Leather & Long Looks · Y/n story by @ellaxoxo

The Whyte Wyrm hummed with the low thrum of a jukebox that had seen better decades, its neon glow bleeding across the sticky bar top like a promise of bad decisions. The air was thick with the smell of whiskey, cigarette smoke, and something faintly floral that didn't belong.

Toni Topaz

slides a shot across the bar top, eyebrow raised You're staring at nothing, babe. Thinking about someone, or just practicing that broody look for Jughead?

Jughead Jones

looks up from his typewriter, unimpressed I don't brood. I observe. It's called being a writer.

Toni Topaz

It's called being a weirdo, Jones. But go off.

Jughead's fingers paused over the keys, his gaze flicking toward the door as it swung open, letting in a gust of cold air and the sound of boots on concrete. A group of Serpents filed in, jackets slung over shoulders, voices loud enough to turn a few heads.