Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11889612.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Riverdale_(TV_2017)
  Relationship:
      FP_Jones_II/Jughead_Jones
  Character:
      FP_Jones_II, Jughead_Jones
  Additional Tags:
      Prostitution, Alternate_Universe, Accidental_Incest, Parent/Child_Incest,
      Mistaken_Identity, Anal_Fingering, Rimming, Anal_Sex
  Series:
      Part 2 of teen_hooker_incest_'verse
  Collections:
      Riverdale_Kinkmeme
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-08-23 Completed: 2017-08-29 Chapters: 5/5 Words: 15257
****** Keep You By My Side ******
by Lang
Summary
     FP knows he shouldn't fall in love with a teen hooker. FP has no idea
     why he shouldn't fall in love with this teen hooker.
Notes
     This remains dirty incest teen hooker porn, with zero merit,
     requiring a heavy suspension of disbelief. You probably should not
     read it if that is not your thing.
***** Chapter 1 *****
Wasn't much in FP's life that was good, but he couldn't say it was all bad,
either. Not while he still had his boy.
In the mornings, FP would reach for those skinny hips and pull him close. Start
kissing the skin there until Jughead squirmed and pushed his head away,
blinking in embarrassment at how FP had given him a hard-on.
FP didn't let it boost his ego. A kid Jughead's age would get hard at anything.
And the relationship was a contractual one. If the boy stayed the night, FP
always made sure he got a forty, fifty dollar bonus. They both knew Jughead had
no home to go back to. But that didn't mean FP didn't want to reward him
somehow.
He was a creep, getting his kicks with a teenager. He knew it, and he bet
Jughead knew it too.
Knowing it didn't make FP want to stop. He liked having Jughead in his arms.
Liked getting Jughead off, too. He'd spoon Jughead whenever he got him for the
night, give the kid a lazy handjob. Play with him until he could slip three
fingers in without hurting him, get at that nub that made Jughead vocal and
wild.
Even got down on his knees every once in a while, take the boy into his mouth.
The first time he'd done that, they'd still been in that drive-in booth. He'd
watched Jughead's eyes widen with shock. FP had hardly ever done this to
anyone, not since he was a high schooler himself, so he wasn't pretending to be
good at it. But he didn't need to be. Jughead didn't last long, too young to
hold out when anyone was bothering to make it good for him.
Afterwards, Jughead had paused awkwardly and looked at the money FP slid his
way, like he wasn't sure he should take it. FP ran a finger over one of his
cheekbones.
"Don't go soft on me now," he said. "Not like I'm asking you to get used to
that, with what it does to my knees."
He was kidding. Mostly. The booth's concrete floor was no picnic. Would have
gone easier in FP's room at the Whyte Wyrm. That at least had a threadbare
carpet.
Jughead ducked his head.
"No one's ever done that before," he said. Said it in a clinical voice, like he
was talking about the weather. Only his white knuckles, shoving the twenties
into his schoolbag, betrayed what FP had just done.
"Shit," FP said.
Should have been some young thing like Jughead. Some girl who wanted to give
this to him, one as fine and pretty as he was. All of Jughead's sexual
experiences should be like that. Healthy. Normal. But thanks to guys like FP--
"Sorry about your knees," Jughead muttered now.
"You haven't got some girl you like--"
Jughead snorted.
"A teenage hustler who sleeps with Serpents, trying to pass himself off as a
dateable commodity at Riverdale High? Even I think that's unconscionable."
"Hey, any girl would be lucky to have you," FP told him. Smart as Jughead was.
Good-looking, too.
Jughead looked at him strangely. A look that picked you up and examined you,
the kind of look Gladys used to level at FP. Not that he wanted to think about
her, after she'd ditched town and taken his kids. He shoved her away. Focused
on more important things.
"We're putting a damn rug down on that floor," he said. Not just for him. For
Jughead, who'd been on his knees a fair bit, and no wonder they always looked
bruised and knobbly. "You know, if you'd just come to my place--"
"No Serpent territory," Jughead said, abrupt and final. "My dad was a Serpent,
before he abandoned us."
-
That, more than anything, needled at him.
A Serpent had left Jughead in this position. Probably a Serpent FP had known.
Back before prison he'd known everybody: Rumble, Duke, Fingers -- the whole old
guard. FP had led them. Had earned a double-snake jacket prove it. Proof that
he'd been the kind of man to put the Serpents first, even before his own kids.
The universe sure had rewarded him for that. But he'd tried to come back for
them, hadn't he?
The other guys hadn't. Maybe they'd been locked up like him, but more of them
seemed to have just skipped town when the going got too bad. And it made him
sick to his stomach now, thinking that one of his crew, his boys, the guys he'd
joked with and fought for and taken ten damn years for, had turned around and
left Jughead high and dry.
So maybe he put some distance between himself and the Serpents now. Turned down
some jobs, kept his head low. Stuck to being the Whyte Wyrm's bouncer and
occasional barkeep. Once he got a few thousand under his belt he took it to a
guy he knew who fixed up trailers out in Sunnyside, started talking numbers.
In the end, it didn't cost so much to get one of those beat up cans he himself
had grown up in. He figured Jughead had probably grown up the same way, so he
wasn't expecting the kid to be excited or anything. But Jughead walked in
interested, eyes wide, fine pale hands tapping the side of his schoolbag like
this was some event. So FP ended up being glad he'd paid for the furnishings
and spent some time cleaning the place up.
"So what are you gonna do with this newfound palace?" Jughead asked.
The words were sarcastic but his little grin wasn't. In seconds he'd conquered
one of the couches, all his long skinny limbs splayed out on the cushions.
"No big plans," FP said easily. "Man oughtta have his own place, that's all."
He went to get himself a beer. Hesitated once he opened the fridge, unsure of
what to offer the kid. Jughead lived in the popcorn and corn dog world of the
Twilight. FP would bring him takeout from Pop's sometimes, but he'd figured it
might be overkill to invite the kid over and provide a full spread. He didn't
want to be the kind of man that set up a relationship like that, buttering the
boy up only to demand too much.
So he brought two beers over. Jughead carefully set his aside like he
mistrusted it.
"Thanks, but I don't--"
"Shit. I'll get juice. You want juice? I'll get us juice."
He started to get up again and collided with one of Jughead's lanky limbs. His
brain was still playing, juice. Gotta get juice, because kids drank juice,
actual kids. No point pretending Jughead was something besides that.
"I've seen too much alcoholism to want to partake in it, but I won't deny you
your beer," Jughead said, snorting. "Let's just--"
He made an aborted movement, but the message was clear. Clothes off. Usually he
just launched into it, but maybe the extra space in here was doing a number on
him. Out of the drive-in booth, it felt like there were more possibilities,
somehow. Even if they all started the same way.
"Let's get you bare," FP told him.
Jughead complied easily. Too easily. It twisted FP up, how soon Jughead had
given up all that nervous bravado he'd had at the start. If he were a better
man he wouldn't want Jughead to be this comfortable with him. He'd push the kid
to go find something better.
But this was all the something better that FP got. He didn't have his family,
didn't have his boy or his baby girl, but he could forget about them when he
was with Jughead. Watch the kid strip off his jeans, his jacket and t-shirt.
God, but he was fine. When he was naked FP leaned forward and pulled him close.
Rubbed the place where Jughead's muscles dipped down in a v, where two beauty
marks winked at him.
"Can you--" Jughead began. He looked away, like he was embarrassed. "Sometimes,
before I start, you kiss me--"
FP leaned in and did that. Jughead's hands gripped his shoulders. Jughead liked
being kissed, or at least he did when FP was doing it, which was incentive
enough for FP to do it all the time. Sometimes he made the boy wait, made a
game out of it, the kisses a reward for work well done. But, shit, not today.
Today he was tired. And he liked kissing Jughead. No point in tormenting either
of them.
He kissed the boy until Jughead was making little sounds into his mouth. Wasn't
just the kisses that were doing that -- Jughead's bare dick was rubbing hard
against his jeans, making his own dick stir. FP figured it was time to move on.
He leaned back and looked down at his handiwork, at that red, swollen mouth.
Traced it with his thumb just to hear Jughead whine a little.
"Roll over," FP said.
Jughead's chest shuddered once, but he did it, getting on all fours with his
skinny knees sinking into the cushions. FP palmed his ass. A little greedily,
sure, but then he was paying for the privilege. Jughead was almost too pretty
from any angle, and this one was no exception. Slender, pale, and when FP
spread him he saw that nice little pucker. Jughead took in a breath, like he
could read FP's mind.
Usually he could. Not today. FP's mouth descended. Jughead started in shock.
If nobody had ever sucked him off before, then FP could bet that nobody had
ever done this, either. He licked and lapped at that sensitive hole, getting
the nerves there all keyed up. Jughead was always vocal, but now he was vocal
and squirming, pushing his ass back against FP's tongue. FP steadied him with a
hand on one thigh.
"Easy," he told him, breaking off.
He was dirty, sure, and he was robbing Jughead of another first. But by now
Jughead had to know FP could make it good for him.
He resumed his task. FP had had this done to him more often than he'd done it
himself, so he knew how good it could get. Knew how everything back there sent
jolts straight to your nerves, to your dick, how it could reduce a man to
whimpering and begging for it.
