It was summer in Riverdale, and it was hot.

Local news anchors declared it to be one of the hottest summers on record. The black-top steamed from the temperature, and the town's citizens couldn't bear to be out of the house for more than an hour. The children, usually bursting with excitement to play outside for the break, instead laid in their bedrooms covered in cold, wet towels, lazily clicking through the TV.

The one oasis in the desert that Riverdale had become was none other than Pop's Chock'Lit Shoppe. It was even too hot for the thick, sweet milkshakes, and in a genius business move, Pop Tate had invested in a state of the art soft serve machine. When citizens could make it out of their air-conditioned homes, they often went straight to the man himself for a swirled cone in a cake cup.

As always, Jughead Jones was one to deviate from the status quo. Crammed in the attic with Archie Andrews did not do well for ventilation or temperature, and the heat was making his best friend friskier than Jughead would have liked. Jughead stayed as far away from their room as possible, knowing Archie was using it as a love nest for Betty, or Veronica, or even both of them.

The boy had decided to seek solace in the open windows and breeze of his usual booth at Pop's. Always Jughead's partner-in-crime (or partner-in-fighting-crime, as it was), it was natural you tag along.

The door jingled as the two of you entered the diner. Upon seeing the large chrome box that was the soft serve machine, your eyes lit up.

"Pop, you didn't," you gushed, leaning over the counter to get a better look at the cook, who was swirling ice cream cones with an expert hand.

"I sure did, miss," Pop said with a genial smile.

You turned to Jughead. "I love ice cream," you said with an enthusiastic smile. You'd only moved to Riverdale this past school year, and it had never been hot enough for your favorite craving to come about.

Jughead dug around in the pocket of his jeans, pulling out some crumpled bills. "An ice cream for the lady, Pop." He counted out the correct amount.

"You don't have to, Jug," you said with a laugh. "I wasn't trying to get you to buy me one."

"I know," Jughead said, grinning lopsidedly. "Consider it payment for spending this hot day with me."

Upon choosing your flavor of choice, Pop Tate prepared for you an impeccably perfect vanilla ice cream cone. The swirl was perfectly symmetrical, its spire curling in on itself like the ones in the cartoons. He topped it off with colorful sprinkles. Your stared at it in awe.

You looked up at your friend. "You don't want one?" You said incredulously.

"Ice cream isn't really my thing," he replied with a shrug.

You grinned, hugging his side. "Well thank you!"

He chuckled at your childlike bliss, walking with you to his usual booth. He took out his laptop, finishing up some of his writings from the school year.

Just has he began to write, he realized that your love for ice cream was nothing close to childlike.

Staring out the window, you licked at the cone with a voracity he'd never seen in you before, your tongue lapping at the ice cream with dexterity and speed. You alternated between licking at the ice cream and bringing the tip of the swirl into your mouth, twisting it around before bringing it back out again.

Erotic was frankly, an understatement.

The strangest thing was that your actions were completely unconscious of their own innuendo. You'd brought out your laptop as well, typing with one hand while maneuvering the cone with the other.

You let out a noise of enjoyment. "This ice cream is amazing, Jughead, thanks again."

Jughead grunted, trying and failing to focus his eyes on the words in front of him. The visuals of your enjoyment of the ice cream were distracting enough, but the sound you made could only be akin to a moan. Jughead began to wonder what you sounded like when enjoying other things.

He returned to his writing, only to find himself staring at you again. Watching you lick the ice cream was mesmerizing. He never knew dessert could be so sexual.

You caught his eye, noticing his slack jaw demeanor and red face. "Is everything okay, Jughead?"

He shook himself out of his daze. "Yeah, yeah." He lowered his head, embarrassed that he was caught in his reverie.

You smirked. "I know what you're thinking."

Jughead swallowed. Caught.

You chuckled. "You're jealous of my ice cream and want one too, right?"

He forced a laugh in response. Jealous, yes, but not in that way.

"And I thought ice cream wasn't your thing," you said, chastising his apparent dishonesty.

You'd finished off the ice cream portion of the cone, much to Jughead's dismay. You held the cake cone between your teeth, reaching into your pocket.

"Hold on," you said, voice muffled. You stood up, wandering to the counter.

As you spoke to Pop, Jughead's eyes followed you, wandering down to your shapely ass, partially exposed by your jean shorts.

Does the summer make everyone horny? He wondered, thinking back to Archie.

You turned around quickly and he lowered his gaze, as not to be caught again. You slid into the seat across from him, holding out a second vanilla ice cream cone with a grin. "Surprise!"

Jughead smiled at your sweet gesture, taking the cone from you. "Thanks, (Y/N). You didn't have to."

You rolled your eyes. "You were practically eating mine with your eyes, anyways."

I was actually imagining eating something else, Jughead thought, reluctantly tasting the vanilla ice cream.

There was a reason ice cream wasn't Jughead's thing: He sucked at eating it. It was a known fact since he was five. Unlike you, his movements were slow and un-calculated, and the ice cream quickly began dripping down his hand. He shut his laptop and slid it to the edge of the table to avoid contaminating it.

"What a rookie," you teased.

"We're not all ice cream eating experts like you," he grumbled back. He reached for a napkin when you stopped his hands.

Slowly, you reached across the table, grabbing the hand that was holding the ice cream cone. You guided it towards you, plucking the cone from his grasp.

What you did next, surprised him.

Taking his stickied hand in yours, you brought his fingers to your mouth, licking the ice cream off like you had the cone.

"What are you doing!?" Jughead whispered, looking back to see if Pop had seen the adult gesture. Fixing another cone, the cook was oblivious to the goings-on in the booth.

"Napkins waste trees, Jughead," you scolded. You took his index and middle finger into your mouth completely, sucking on them gently. The sensation made him melt much like the ice cream had. "This is much more eco-friendly."

Jughead bit his lip, fighting the feeling in his jeans and urge to flutter his eyes closed. "What are you doing?" He repeated, a pained tone in his voice.

You released his hand with a shrug. "I love ice cream." The phrase carried a much more sinister tone than before.

Wiping your hands with a wad of napkins (What happened to eco-friendly!? He thought) you stood, slinging your bag over your shoulder. You returned his cone to him, half-melted.

"I love ice cream so much, in fact," you started. "That I have more ice cream and cones at my house. I'm going to go home and eat another ice cream cone, in private."

You turned on your heel, Jughead watching you go like a dog without a bone.

You raised an eyebrow at his wanton look. "You're free to join me, Jughead."

Quickly packing up his things, Jughead followed after you.

Maybe ice cream was his thing, after all.