Felicity Jones for ClĂŠ de Peau BeautĂŠ (2017)
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Felicity Jones for ClĂŠ de Peau BeautĂŠ (2017)

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Number 44 with Jughead and reader!
âFOOTBALL GAME? IS that the one where they hit the big, orange ball with the bat?â Your boyfriend is a mass of sharp angles and jutting bones atop your floral-patterned bedding. From the outsiderâs vantage, one would say he emanates an air of discomfortâbeanie still crowning his head, ragged leather jacket blanketing his shoulders, even his feet remain tucked inside his worn bootsâbut, to your knowledge, this is his highest state of relaxation. Iron rods have materialized from a decade and a half of misery, guarding his gelid heart, and shielding him from curious outsiders. He says thereâs something special about you; you think thatâs how you managed to slip through the gates.
âYouâre funny.â
âYouâre cute.â The reflection of a boy in your vanity mirror winks. Involuntarily do your lips ascend into a pillowy crescent. âBut seriously, itâs not my scene.â And then aforementioned lips descend.
Steely optics seek out his tangible form, goading you into pivoting on the balls of your feet. âWhat does that mean?â
His brows graze his hairline in a terse, first meeting. âItâs not my scene? Itâs not my thing? I donât do school events?â The questionable lilt that punctuates every last statement plucks on your frangible nerves. Of course Jughead doesnât like school events, one glimpse of him is all the confirmation necessary, but he does like you, and you like school eventsâa message you attempt to convey with your facial ticks.
He isnât comprehending.
âO-kay? And I donât do Nancy Drew and The Hardy Boys, but do I not sit with you at Popâs every night, going through evidence I donât give a damn about to help you write your novel?â Baby pink nails cut into a curling palm, andâ
âOh, heâs getting it now.
Jughead tucks pallid digits underneath his cap, massaging the skin usually hidden underneath. âThatâs different, Y/N.â
âHow so?â you persist.
âUh, I dunno, âcause my shit actually has a purpose?â
Itâs not raining, but the cold seeps into your uniform and laces through your bones.
âAs opposed to cheerleading, right? Thatâs what youâre trying to say? The River Vixensâ only purpose is to raise tents in pants?â
âWell, I wouldnât call that a purpose since itâs a considerably easy feat,â he murmurs through clenched teeth and stiffened jaw. Your spine straightensâan aftershock of, well, shock. Youâd find it comedic how his gaze enlarges, his sardonic bite and exactly who was being subjected to it dawning on his cognition, if anger wasnât coiling around the mass of your stomach. Jughead displays both palms in a bid of surrender. âThat came out wrong.â
âThereâs a right way for something like that to come out?â
âY/N.â
Now, you lift a hand. Your boyfriendâs focal point snags on the half-moon indents that desecrate your palm. âNo. No.â The wear and tear of six months spent with a boy who isnât as immersed in your interests as you his finally laps over you. He canât attend one game, not one for you. âIâm good at cheer. Iâm really good.â
The raven-locked boy lopes long legs over the edge of the bed, sitting from his previous lackadaisical position. âI know that.â
âHow could you? From mandatory pep rallies? You bring your laptop to those, Jughead.â
He doesnât disregard this fact, opting to offer a soft âI stop typing when you perform.â He thinks itâs a compromise; you think itâs a cop out.
You swing (literally, swing) into action and your bedroomâs threshold is the end-goal. Jughead tosses himself off the mattress, thrusting himself in front of your mobile form and nearly skittering into the doorframe. Dexterous digits curl around your shoulders, though you think the gestureâs done more for his balance than to immobilize you.
âIâm shit with words,â he begins.
âNo, youâre great with words.â Thin lips quirk, and you wish he wasnât so damn cute. âYouâre just a shit boyfriend.â You utilize the loosening of his grip to your advantage, shrugging his hands and his touch and him away from you. âLook, I donât wanna look like a fool anymore than you do. So hereâs your chance, Jug, tell me. Tell me youâre not interested in me anymore. Tell me the reason why Iâm giving you my all and youâre giving me half is because youâre sick of me. Tell me, Jughead. Be honest with yourself, be honest with me!â
A beat of silence.
And then two.