When he got Jughead moaning outright, he started alternating his mouth and
fingers. Just with one hand. The other he snaked forward and offered to
Jughead. Jughead latched on with a hand of his own, clutching FP's hand so
tightly he almost cut off the circulation.
"When I get inside you," he promised Jughead, "it'll pay off."
"It's not paying off right now?" Jughead managed. His dick was at full-mast,
leaking furiously. FP considered jerking him off, but he was rock-hard himself
and he didn't want to waste that on a Jughead who was sated and soft. For a man
who'd punched quite a few Serpents for bragging about Jughead coming on their
dicks, he sure had a guilty, ugly need to make that happen for himself.
A good fuck. That was all this was. That was all he had the right to ask for.
But afterwards, after he'd gotten Jughead to come twice and slid the kid the
requisite pay, he found himself asking, "You wanna stay the night? Tip you for
the trouble."
It came out casual, but it wasn't. Jughead slept like the dead and in the night
FP counted the kid's ribs, started worrying about how much the boy was eating
and how nobody but him seemed to care. The thought just slipped out,
unnaturally. He was a john. Wasn't his place to try and be more.
But, hell. Maybe it wasn't even worry for Jughead. Maybe it was worry for his
own boy, coming out ten years too late, all twisted-up and wrong.
-
Even as a bouncer and barkeep, he heard things. The Serpents were no longer the
small-time gang FP had left behind. They were in it deep now: meth, heroin,
cocaine.
Real estate.
Once, he would have taken that kind of job without blinking. Matter of fact, he
almost signed on to supervise when Rex told him about it. A rich guy who wanted
to buy up some land for less than it was worth. Who would sneak the Serpents a
few thousand just for showing up, polluting it with their presence.
Only it was the Twilight he wanted. The fucking Twilight, where the lights of
the screen blurred the dark shadows under Jughead's eyes and made his lashes
look ten times as long. Where after sex the kid sat naked on his cot and talked
on about Tarkovsky. Smart as anything, that was Jughead.
Wasn't right not to tell the boy what was coming. That didn't mean FP relished
the task. He had Jughead booked on a regular basis these days, a standing
appointment, and for the first time he found himself dreading it. Went to Pop's
beforehand to buy time. Ended up getting what he always got: two double
cheeseburgers, two orders of fries, two chocolate shakes. First time he'd
brought Jughead a snack, he'd just ordered what he liked himself. Then he'd
asked the kid what he liked best and Jughead had parroted the same back to him.
Hard to tell if they really did have similar tastes or if Jughead just wasn't
all that picky.
"Good to see you buying for two," Pop murmured at him now.
FP liked Pop. Always had. Pop never cared if you were North Side or South Side,
young genius or Bulldog bruiser. If you needed to step in out of the cold for a
bit, that was good enough for Pop. In a town like Riverdale, impartial kindness
like that was pretty rare.
But now he just squinted at the old man.
"Used to come in here when you were younger," Pop offered. "Wild, you were.
Remember? I'd always wondered when you'd settle down and look after what's
yours."
Another customer rapped on the counter and Pop shuffled away. FP stared after
him, befuddled.
Look after what was his?
Nothing was his, that was the trouble. Gladys had vanished, and nobody could
tell him where she'd gone. Forsythe and the baby were gone with her. So what
did FP have to look after? Jughead, a kid his crew was planning on evicting.
This thing with Jughead suddenly felt too fragile, like a house made out of
popsicle sticks. FP picked up the bag of takeout and left the diner, wondering
what it would be like to end it tonight, once Jughead understood what he was.
That was a hypothetical. He didn't want to end it. He'd be lucky, though, if
Jughead called it quits once he found out about the Twilight.
If Jughead took off tonight, then he wouldn't have to wait for the boy to find
something better, something more than what FP could offer him.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Jughead came to the trailer in a good mood.
"Bet--my friend. She asked me to join the Blue and Gold. That's--"
FP remembered what it was. He let Jughead explain anyway. He was three sheets
to the wind already and didn't have it in him to resist the easy, familiar way
Jughead expressed contentment. All in the eyebrows. In the way his voice got
excited instead of sarcastic, all his shields down.
And it wasn't like the kid had anyone else he could spill his day to. Just FP,
clumsily helping him pull off his jacket, his flannel. Blinking down at him
when Jughead sank to his knees without preamble, when Jughead's long white
fingers undid his fly.
They had a routine now. He shouldn't let Jughead jump into it, though. Not
tonight. His hands found Jughead's wrists.
"You need to eat," he said. "I got you some food."
Jughead cocked his head and looked up at FP through those long, pretty lashes.
"I'm glad you remember that I'm ruled by my stomach," he said. "But Ar--my
other friend. He treated me to a spread that would satisfy a Bulldog."
He snorted.
"Literally. It was from some special lunch for the football team. The perks of
being a roid-fueled teen dream, I guess. Anyway--"
The tip of his tongue darted out and licked along the rim of his lips. FP's
dick gave an eager twitch. Jughead was in fine form tonight, head all tilted
like that, showing off that wide mouth and the angle of his cheekbones.
"I need cash," he told FP seriously. "And you always give it." His fingers
worked their way to FP's cock.
What was FP supposed to say -- that he didn't want to fuck him and then spring
the Twilight news on him? That he'd rather the boy get angry on a full stomach?
Jughead leaned forward and ran his tongue along FP's shaft, trying to be
smooth.
FP wasn't a saint. He gave up trying to make this sort of decent, because it
wasn't, and let the boy get to work. Jughead sucked the head wet and messy, the
way he knew FP liked, and didn't complain about how much harder it was to get
FP to come when he was drunk like this. Didn't whine in protest, either, when
FP brushed that dark curl out of his eyes and rubbed the beanie on his head. FP
wanted to touch him tonight after all. Hard not to want that with how easily
Jughead yielded to it, like these soft little pets weren't something anyone had
ever offered him before.
He came in Jughead's mouth, after telling Jughead what a good kid he was.
Hadn't meant to say it. It just slipped out. Jughead pulled off and leaned
back, looking up at him like he wasn't sure what to say back.
"Okay, you're a terrifyingly nice drunk," he said, like niceness was somehow
inappropriate.
He said it only after he'd swallowed all the come the way FP preferred, even
the little dribbles FP had left on his lips. Because FP wasn't nice. This kid
was sixteen and homeless. FP was the furthest thing from nice.
Didn't keep him from forcing the cheeseburger on Jughead anyway, while they
waited for FP's refractory period to run. Jughead knew by now that FP liked to
hold him, so he stripped without complaint and clambered into FP's lap to eat.
FP found himself showing off the boxset he'd picked up at a pawn shop -
- Postwar Kurosawa -- just because he figured Jughead would like it.
"'Bleak, brutal, and breathtaking,'" Jughead said, reading off the back cover.
"Let it never be said I turned that down." Then he was standing up and putting
it in the DVD player before returning to FP. This was the time to tell him, FP
knew. The kid was relaxed. Trusting.
FP opened another beer and drank it down while the TV spat subtitles at them.
When Jughead's food had been reduced to grease, FP said, "Prep yourself."
He took his time fucking Jughead that night. Pulled him right into bed when he
was done, too, and wrapped his arms around him. This should be terrifying, how
quickly he'd gone from respecting that he was a client, nothing more, to
pressing nights on Jughead, asking Jughead for companionship.
Instead, the only thing that scared him was the thought of being without the
boy.
-
In the morning, Jughead forgot his flannel and FP didn't say anything. Didn't
complain about Jughead leaving it behind. He saw what could happen: Jughead
colonizing the trailer. Leaving clothing, takeout trash, crumpled homework that
he'd forgotten to finish.
If FP were better, he'd stop that right now, before it started. Instead he
cleared a space in the closet and hung the flannel up inside it.
He'd wrapped Jughead's fingers around his dick as soon as the boy had woken up,
made the kid jerk him off. But he'd asked him, too, about the Blue and Gold.
Jughead hadn't blinked. He was so starved for somebody to take an interest in
him that he took fast to this combination of kindness and perversity.
"Bet-- my friend. She's a good editor. If she's okay with some of my articles I
may ask her to look at my novel."
FP bit back a groan at how expertly Jughead was working his dick.
"Get out, kid. A novel?" he managed instead.
FP didn't know the first thing about novels. Never had been much of a reader.
But it was better than asking about Bet-my-friend, this North Side girl who
made Jughead's voice hitch. And the way he saw it, Jughead deserved to have
someone ask about the things Jughead liked. Nobody else seemed to be doing it.
"I don't talk about it much," Jughead said quickly. "With johns, I mean."
Or ever with johns, if FP knew him. Jughead had a reputation for being
secretive, removed. Stuck-up, according to some of the younger Serpents. FP had
knocked them around a bit for that.
"Hey, with me you can talk about it whenever you want," he told Jughead, and
watched a satisfied blush creep across the kid's fine cheekbones.
-
Jughead's things did conquer the trailer.
Flannels turned into jackets. Jeans. Beat-up shoes, the only spare pair the kid
probably owned. FP put it all in the closet, and made sure he left the closet
door open so Jughead would know that space was his. Cleared a spot in the
fridge, too, for Jughead to put his food. Jughead was always starving. Didn't
seem right to deny the boy a chance to snack while he waited for FP to get it
up again.
