hands over 'Winston Smith the Seventy-Fourth', as she affectionately dubs him. It was almost too bright and heavenly to look at, a sight not intended for his mortal eyes.
All too soon, however, the evening draws to a close, and the quick kisses take a desperate undertone as they will the night to stay a little longer, to keep the magic alive and as prevalent before the dawn breaks and they return to the relative normalcy of their everyday lives.
He walks her home in the dark, holding onto Winston for her, her arm linked in the crook of his, two interlocked shadows becoming one under the far-reaching, harsh glow of the street lamps.
They head up the path, up past the tree, and then he kisses her goodnight on the porch.
It's passionate and fiery, an expression of the things he can't say, and by Jove, if Jughead Jones were as eloquent speaking as he was with his words, he could've been the king of the universe. It takes both of their breath away, its raw and real, and they kiss like this is the last chance they will ever get, the last drop, the last sip, the last crumb of the last meal that they will ever get.
They both finally understand how love conquers and consumes and this, oh this, is a feeling they both never ever want to let go.
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also i do requests!