âNot interested in you anymore?â he half-echoes, half-sputters. Incredulity paints his sharp features. From knitted brows above cerulean irises down to slightly agape pink pout, Jugheadâs disbelief is like a grass stain on white shorts. Unbelievably stubborn and not going anywhere. âY/N, I am so interested in you itâs sickening. Literally. You make my stomach hurt.â (You hate that a chuckle rumbles from your chest. Jughead grins.) âHonestly, I thought you were into the whole Jason Blossom mystery thing. You love Criminal Minds.â
âItâs not scary when itâs on TV.â
He visibly softens at this, back winding into its comfortable slouch. âNo, itâs not. And Iâm sorry I never asked you how you felt.â
âSo youâre not sick of me?â
Your gaze follows the swing of his head. âI am the farthest thing from sick of you. You make me sickâ âJughead catches your hand before it could make playful contact with his shoulder ââbut Iâm not sick of you, no.â He swipes his thumb across the skin pulled taunt against your knuckles. âIf anything, Iâm a little in love with you.â
This confession, subtle but heavy, sinks its claws into your disposition, altering your expression sans consent. You arenât aware youâre wearing your perturbation as well as you are your uniform until Jughead says:
âGee, baby, I hope thatâs your âI love you, tooâ face.â
So he did say the l-word.
âNo. No, of course, I justâI never thought you would say it first. Is thatâ? Thatâs the first time youâve said I love you.â
âYeah, and it doesnât mean shit unless I start showing you. So from now on whatever youâre into, Iâm into. You like cheer, I like cheer. You like watching bad Netflix movies at 2 in the morning, so do I. You like Reggie Mantle, Iâwell, I donât have to like everything you like, do I?â The tip of his nose crinkles in jocular distaste. Your own laugh of euphoria rings in your ears.
âJuggie, you mushball.â
"YOU know i have a boyfriend, right?â âI simply want a demographic breakdown of all the guys that hit on you.â "IâM gonna ask you to get out of my girlfriendâs bed, man.â With Jughead please!
âIâM GONNA ASK you to get out of my girlfriendâs bed, man.â Emerald optics flicker between aquiver male and innocuous femme. Vexation exaggerates already sharp features, coaxing thick brows into a furrow, the pallid skin above to crease, and thin lips to form a narrow line underneath his cupidâs bow. All 6'1" of Jughead Jones stands erect in the threshold of Y/N Y/L/Nâs bedroom. He relies on the freshmanâs lack of knowledge on his reputation, pacifist (by choice, not by fear, mind you) ways especially, to incite fear in his underclassman heart. He really isnât the physical altercation type.
The boy alleviates his weight from the queen-sized mattress, scurrying to a halt before Jughead. He pitches ghost-white palms into thick atmosphereâa symbolism for surrender. âHey, I-I didnât know she was dating anyone.â
Y/N scoffs then. From his periphery, he watches as she extracts neon highlighter from between rows of ivories to say, âI literally said, not even two minutes ago, âyou know I have a boyfriend, right?â You canât lie on me while Iâm sitting right here, fully capable of defending myself, dude.â
Contrived confidence flakes. Jughead can actually pinpoint the precise moment sweat begun to bleed down his forehead. He pities the youth (not really, maybe a little), distinctly remembers similar countenance on a certain ginger friend around this time last year, the label of ninth grader delivering the final blows to an already shallow ego, and juts remarkable crowned beanie behind broad shoulder. âIâm gonna ask you to get out of her room now.â
âR-right. Thatâs fair.â
âMore than,â Jughead hums, even steps to the left to accommodate frantic boyâs passing. Slouched posture returns once only the couple remains and lengthy legs swallow wide gaps until heâs reached his girlfriend, pushing tendrils back to pepper a lingering kiss to her hairline.
âHey, bae.â
âHey.â He throws lanky frame onto her bed in a way that deliberately jostles both Y/N and the open binders and notebooks sheâs immersed herself within. A reaction never emerges. He tries again. âWe can turn this shit off.â Lithe digits fold over the phone sandwiched between pencils; Y/N snatches it back.
âSummerâs Over Interlude is not shit,â she ripostes.
âHow can you get any work done with this crap blasting?â Jughead plucks the device from slack grip. âDo you have any Aerosmith?â
Y/N grabs it again. âI donât even know who that is.â Irises downcast to ratty, black converse potentially staining her floral bedding. âAnd get your dirty shoes off my bed, please. This isnât IKEA.â Sophomore male obliges with wry grin.
âYouâre making a lot of demands for someone who was just caught cheating,â he teases.
The girl raises a stapled packet of chemistry notes and then brings it down across his sinewy forearm. âPuh-lease!â Smack! âYou know.â Smack! âI would never.â Smâ
Jughead restrains sturdy wrist, thumb tracing the outline of protruding bone, before he tugs her into himâa frenetic collision of warm bodies appropriating minimal space. âI know,â he says after sheâs settled between his hips, back pressed against chest, and singular strands of hair in his mouth. âI trust you.â
âGood.â
âI simply want a demographic breakdown of all the guys that hit on you.â
Have you seen the BBC sketch leading lady part with Florence Pugh, Felicity Jones, Gemma Chan and a lot of A actresses?
I have. It's VERY MUCH the reality of casting in this industry. Trust me.

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