Because a man always paid his debts, FP made sure Jughead got his money, too.
It was Jughead who offered, haltingly, that they settle on a weekly rate.
"You can't--" he said, looking uncomfortable, "--you have to be spending a lot
on me--"
He was FP's biggest expense. Shit, he was the reason FP probably hadn't slid
into full-on boozehound. If it came down to liquor and Jughead, he'd forego the
drink.
But he wasn't made of money. He took the deal. Two hundred fifty a week, flat
rate, and he could fuck Jughead pretty much anytime. He'd lean the kid over the
arm of the couch at night, kissing the beauty marks on his back as he pumped
into Jughead, fast and greedy. Agree to get that pretty face covered in come
while the boy knelt on the bathroom tiles in the morning, then would suck
Jughead off while he was showering before school. Jughead responded well to
anything equal parts dirty and sweet.
Anyway, it wasn't just sex. FP liked hearing about Jughead's day, about his
novel, his snotty dramatic soliloquies on Tarantino. It filled up all that
lonesome space in the trailer. It gave FP something to look forward to after
long days backhanding meth-heads and making sure he didn't drink so much of the
whiskey that Rex took it out of his paycheck.
He picked up odd little details about Jughead, slipping out by accident among
all the boy's careful omissions. His first scar had been from a fight in juvie.
The girl he just about worshipped was named Betty, and she probably had no
idea. His best friend was some kid who'd ditched him three months ago. Jughead
was more loyal than he was and refused to ditch him back.
Jughead had a nervy little morality to him. FP liked that. That and the
business with Jughead's father had probably kept the kid out of the Serpents,
and even if FP refused to be ashamed about being a part of the gang himself, he
was pretty glad Jughead had stayed out of it.
When FP asked about that, Jughead just snorted.
"Because they offer so much," he said. "No thanks. I already have a rap sheet.
Pretty sure they took my old man and left him with nothing but a crappy jacket
and a mountain of debt. Or at least that's what he left us. My mom skipped town
to avoid the debt. I still have the jacket somewhere. I'd sell it, but no one
wants to buy a fashion accessory that would get you criminally profiled."
He had a point. If FP'd still had his leathers, he would have worn them, but
now that they were gone he didn't see any point in pursuing new ones. It had
been a long time since he'd bothered to think of his future, but now he woke up
nights with his arm curled around Jughead and thought four or five years ahead.
There were no Serpents there. Just an overwhelming need to have Jughead. Keep
him. Jughead had two more years of high school after this, and dodged questions
about college. Well, maybe he didn't want to go. That would be sad, with the
brains he had, but FP didn't waste tears on it. Jughead wanted to write -
- fine. He could stay here and write. As long as he stayed. As long as he
wanted to.
Maybe he didn't. Maybe he'd leave, find a nice girl like he deserved. That was
only right, and yet on nights when Jughead was working the projection booth and
FP was drinking alone at home or at the Whyte Wyrm, right didn't look so right.
Instead it looked bitter and painful. FP knew the best thing would be to let
the boy go eventually, but he didn't want to do that.
On one of these maudlin nights, just when he wasn't expecting Jughead to show,
the boy banged his way into the trailer. Loud and frantic, uncoordinated in
that way that only a panicked teenager could be. FP looked up from his drink
and blinked at him.
"They're selling it!" he told FP. "The drive-in! The last genuine icon of old
Riverdale, the heart of this town and of -- of our collective ability to
believe that this place could offer us something to dream about. Mayor McCoy is
planning to sell it!"
FP wasn't sure how to respond.
"Land's more valuable as something else--"
"No, it isn't," Jughead said, shutting that right down. He brought a hand up to
his face and exhaled, working his jaw. "What's more valuable than the chance to
experience a few hours of cinematic escape, right when we need it?"
He somehow found his way to the couch and collapsed on it, like a puppet with
strings cut. Now he was rubbing at his eyes. The sight woke some terrible alarm
in FP, some answering misery. FP pushed off his chair and went to be with him.
"The Register's saying it's because of the characters that hang around there,"
Jughead said, voice choked and despairing. "You know, like the teenage hookers-
-"
"No," FP said firmly. "It's not you. It's not your fault, you hear me? It's the
Serpents. They're in on it. Some guy paying them to drive down the value of the
land."
Jughead stared at him.
"What?" he said. "Why didn't you tell me? Are you in on it?"
"No," FP argued, voice rising to match Jughead's. "Shit, no, kid. Come on. I
wouldn't do you like that!"
"No, you'll just fuck me while your friends get paid to trash my home," Jughead
said. He pushed off of FP, off of the couch. Stared at FP like this was the
first time he was really seeing him. FP felt about two inches tall.
"There's nothing you would have been able to do about it," he tried. "A kid
like you, going up against the Serpents--"
"The Twilight is the one thing I have," Jughead said, voice shaky. "It's where
I used to go with my sister when I was a kid. It's where I live--"
He broke off. Looked at FP like he was just some piece of garbage.
"No, you know what?" he said. "I thought you were-- I don't know. I don't know
what I thought. But I'm not going to waste my breath anymore."
Then he was gone.
-
The next two weeks were, hands down, maybe the worst ones FP had ever had.
Counting the ten years in prison. Counting the week he'd spent knocking on
doors, begging people to tell him where his wife and children had gone.
See, in prison there had been hooch, at least. And when he'd been looking for
Gladys, he'd had a full flask to help him through it. But now -- now, that
first night, he got so drunk that some young Serpent knocked him out, and then
Rex was threatening to cut him loose for being useless, and so after that he
had to tackle the loneliness sober.
Sober and infatuated. That was what this thing with Jughead had turned into. A
creep's infatuation. FP kept well away from the boy out of respect, and because
a man had to have some pride, but that didn't mean his ears didn't perk up when
he heard about Jughead arguing with the Serpents. Turning down johns out of
some stubborn pride of his own, getting into fights to try and keep the gang
away. Even meeting with the damn mayor, some people said.
Around the Whyte Wyrm, they said that with a snigger. That was another reason
to stay sober. He was starting fights now, whenever people talked about Jughead
that way. No reason to, except that he figured this was the only apology he
could offer the kid.
FP was oddly proud of him. He wasn't letting the Twilight go down without a
fight.
It did go down, though. The day the sale was posted in the Register, he took
himself down there. Not meaning to talk to Jughead or anything. Just worried
for him. His worry turned out to be well-founded, too, because a fair few gang
members were there waiting for the kid, looking to have some fun. When they saw
FP starting across the lot, though, they hung back.
"You don't have business here, I'd suggest you move on," FP said warningly.
Most of them did. A few stayed, but they had that muttering, anxious look that
said none of them were hot enough to really try anything.
Jughead was surveying the side of the projection booth. He had a huge backpack
on his skinny shoulders, a bottle of spray paint in his hands. Planning to tag
the place. Maybe that was the only goodbye a kid like him was ever allowed.
"Where are you gonna live now?" FP tried.
Jughead looked at him. There was a bruise on his mouth, and it made FP want to
grab one of those younger Serpents -- didn't matter which one -- and beat the
little shit down just to make a point to the rest.
He didn't do that.
"That's not a taunt," he said instead, clarifying the question. "That's an
offer."
-
Jughead's backpack got its own space next to the closet. FP offered him the bed
on a permanent basis, just for him, but Jughead looked at him with wide eyes
and said, "You can't pay me to live with you and then take the couch."
FP left it alone. He rooted through the mess in his kitchen drawers until he
found a spare mailbox key for Jughead. Jughead turned it down.
"I get my mail at the post office in town," he said. "That way I can still go
to my school."
His tone was still frosty. Still hurt. FP let that be. The kid had come home
with him. He figured he couldn't ask for more.
***** Chapter 3 *****
He told himself it was simple utility, Jughead agreeing to move in. He wouldn't
pretend there was more to it on Jughead's end.
FP, though, he'd gone from john to full-on sugar daddy, and if he looked real
hard at himself he could tell that that was what he'd wanted all along. It was
just a different flavor of scumbag, but he took to it. FP had always taken to
just what he shouldn't.
This time, at least it didn't make him a gangbanger. Made him -- made him
something like a provider. Not a good one, sure. Half the time he forgot
Jughead needed to eat more than burgers and milkshakes. But the kid never
complained, not once, and FP found more tentative little marks of his presence
around the place. Cartons of milk and easy-cook soups the boy had bought.
Cereal. Paper towels whenever they ran out. Turned out Jughead had a better eye
for noticing the essentials.
They didn't fuck every night. FP would have felt bad. Jughead had school five
days a week, and school meant all kinds of midterms and finals and pep rallies
and whatever, the kinds of things a boy his age should be preoccupied with. FP
took to asking whether Jughead had some class he had to be up early for.
Whether Jughead had a spelling test or something he should be studying for
instead of casually offering FP a blowjob over dinner.
"A spelling test?" Jughead said. "Am I nine years old?"
He damn well wasn't, thank god, but try telling that to the guilty feeling FP
carried around half the time.
"I'm serious, Jughead," he told him. "We don't have to do anything if you've
got something at school."
"Okay, dad," Jughead said, rolling his eyes. "Lucky for you, I pass most of my
tests and I'm not a joiner. The only extracurricular I have is the Blue and
Gold."
He kept talking about it. The Blue and Gold was Betty territory, which meant
Jughead could talk about it pretty much all the time. Usually FP just barely
put up with it, any reminder of Betty a reminder of the life Jughead could
leave him for. Now, though, he didn't have any space to feel bitter. The guilty
feeling was taking up all the space.
He was hard. He was hard over a word.
What the hell would his actual kids think, if they knew? For the first time, he
was glad they didn't. They would never find out. Forsythe and the baby were off
somewhere, being normal kids, and their old man was here in a South Side
trailer, tenting in his pants because a sixteen year old with pretty eyes had
called him dad.
Jughead was a clever kid, too. He picked up on it. Looked nervous for a second,
then embarrassed, then delighted. Got an expression on his face like he wished
he could share this with a friend.
"Wait. You like it when I call you--"
FP growled at him. In response, Jughead pushed off the cheap little kitchen
table. Started stripping off his jeans, his t-shirt. FP spared a second to miss
the prickly, underfed kid he'd met months ago, whose laundry list of rules
would have kept him from launching into nakedness like this. Missed that kid
for about two seconds. Then he was mesmerized by Jughead's long neck, his
pronounced collarbones.
Jughead opened his mouth, probably to say dad.
"Don't," FP warned.
He hauled the kid off to the bedroom. Gently, though, so as not to hurt him.
Jughead was still bright-eyed, like this was hilarious, like it wasn't a damn
good thing for both of them that FP wasn't his daddy.
"What happened to no sex on a school night?" Jughead said, when he was lying on
his elbows, staring up at FP.
"Last I heard, you don't have a spelling test tomorrow," FP retorted.
Jughead laughed. Really laughed. Something in FP went warm and fond over it.
Shit. He was too old for Jughead, putting a roof over the boy's head only in
exchange for a fuck. But he couldn't be total garbage. Not if he could make
Jughead laugh like that.
Tonight, though, he didn't kiss him right away. Some ghost of his kids was
still lingering, some shame over what it took to get FP Jones good and hard -
- just call him daddy, he could hear Gladys saying testily. He'll come in his
pants. Jughead's eyes looked green as hers had been, green as his boy's maybe
still were. FP coaxed him into turning over, careful hands on the kid's side.
Then he took Jughead from behind, slow. Licked up his skinny spine as he thrust
into him. Jughead moaned at the contact, both too much and not enough for him.
FP knew what he wanted. But he made sure Jughead was a panting, whimpering
mess, begging him to come already, before he finally pressed the first kiss to
the boy's shoulderblade.
Jughead came with a yell. Like that was all he needed to put him over the edge.
Just that little sign of affection.
That was what filled FP with guilt. This boy needed more than whatever the hell
FP offered. Needed a real dad, a family.
He was glad Jughead wasn't facing him when he finally came. Didn't want the kid
to see the way he brought a hand up to his face, overwhelmed by want and shame.
-
Most days the want won out. Whenever the boy woke up hard and embarrassed and
sobbed into FP's shoulder as FP jerked him off. When he helped himself to FP's
lap like it was something natural, like he liked it when FP held him. When he
didn't put his beanie on right away in the mornings, let FP spend a few minutes
running a rough hand through that ink-black hair.
When he offered FP a draft of his novel like it was nothing, no big deal. FP
could tell it was. Jughead cared what he thought about it. Touched, he took it
to work and hid it under a ledge beneath the bar. Pulled it out when the room
was dead, working his way through every dramatic passage. Jughead had talent.
Could use more practice, and maybe a lesson in how less was more. Could
definitely use someone smarter than FP to guide him. But the raw talent was
there. FP told him so at the end of the day and got to watch him light up.
"You write a lot about this town," FP noted.
"Who else is going to chronicle Riverdale?" Jughead threw back. "If not me?"
"Wasn't aware a place like Riverdale needed to be chronicled," FP told him.
This town hadn't been good to either of them. But Jughead loved Riverdale, in
his own way. Maybe Jughead was like FP, maybe he'd always end up liking what
wasn't good for him.
That night, he knelt on the dingy kitchen linoleum and tentatively put his
tongue to FP's ass. FP hadn't asked him to. But he was getting real bold. He
knew that this point FP would never say no to him dropping to his knees.
Fiddling with FP's belt buckle. He had FP bare-assed before FP even realized
the kid was aiming for the wrong side.
Hesitant about it. A little embarrassed, when FP peered over one shoulder and
caught his face. But he took to it the way he did to everything else FP had
shown him so far, his willingness and that pretty pink tongue of his quickly
making up for any lack of practice. FP steadied his hands on the counter and
let himself enjoy the way the kid fired up all his nerves. Made sure to tell
him, too, to be free with the praise and the thanks. Jughead responded well to
praise, to being told he was a good kid, a smart kid. That made it less shitty
when FP reached an arm behind and grabbed the boy's head, made him dig his face
in.
"There, baby," he said, panting. "Right there." He wasn't one to let just
anybody play with his ass, but shit. This was Jughead. Sweetest thing he had,
and if he was willing to do this then FP wasn't going to stop him. Every rough
lap was going straight to FP's dick. He could usually hold out for longer, but
something about how dirty this was pushed him over the edge fast. He came with
a shout, and only then did Jughead pull back and get up, face red.
FP leaned in to try and kiss him.
"Oh, gross," Jughead complained, pushing him off. "That's weird even for me. At
least let me brush my teeth first--"
He stomped away to the bathroom.
"A kiss wouldn't make something that dirty any worse," FP called after him.
He was still panting a little. He hadn't come that hard in a while, even though
he'd come a fair bit since Jughead had moved in.
It didn't escape FP that they'd built another routine: a little play in the
mornings, Jughead's mouth and sometimes his ass at night. Got a little wilder
on the weekends, when Jughead had more time, but not too much wilder. FP had
settled into something effortless with Jughead, something that fit too well for
either of them to trust completely.
FP wasn't used to anything this natural-feeling. Common sense told him that it
wasn't right, not at all, but when Jughead came back, teeth brushed and face
scrubbed, something in FP went all tender at the sight of him.
"Gonna play with your ass tonight," he warned him.
"Sure," Jughead said. His easy shrug didn't quite conceal the blush settling
across his cheekbones. "Turnabout is fair play."
He buried his face in his arms that night. His ass was in FP's lap, sensitive
dick leaking on FP's jeans. FP took a swig of his beer, then set it on the
nightstand. Picked up the bottle of lube next to it and smeared a good bit
right on the boy's hole. Jughead took in a sharp breath, the sudden cold a
shock.
FP massaged his pucker until he was whimpering and wriggling, fucking into
nothing.
"You want my fingers in you?" he asked the kid, between another swig of his
beer.
Jughead whined. His hole was red and wet, eager for something. FP slid the pad
of his thumb over it once, twice. Jughead's skinny hips shook.
"Gotta say it," FP told him.
"Yes," Jughead said.
Only then did FP reward him with one lubed-up finger, slipping in easy now that
the boy was a little loose. Jughead moaned and fucked back against it. His
insides were hot, clasped around FP's index. FP spent some time rubbing and
stretching, enjoying the way Jughead gasped and moved in response.
First time FP had seen the kid, sex had looked to be painful for him. Ugly. Had
felt ugly, watching Jughead endure it. FP didn't want that for Jughead anymore.
While Jughead was with him, he made sure the boy had a good time.
Not too good, though. It was a Friday night and FP wasn't working early the
next day. So they had plenty of time to stretch this out. FP got the boy to
take two, three, four rough fingers. When Jughead was begging for the whole
fist, he cut back to two again. Both of those glancing by the kid's prostate,
tormenting him. While Jughead cried and shook in his lap -- FP, come on. FP,
please -- FP polished off his beer, warm and flat on his tongue. Enjoyed the
way Jughead's ass clenched around his fingers.
Then he made Jughead shift off of his lap and got himself a condom. The boy was
shaking, licking his lips while he watched FP roll it on.
"I'm clean," he begged. Little tears in his eyes. Fuck, he looked good like
that. "I'm clean, FP, so come on. Just--"
FP pushed him back against the headboard and lined himself up. The first push
had Jughead throwing his head back, crying out in satisfaction. FP didn't
bother making this fuck slow and sweet because the kid didn't need slow and
sweet. He needed release. Jughead came around the fourth or fifth stroke,
grabbing a pillow and sobbing into it.
"None of that," FP reminded him, once the boy was totally spent. "Come on. Like
to look at you."
Jughead put the pillow down. He looked beautiful and a little wrecked.
"Kiss me," he said. It was the plaintive command of a child. Jughead never felt
younger than in these moments, wrong as it was to admit that. FP kissed him.
"Did good tonight," he told Jughead, caressing his jaw. Leaned back in for
another kiss. Jughead smirked into his mouth, boastful and teenaged now.
"Thanks, dad," Jughead whispered.
Like a little secret weapon. FP came so hard he saw stars.
-
He was smiling more these days. Rex said it freaked him out. The younger
Serpents seemed to take it as a warning, an eerie sign that FP would be tougher
than usual with them if they tried anything at the Whyte Wyrm.
He didn't feel like being tough with anybody. Didn't even feel like being all
that tough on himself, which had to be some kind of miracle, because he was
pretty sure he was still the same lowlife he'd always been. Only now it seemed
to be coming up fine for him in ways it hadn't before.
"Keep turning it around, FP," Pop told him, catching sight of FP grinning to
himself one night. "The usual?"
"Damn right, Pop," FP said.
Dinner for two. With extra fries, to put some meat on his boy's ribs. FP
settled in at the counter to wait for it.
The Pop's bell dinged. FP heard the clatter of the door, the eager sound of an
unfamiliar teenager. A very familiar voice answering back: "Alright, son, if
Pop's is what you want."
Once, that voice would have gotten his hackles right up. Something in it would
always sound like failure to FP, like betrayal. Hard to tell who had betrayed
who, though. Fred had always seen himself as the Gallant to FP's Goofus. But
FP, well. Maybe FP hadn't exactly been the best friend to Fred, either.
He turned in his seat to look at Fred. Shit, Fred looked old. And FP couldn't
even feel good about it. He probably looked twice as old.
"Hey, Danny Partridge," FP said easily. He held out his arms. Trying to look
friendly. Like he'd moved past all the -- all the shit in their past. He didn't
want to fight with Fred. It would only ruin a decent day. "Look who's back from
the damn dead."
Fred stopped in his tracks.
"FP?"
The red-haired teenager next to him shifted, looking from Fred to FP and back
again.
"Son," Fred said, his voice very even. "This is FP Jones."
"Jones?" the kid said.
FP nodded at him. Now that he'd been introduced, he found that he didn't know
what to say. It had been ten years since he'd seen Fred. And Fred didn't look
too hot about letting FP mix with his kid or anything.
Not that that wasn't sensible. But still. Fuck him. FP shook his head at him.
"Well, don't let me ruin your night or anything," he said. Started to turn back
around.
Fred's kid said, "Hey--"
"Archie, go get a booth," said Fred. Still even. FP was trying to figure out
where he'd heard the name before when Fred was in his face.
Fred. The Captain America of Riverdale High. Doggedly nice and boring as they
came. He wasn't supposed to have that hard edge in his voice when he next
spoke, but he did have it.
"Have you been back a while?" he said.
FP cracked a warning grin.
"What are you -- questioning me?"
"You took off, FP," Fred said. Short about it.
"I got locked up. I seem to remember you wouldn't even show up at the damn
station, let alone the sentencing--"
"Your son didn't hear from you," Fred said. Not accusingly. Just in that plain
way of his that always had a hint of high-and-mighty. "Not once in ten years."
That was a lie. That was a lie -- FP had tried to write and had gotten nothing
back, and, anyway, how was it Fred's business?
"You got some interest in this I don't know about?" FP spat at him, not caring
that his voice was loud and ugly and Fred's goliath of a son was tumbling out
of his booth and coming their way.
"Your son is living god knows where," Fred said. "Archie told me. He's worried.
All their friends are. Did you even bother to try and track Jughead down, FP?"
-
Jughead's things had more or less spread across the trailer, but the backpack
was still sitting by the closet. When FP reached into it, dug down to the
bottom, his hands closed on worn, familiar leather.
That double-headed snake was frayed now. Threads stabbing out. Nobody had cared
for this thing in years. Gladys wouldn't have -- she'd hated the Serpent mark
when FP had been just a low-level stooge, and had hated the leader's jacket
even more, once FP had been promoted. FP found himself suddenly hating it too.
His hands were shaking. He couldn't get them to stop.
"FP?" Jughead said, behind him. He sounded sleepy. Must have padded out from
the bedroom. FP hadn't even heard.
Then, accusing, "What are you doing looking through my stuff?"
FP looked up at him. In the trailer's low light, Jughead's face was half in
shadow, but it still looked so right. So familiar.
"Forsythe?" FP said, voice cracking.
***** Chapter 4 *****
"I did write you," FP insisted. "I did. Your damn mother -- she must have
trashed the letters. You believe me, don't you?"
Jughead backed away. FP forced himself to not follow, to stay still and give
the boy some space.
His boy. His boy. FP had stopped writing to him after a year, but what else
could he have done? No one had written back.
Forsythe -- Jughead -- must have been seven by then. Too young. It occurred to
FP that his birthday had just passed. FP had marked it by drinking late at the
Wyrm, and Jughead hadn't said anything. Maybe he would have put two and two
together if the boy had just said something.
But Jughead hadn't known enough to say. That much was clear. He rubbed at those
hollowed, pretty eyes like he was trying to scrub away his disgust. FP wanted
to tell him to stop, that panic and dramatics weren't going to make this any
better.
"How could you not tell?" Jughead asked. His voice was creeping up high, like
he was revolted. FP didn't like that: Jughead revolted by him. "If I'm really
your son, how come you didn't recognize--"
"Shit, did you recognize me?" FP snapped.
Jughead flinched. The part of FP that cared for the damn kid, however wrong
that care was, warred with the part of him that wanted to blame something.
Jughead was looking at FP like FP was the monster here, like FP had done this.
The worst thing was: he wasn't wrong.
"You think I'd have paid you seventy-five bucks for a blow and fuck if I'd
known?" FP said, wanting to explain himself. "I know I'm a creep. But I'm not
that much of a creep. And I never told you to sell your ass--"
Something in Jughead's face changed. Shuttered, somehow. One second he was the
lanky, vulnerable kid FP had taken in and gotten to know. Then that boy's spine
straightened, his shoulders tensed. He looked blankly confrontational.
"Right," he told FP, voice hard. "My fault. Sorry to sell you bad product, but
I guess with a gangbanger for a dad, it must run in the family."
-
After that, it escalated.
After that, the kid was throwing on his clothes and grabbing his stuff, banging
his way out of the trailer and into the night.
FP was so furious by then that he stood and screamed after him -- where the
hell are you gonna go, huh, Jughead? -- and it wasn't until some ten minutes
had passed that the worry began to gnaw at him.
Worry and something else. Something enraged and mixed-up. He'd lost his boy,
but it didn't feel like losing a son. Felt like losing the warmth that curled
up next to him in bed, the lightness in his chest when he heard Jughead laugh.
The easy pleasure of just holding the kid. Just thinking about it made him want
Jughead desperately. Still. Still.
He didn't get much sleep. It was hard to sleep when he was sick at himself.
Instead he got so drunk he blacked out.
In the morning, for those first few seconds before he remembered, he was
reaching for Jughead.
-
The thing that wormed its way into his brain, besides the boy's clever hands,
his wide mouth, his long-lashed eyes -- was:
Who else knew?
Fred. Maybe Pop. But, shit, there had to have been others. Most of the older
Serpents, the ones who could have guided him back to his family, were gone by
now. Jailed or dead or just plain AWOL. But not all of them. One or two were
still around. FP caught the first at the Whyte Wyrm, drinking at the bar.
Grabbed his shoulder, spun him around, pulled him in. Grinned. Then hit him so
hard that that mealy-mouthed piece of shit flew back and rebounded off of the
barstool.
"FP!" Rex shouted, from upstairs. "FP, what the hell? You don't show up for
work, and now you--"
"Where's my family?" FP demanded. Around him, the thin crowd of midday drinkers
looked uneasy. Mustang was whining and coming back at him. FP grabbed his
forehead and shoved it, heard it hit the bar with a satisfying crack.
"How the fuck should I know?" Rex said. He was coming down the stairs now,
pushing his sleeves up. FP figured he should back down before Rex hit him, but
he didn't want to. Not until he knew.
"My wife," he said. "My baby girl. My boy. You must have known who they fucking
were, Rex, it wasn't like I never talked about them. You must have known what
happened to them--"
Mustang started laughing. It sounded strained, half-gurgle. The lower half of
his face was all blood.
"Shit," he said, stretching the word out. "Figured it out, did you?"
"What the hell are the two of you talking about?" Rex demanded. "What--FP!"
FP wasn't really processing much. He had Mustang's head in his hands, and there
was a perfectly good bar right there to smash it into. By the time Rex pulled
him off, shouting about how FP was out of the damn gang, FP's hands and
forearms were slick with blood, the violence coming back to him real easy even
after these last few months of peace.
-
Winter hit the town, bitterly cold. Sleet nearly every afternoon. FP took some
odd jobs beating the shit out of people now that he had a reputation for that.
The rest of the time he drank. His boy was out there in the cold, but he knew
Jughead was alright. Knew it because he marked his week by the moments he
caught sight of the kid at Pop's, or by Riverdale High.
FP wasn't following him. It was just that, in his cups, he had a habit of
finding himself where his boy was. He'd tuck himself against a tree and watch
Jughead watching others, scribbling notes for that novel of his. Would take
note of how skinny he was getting, how sunken his cheeks were. It was only
pride that kept FP from marching over to him. Pride, hollow and bitter.
After all he'd done to Jughead, how could he beg the boy to come back?
But god, he wanted to. FP had never been a man to beg, but he might have if
he'd thought Jughead would be safe with him. If he'd thought Jughead could come
home and things could be normal, FP could give him that suburban fantasy he'd
convinced himself his boy was living.
Some days he still felt like Forsythe was out there somewhere, all daydream,
safe and looked-after. That had been something he'd told himself, he knew, so
he could make it through ten years in prison. So he could weather a life
without his family.
But that Forsythe wasn't real. The real boy was as brittle and alone as FP was.
The real boy was so desperate for family that he'd kept a beat-up leather
jacket for ten years. The real boy had gone down on his knees and wrapped his
lovely mouth around FP's cock, sweet as anything, and then tried to play off
how much he liked having FP hold him afterwards.
It hurt to know he was out there with no one to look after him. Hurt so bad
that one day, when Fred Andrews showed up, FP just let him in without much of a
fight, even though he was dead-drunk at noon and probably would have fought
anybody else. But not Fred. He'd figured out that Fred's boy -- he was
Jughead's friend. Maybe Fred could tell him how his boy was doing.
FP waved him in the direction of the recliner. The rest of the place was
trashed, but the recliner was pretty clean.
Fred didn't sit.
"So this is what you've become," he said, short about it.
FP bit back a curse.
"Door's right there, if you're feeling high and mighty," he said instead. "You
came through it. You can go right back out."
Fred didn't leave. Instead something around his eyes tightened, almost like he
was sad.
"Jughead told me why he won't come home with you, FP," he said, and for a
second FP's throat closed up, panicky.
Jughead had told?
But then Fred was continuing.
"You're working for the Serpents again," he said. "You know, I would have
thought a ten year stint would teach you to leave that alone."
FP ignored the burn of rage over how condescending that was. His throat opened
up enough for him to croak, "How is he? Jughead."
"Archie found him living in a closet at school," Fred said simply. "And that
was better than we'd thought. This summer, seemed like there wasn't even a
foster family in the picture anymore, and I started fearing for a bit there
that he'd ended up in a bad place."
"You were worried about him?" FP put in.
Behind all the bitterness and anger, there was some relief coming through.
Someone else had cared a little bit about his boy. Someone had looked at all
the wreckage FP always left in his wake and picked out Jughead, shining in it.
Deserving more.
"He's a good kid," Fred said, confirming it. Then, after a pause, "We've asked
him to come live with us. Me and Archie. He said yes. He'll have a place with
us as long as he wants it."
"Right," FP said. That seemed to close things, then. His boy out of the cold.
FP here, alone, rooting around the couch for a bottle he was sure he'd dropped
somewhere. "Well, you took my share of the company. Can't be too hard to take
my boy--"
"I didn't come here to gloat, FP," Fred said simply. "I came to offer you a
job. Jughead asked me to. Your boy wants to come home to you."
-
That was such a small thing, but FP clung to it.
The first few weeks, he was late a few times and hung over, to boot. But Fred
didn't say anything, just handed him the hard hat and let him get to work. Fred
had no permanent crew, looked like, just a lot of guys who came and went,
sticking around only when the work looked likely to pay them more than the big
companies did. Fred was good at a lot of things, but he'd never been able to
build a real crew. Not like FP. FP was a natural foreman -- wasn't too
different from being a gang leader, after all -- and so he didn't feel too bad
for Fred on days he clocked in late.
No, what made him feel bad was still Jughead. Jug knowing his own old man had
bent him over every solid inch of that trailer and fucked him, and still
pushing Fred Andrews to give FP work. To give FP a reason not to go back to the
Serpents.
When he'd been small, so very small it used to make FP choke up to remember
him, Forsythe had been the one to try and salvage everything FP wrecked.
Picking up the literal messes FP had made when he was drunk and angry, careful
little hands putting everything back the right way. Crawling over to his sister
and lifting her up, rocking her when Gladys and FP's shouts had woken her.
How hadn't FP known? Ten years later, and when his boy found him broken and
useless, his boy had put him back together again. That was why FP couldn't help
but think of him as something good, even when the good left him dizzy with
want. He spent his days at the job site, sure, but nights he spent feverishly
stroking one off, hating himself because he was thinking of his boy. It had to
stop. It would stop, if Jughead came home. FP wasn't some animal. He wasn't
ever going to touch the kid again, wasn't ever going to force him like that.
But in some ways he was glad that Jughead was bunking with Fred and Fred's boy.
Glad Jughead was getting three meals regular and a roof over his head and
didn't have to fuck anybody for that.
Which didn't mean his mouth didn't go dry, his head didn't spin, the day he
finally saw Jughead again.
He was waiting in the construction trailer, talking something over with Fred's
boy. They both looked up when FP came in and, as far as FP was concerned, the
whole damn world dimmed. Jughead looked a little fuller than he had before, a
little better rested. Still so fine-boned. All the angles FP used to have, but
tempered by that prettiness he'd gotten from his mother.
FP beat back the urge to grab the kid's skinny wrist and press a kiss to his
knuckles. They weren't alone. And even if they had been, he couldn't do that
kind of thing any more.
He was glad his voice was steady when he spoke.
"All the boys together," he managed, pulling off his hard hat, focusing on
tossing it into the bin. Fred was coming in behind him now. "Hey, we should
catch dinner, huh? My treat. What do you say, Fred?"
Fred looked uncertain, but not unwinnable. But before he could answer, Jughead
spoke up.
"Actually, I thought you and me could go out to dinner," he said.
A beat.
"Dad."
Thank god the light in the trailer was dim. FP's dick definitely gave a twitch,
and FP hated himself. Hated himself, but fuck if he didn't want to hear the
word again.
"Not sure that's such a good idea--" he started.
"I think it's a great idea," said Fred's boy, brimming with wholesome support.
Fred clapped FP on the shoulder.
"Stop punishing yourself," he advised FP. "You've worked hard. Take your boy
out for dinner."
"Yeah," Jughead said. His voice was too bright. "Take me, dad."
-
This time, FP couldn't enjoy the look of approval Pop shot his way. Couldn't
even spare a glance for Pop, to tell the truth. Jughead was slouched on the
other side of the booth, tracing little patterns on the chrome table with a
finger. All of FP's attention narrowed to him, to trying to figure out what was
happening behind that blank expression.
The kid had Fred convinced he wanted to come home with FP. But that was Fred.
Fred looked on the bright side; he probably didn't even know what a dark side
was. So for all FP knew, Jug was feeding him a pat little story, and maybe in
return trying to figure out what had made his old man such a scumbag that he
could come back after ten years, pick Jughead out, and pay to fuck his ass.
And it wasn't like there weren't stories Fred could tell him.
"Whatever he's said--" FP said now, "About me stealing. You've gotta
understand. I was trying to support you, your mother, the baby--"
"Did stealing land you in jail?" Jughead asked. His voice was cool. His eyes,
flicking up to meet FP's for just a second, were still blank. "Mom always said
you killed a guy."
FP cursed. It was only worry for the baby that kept him from wanting Gladys
dead. She'd said that? She'd said that and then ditched their boy.
"I was drunk," he said. "Got this stupid idea to go in and rob the department
store with my boys. It was night, there was a watchman. I swear to god I wasn't
the one that shot him, but I was the one that got caught. Trouble was, they
caught me dumping the body. I wasn't going to name names, so they pinned all
the time they could on me."
And he'd done it. He'd done all ten years, never complained. Didn't that get
him something? Didn't that mean he was entitled to let it go, to move on?
But that didn't mean Jughead wanted to move on with him, no matter how well
they fit. And they did fit well. Dirty, wrong, but perfect. As perfect as
things probably got with a guy like FP.
He closed his eyes and brought a hand up to his face. Trying to think through
what to say. What he could offer the boy. The waitress came and left them their
usual: cheeseburgers, shakes, extra fries. FP used the pause to try and pick
his words right.
"I'm out of the Serpents," he said, skirting around the how. Fuck Mustang,
anyway. Finally OD-ed, FP had heard, and good riddance.
"I was out before Fred even came by with the job offer," he continued. "I can
cut back on the drinking. Just give me a little time with that. And I can set
the room up for you. Just for you. Give you an allowance, too, not for doing
anything. Just because -- because you're my boy. A man oughtta take care of his
son. And I won't--"
He stopped. There was some a hitch in his voice that probably betrayed how hard
he was. Half-hard, and wanting more. Ever since Jughead had called him 'dad'
back in the trailer. But he had to push past that. This was the most important
thing. If he couldn't guarantee the boy this, then he didn't deserve to have
him.
"I won't touch you," he promised. "Not once, you hear? I never should have, and
I won't from here on out. You won't have to do anything you don't want--"
Jughead was dipping a fry in one of the little paper ketchup containers,
swirling it around and around, hyper-focused on it.
"One time, I almost got arrested by a deputy," he said, almost too casually. "I
didn't want to blow him, but I did. Another time, one of the Serpents showed up
with a friend. I didn't want to do that, either."
FP's hands moved of their own accord, mauling his burger. For a moment, it
didn't matter what he'd done to Jughead himself. This -- this made his vision
blur with rage.
"Nobody's doing that to you again," he spat. "Alright? I won't let them. And I
won't let myself--"
"Dad," Jughead said, shutting him up and going to straight to his dick all over
again. When Jughead spoke again, he was very quiet. This was a South Side boy,
so he knew when he had to keep away from attention. Still, FP couldn't
understand why everyone wasn't looking at him. Jughead's eyes were wet, but
that made them look even greener, made his whole face look that much more
delicate and fine.
"I wanted you," Jughead said. "I wanted you even when we were doing things I
wouldn't have wanted with anybody else. I couldn't understand why I wanted you
so badly."
He laughed a little, but not like anything was funny.
"Guess I've always been weird. On the outside of things. This was no different,
right? When you're already a damaged homeless hooker--"
"Stop that," FP said. The self-loathing in his boy's voice -- it was too much.
Of all the things he could share with Jughead, this was the worst.
Jughead stopped, went shuttered and blank again. He looked to both sides,
scoping out the room. Then he slouched even lower in his seat, stretching his
arm below the table, and before FP could figure out what he was doing he felt
the slight press of Jughead's fingers on his fly.
So slight. But when coupled with Jughead whispering, "Dad," those fingers had
him so hard he was gasping.
Jughead's smile was heartbreaking.
"You too, huh?" he said, making a joke of it even though his eyes were still
wet. "That's something. I'm glad I'm not the only one."
***** Chapter 5 *****
With everything so tangled up, and with FP still leaning on the booze most
days, maybe it wasn't time to bring Jughead home permanently. Maybe it wouldn't
ever be time.
So Jughead stayed with the Andrews, mostly. When he did come by the trailer, FP
kept it above board. He watched movies with the kid, sitting on separate ends
of the couch now. He set the table so he and Jughead were opposite each other,
a big bowl of fruit between them. Neither of them ate much fruit, but, well. It
gave FP something to look at that wasn't Jughead. He couldn't seem to keep his
thoughts clean when he was looking at Jughead.
He'd have tried to check himself into a program or something, if he'd had the
money. He didn't. And anyway, maybe this was better. He'd left his son once and
once was enough. He wanted to be there for Jughead now, wanted Jughead to know
FP's door was always open to hear about the novel or the Blue and Gold or
whatever else Jughead wanted to talk about. Even if Jughead (pretty wisely)
never invited himself to stay the night.
"You shaved," Jughead pointed out once, over a weekend lunch FP had managed to
cobble together for the both of them. Just some microwaveable vegetable
lasagna, nothing fancy, but it gave the kid a new food group to try, at least.
"I'm gonna meet a woman later," FP admitted. "Actually, we met at the gas
station. Asked her if she'd like to grab a coffee."
Jughead stiffened. FP might have known he would, but Christ. This couldn't
continue. Not if he wanted Jughead to come home, to spend the night for once.
Not if he wanted to guarantee that those nights could stay innocent. And not
with the way it made them both feel about themselves. FP was fine wallowing,
but he didn't want his boy hating himself. Especially since the moment Jughead
left the trailer, his old man would be locking the door and jerking off,
thinking of the little smiles Jughead sent his way, the happiness in Jughead's
voice when FP asked him to read his novel aloud.
"We both know I've gotta move on," FP told him now. FP was ever the hypocrite.
"You do too. Hey -- what's happening with that Betty? How about her, huh?"
Jughead rolled his eyes.
"Still too good for a former prostitute," he muttered.
Something in FP's chest twinged.
"You did what you had to survive. No shame in that, Jughead."
He meant it. He hoped Jughead understood that he meant it. But Jughead just
spared him one of those lightning-fast glances, the kind that made FP's knees
weak.
"I guess," he said after a few seconds, pushing his lasagna around on his
plate.
-
Winter turned into a wet, too-chilly spring. FP did start to date, but couldn't
get the hang of making anyone stick. Wasn't like he had much to offer: he was a
felon who worked construction. And anyway, even when they wanted to stick
around, he always ended things when it turned out he couldn't keep from
thinking of entirely the wrong person in bed.
He wanted Jughead home so bad that some nights the want woke him up. Sort of an
ache in his chest, and then further down his dick tenting, asking for the kid's
special attention. He'd try to go back to sleep and would get visions of
Jughead bent over, holding onto the kitchen counter, crying out as FP fucked
into him. FP tried hard, really hard, to forget what they'd done. But it turned
out that sweet memories were as hard to forget as bad ones.
But Jughead was trying too, he knew. Despite it all Jug was a good kid, one who
wanted a nice normal life as badly as FP wanted it for him. So FP held back his
bitterness when he found out Jug was finally taking that Betty to the spring
formal. Just made sure the kid got a few of the hundreds FP had been saving up
for him. To buy himself a decent suit, or get Betty a nice corsage.
"I'll take a picture of them for you," Fred told him on the day of the dance,
after FP declined to come over and see Jughead off.
FP grinned uneasily. He couldn't figure out how to say no, so he didn't, but he
figured he'd have to burn the picture. A photo of his boy looking polished,
looking well cared for and happy --
FP wanted to put it on his night table and his coffee table and plaster it on
every single wall of the trailer. Wanted to be able to keep it in his wallet,
too, and take it out to show that old lady at the corner store. His boy, right
there. Tall. Smart. Good-looking. Loved, dammit.
But shit, there was a reason he hadn't asked for a photo. Dirty as he was,
there was a good chance something like that would have him fantasizing about
Jughead even worse than normal.
"Just remind him to be a gentleman," he told Fred, and left.
He went home and tried to forget about it. Pulled out a six-pack and sat there
flipping channels for hours. When something reminded him of Jughead -- the
classic movie channel, or a damn commercial about a man dropping his son off at
college -- he made sure he thought of the Jughead that was Forsythe. The
Jughead that wrote for the school newspaper, that rode his bike to and from
school. The kid Jughead deserved to be, the one who was finally asking this
Betty out.
He bet his boy would be aglow over it. He'd be shooting that girl those little
smiles of his, with his lashes all downcast. Cocking his head in her direction,
pretty as anything.
Whatever the channel was, it became a blur. FP set his beer on the TV table by
the recliner and unzipped his fly. His dick was heavy and familiar in his hand.
He pumped it slow. He was alone, he knew he was alone. But in his mind's eye
Jughead was kneeling in front of him again. A Jughead FP had already kissed
senseless: lips all swollen, eyes hooded. A Jughead with his tongue out,
obscene, letting FP rub the head of his dick on it. FP had kept that up for a
good ten minutes one time, until Jughead was drooling on it just the way FP
liked. Drooling and whimpering and fucking back on his own fingers. No shame in
his eyes then. Just trust, trust that FP would make it good for him.
FP bit back a groan. He paused the fantasy long enough to get his jeans off,
his underwear down. His other hand found his own ass. His fingers were more
coarse than his boy's, his touch less deft. But he could pretend it was Jughead
anyway. Jughead in those last few weeks, daring like he'd been, eager to put
his fingers and tongue to work on FP's hole.
Once, when FP had been crooning at him about how good he was, how he was better
than FP deserved, the boy had pulled back. Said, seriously, you make it so good
for me, FP.
Then a lick.
Daddy.
Then another lick.
Daddy.
Again and again, until FP was growling at him and turning, grabbing Jughead by
the arm as Jughead laughed. Pinning the kid on the couch and palming his ass,
and beneath him Jughead was hard and delighted.
Seriously! You'd be a good dad, I bet. You've taken care of meso far.
FP had been so thrown off by that that he'd let go, for a second. Jughead had
used that second to turn around and looked at him. His expression had been
grateful. Relieved. Like he was just a lonely kid who'd landed in FP's arms and
was happy about it. Like he was home at last.
Then and now, that put FP over the edge. Then, he'd had Jughead there to laugh
again and jerk him until he was done coming, clean the spunk up with his mouth.
Now he just came, panting, furious at himself.
Maybe he'd always wanted this. Maybe some part of him had always known, and had
wanted to be the boy's father -- hell, he was pretty glad he was Jughead's old
man, most days. Jughead was a phenomenal kid. And as long as he was linked to
FP like this, he couldn't just leave FP behind.
FP leaned back, sticky and sated. Ignored the buzz of the TV. Drifted off a
bit.
The door slammed open.
He was up with a yell, pulling his briefs back on, ready for a fight. But it
was just Jughead. Jughead in a skinny navy suit, color on his cheeks. His eyes
went wide as saucers when he caught FP standing there in his underwear. FP
hoped like hell that the boy couldn't smell his release on him.
"Shouldn't be here," he told Jughead, to cover up his embarrassment. "You
should be at the dance."
Jughead leaned against the wall, looking unbothered. "It's like two in the
morning. The dance is over."
"Well, what'd you do with Betty?" FP demanded.
Jughead looked at him like he was stupid.
"I took her back to her house," he said slowly. "But since I didn't know if
Archie snuck up to our room with his date, I didn't want to go back there after
and risk walking in on him."
That made sense. FP nodded at him. Made a vague gesture at the kitchen, at the
darkened living room. Not sure what he meant to say by it, except that what was
his was also Jughead's. Jughead watched him for a second, then pushed off the
wall and went to raid the fridge. FP took the opportunity to wipe at the mess
on the recliner with his jeans. When Jughead resurfaced with a sandwich in one
hand, FP pushed him to the couch.
Jughead stared at him, bemused.
"Had one or two tonight," FP admitted. "No more. I'm keeping the drinking down,
you know."
Actually, he'd made his way through the entire six pack, it was just that the
empty cans had been kicked under the recliner. But Jughead didn't need to know
that. FP sat down next to him, careful to put some distance between them.
"You have fun?" he said. "With Betty?"
Jughead took a bite of his sandwich rather than answer. Chewed. Swallowed. FP
watched his Adam's apple bob.
"I told her," Jughead said, after a bit. "Not about us. But about what I was
doing. What I had to do, I mean. Most of the time I didn't want to do it."
His voice was careful and blank again. FP felt like somebody had dunked his
heart in a bucket of misery.
"If she has a problem with you now," he told Jughead hoarsely, "if she's
judging you over this, then she's no damn prize. You don't let her make you
feel ashamed about this, you hear?"
Jughead flushed.
"She's fine with it, dad," he said. "Well. Not fine. She was sad for me. But
she wants me to come upstate with her this weekend to visit her sister -- you
know, the one that I told you got pregnant and has two kids now? Betty doesn't
let anybody even talk about Polly, with the things people say, but she says she
wants me to meet her."
He polished off the sandwich, all except for a crust, which he held between two
fingers and focused on, like he couldn't quite meet FP's eyes.
"I think I could have something good with her," he said, voice high. "Normal."
Oh.
Oh.
At least the pain was tempered with pride. His boy was moving past what FP
couldn't. That was good. Bittersweet, but good. FP opened his mouth to
congratulate him. Jughead cut him off.
"I'm not normal, though, dad," he said. "I'm not. I like her -- I told her I
would go, and that I want this, and I do, but--"
Suddenly his boy was twisting close, tossing aside the crust. Grabbing FP's
undershirt and pulling him in, kissing him. FP's brain short-circuited. He
shouldn't kiss back, but he couldn't help it. Jughead said into his mouth,
rapid-fire, like he was trying to get it over with: "I know I'm damaged. Okay?
I know I'm messed up. But I liked it when you made it so I didn't hate myself
for that."
And then he was diving in for more kissing. Hungry. Hungry as FP was. One of
his fine hands was stroking FP's jaw. That touch brought FP back from the dead,
and that was before Jughead's other hand found its way into his briefs. FP
tried to break off, to warn the kid that he'd be soft. He'd come not too long
ago, not that he wanted to tell Jughead why or how. But his son just seemed to
take the softness as a challenge. He pulled down the band of FP's briefs,
breathing hard, licking his lips.
They should stop.
FP knew they should stop, knew he should tell Jughead to quit it.
"Let me get that pretty mouth red and swollen," was what he said instead.
"Before you do anything."
So then they were kissing again. Wet and eager. Like a pair of kids, though
only one of them was that. Jughead was making these contented little sounds
that drove a part of FP wild. He helped the boy strip off his jacket, his tie,
his pants and shirt. Wrapped his arms around him. Jughead shuddered a little.
He smiled -- really smiled -- into FP's mouth.
"You miss me holding you?" FP asked him softly.
Jughead nodded. FP could see the boy's dick tenting in his boxers. He rubbed it
once through the thin fabric and Jughead buried his face in FP's shoulder,
gasping a little.
"Can I--?"
Fuck. Like the boy had to ask. FP sat back and let Jughead get on his hands and
knees, sinking a little into the ratty cushions. He took one hand and closed it
on FP's cock. Then he brought his head down and mouthed the soft tip. FP had
always been wide enough that even this was a mouthful for Jughead, but he
didn't seem to mind the girth. He shifted his weight to his elbows, still
suckling. FP admired the concentration on his face, the shower of beauty marks
on his throat. He passed a hand over them, rubbing Jug there, and Jughead
curled into the touch. Jughead had gotten so good at this by now that FP was
firming up, easy.
"Missed this," FP confessed to him.
Jughead's eyes flicked back up to him. He looked like FP wasn't telling him
anything he didn't already know. He looked satisfied. He pulled off the head of
FP's dick and said, almost like an aside, "Me too."
He was panting a little. He looked ready to dive back in, but FP put a hand on
his shoulder, pushing him back. Not to stop this. FP was too far gone, too
filthy to stop. He couldn't stop, not any more than he could stop all the dirty
fantasies he had about the kid. But he could make it good for Jughead.
"Let's get you in bed," FP told him. "Wanna do this right."
He barely processed how they got to the bedroom, but they got there. Jughead
eased himself onto the bed like he still thought about it as half-his. He sat
there looking up at his father as FP rooted fruitlessly for a condom. For the
first time, FP regretted trying to cure himself of Jughead by fucking other
people. He came up pretty much empty.
"I went to the clinic last week," Jughead said now, looking away a little. "You
know, in case Betty wanted to do anything. I came up clean. So if you're
clean..."
He let that dangle, gently, like it didn't weigh anything. Like it wasn't
dropping an anvil of want right on FP's chest. He'd never had his boy raw. It
had never seemed right to demand that. But, shit, he'd recently gotten a clean
bill of health too.
"If that's what you want," FP said, "then you'd better turn over."
Jughead obeyed. FP spared a second to admire him from this angle: his long,
skinny legs, his ass in the air. Jughead's cock was already leaking. FP climbed
up behind him, noting how Jughead shuddered a little with anticipation when he
perceived his father's weight on the bed. He set about returning the favor the
boy had done him. Tugging slow and torturously at Jughead's dick. Scissoring
into that pucker of his, but gently. Real gently. He always liked opening
Jughead up. It was the noises the boy made. Every time like the first time,
every time like he'd forgotten it could be good from the start.
When FP figured the kid was loose enough, he put a hand on Jughead's shaking
ass and coaxed the boy into turning over again.
He pushed Jughead's thighs as far back as they would go. Settled in between his
legs. Jughead locked eyes with him, not looking away, unafraid. That fired up
something warm inside FP. Usually he held off, tormenting the kid with
kindness. Not tonight. Tonight he pushed in to the hilt. Jughead moaned at the
intrusion, eyes tearing up a little. His dick was rock-hard, though, and he was
hot and perfect around FP. By the third stroke FP was catching the nub inside
him, making him sob.
Once he got that rhythm down, FP leaned in and kissed him again. And again. And
again, in time with his thrusts. He hooked one arm around Jughead's thigh and
used the other to prop up the boy's head. Jughead pulled FP's own head in,
hands clasped around his jaw.
"That's good, boy," FP managed. It took all his effort not to come yet, holding
out for Jughead to come first. "You're doing good. Doing good, son."
Jughead whined into his mouth, and then he was coming all over their stomachs.
His head lolled back a little, and FP caught sight of that wide, bruised mouth.
Jughead was smiling. Triumphant. That undid FP. He came too, inside the boy,
barely holding himself together.
-
After he'd changed the sheets so Jughead wouldn't have to sleep in the mess, he
pulled his son into his arms for the night.
"You'll stay, right?" FP asked him. "You'll stay?"
Jughead snorted.
"Obviously."
"We only have to do it when you want to," FP reminded him.
Another snort.
"Obviously."
Jughead was a phenomenal kid, but a little bit snotty, too. When he was half-
asleep, drowsy and boneless, FP flicked his beanie back a little to punish him.
Jughead came-to briefly, long enough to say, "Just take it off, dad."
Pleased, FP did. He ran his fingers through his kid's hair until Jughead's
breath evened out. Well and truly asleep. So FP could sleep, too.
In the morning, Jughead got up before he did and had the idea to clean the
trailer up, so he found the beer cans under the recliner and they had their
second fight. That one, like the first, was FP's fault. He made sure Fred
passed more money along to the kid, for him to take upstate when he went with
Betty to visit her sister. This time he did see the boy off, hugging him in
front of the Andrews. In front of the Andrews, hugging was all he could do.
That and rub a thumb along the boy's forehead, noting the way Jughead took in a
sharp, needy breath.
FP pulled him close again, spoke into his ear.
"None of that stuff you found--" he said. "None of that'll be there when you
get back. You hear? I'm off it. I promise."
And it was a rough, miserable weekend, but he kept his promise. Jughead
rewarded him by staying another night afterwards, and in the morning coming up
behind FP in the bathroom. Getting him to sit down on the toilet. Climbing onto
his dick and riding him there, in the cramped space. He wasn't an expert at
that by any means, but FP still enjoyed it plenty. He liked the look of
concentration Jughead had, when the boy took charge like that.
FP managed to form a box of pancake mix into something nearly edible
afterwards, too, so Jughead even got some breakfast that morning.
"Should bring that Betty by sometime," FP suggested to him. If his boy liked
the girl, then he figured he ought to get to know her.
Though, after a minute, he had to add, "Not for anything untoward, I mean. I
expect us both to be gentlemen."
Jughead chewed his blackened pancake. For a second, he looked worried.
"Do you want me to break up with her?" he suggested. He didn't sound too happy
about the suggestion.
"'Course not," FP said. "You should have a girlfriend, Jug."
He meant that. Speaking as Jughead's father, as someone who wanted a good life
for the boy, he meant that. Jughead should have the girl, the normal life -
- shit. College, someday. FP wasn't going to let Jughead duck out of any of
that. He wouldn't be much of a father if he did.
It was just that sometimes he was more than a father, too. He rubbed at a
trickle of maple syrup at the corner of the boy's mouth now. Jughead's head
dipped, and then he was sucking on FP's fingers, looking up at him through his
long lashes.
"Don't worry about me," FP told him. "You go out, you get your girl. But when
you wanna come back? I'll be here. Give you whatever you want, then."
-
Jughead slept at the Andrews house less and less and then not at all. Then he
slept only at home. But he did spend plenty of time out. At the Blue and Gold.
With that Betty, or with Archie Andrews.
But when he came home at night, and reached for his father, and said dad in
that way he knew always fired FP up --
FP always gave his boy what he needed.
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