Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/12119823.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Riverdale_(TV_2017)
  Relationship:
      FP_Jones_II/Jughead_Jones
  Character:
      FP_Jones_II, Jughead_Jones, Archie_Andrews, Fred_Andrews
  Additional Tags:
      Drunk_Sex, Anal_Sex, First_Time, Loss_of_Virginity, Father/Son_Incest,
      Parent/Child_Incest, Sleep_Sex, Somnophilia, Non-Consensual_Somnophilia,
      Episode_Related, Dubious_Consent, Mistaken_Identity, Daddy_Kink
  Series:
      Part 3 of Not_Wired_to_be_Normal
  Collections:
      Riverdale_Kinkmeme
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-09-17 Chapters: 2/2 Words: 7303
****** Simple ******
by Elektra_Pendragon_(elekdragon)
Summary
     It was both the best and worst night of Jughead's life.
Notes
     Set during chapter 7 of season one. Based on a kinkmeme prompt, but
     expanded from that original post: http://riverdale-
     kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1356.html?thread=41804#cmt41804. Prompt: "i'm
     trash and i've wanted jughead riding his dad while calling him daddy
     ever since FP was introduced."
***** Chapter 1 *****
"The Shaggin' Wagon!"
Dad's eyes were shining, and not from any sort of booze. He was sober, smiling,
joking. He'd just finished a hard day of work on the construction site with Mr.
Andrews. Even as Jughead blushed at the embarrassingly teen-boy ridiculousness
that was an old bus's nickname, he was flushed and warm at seeing his dad like
this. It was like the old days, when Dad would come home to eat and talk
instead of drink and pass out. When they still had a home.
Jughead ignored the flare of anger that came up at the thought of the house
they'd lost, instead focusing on his father telling another story of when he
was young.
"This was before your dad had game," his eyes danced between Archie and Mr.
Andrews, FP putting on a show now that he had everyone's attention, playing the
charming host to a small audience. "Senior Year, he started a band, and then
the girls were all over him."
Jughead could almost see FP back then, wide-eyed and pretty, like in the one
grainy "wedding" photo his mom had kept in the kitchen drawer. It was his
favorite to look at, FP with his corners all smoothed down by youth, his face
round, smiling into the camera and holding his visibly pregnant wife, as though
he'd just been handed the world, and not another burden.
He looked a little like that now, smiling at Mr. Andrews, leaning into his
space. His arm was slung over the back of the booth, and for a moment Jughead
let himself pretend that he was in Mr. Andrews's place. What it would feel to
be so close to the man, feeling his warmth so openly, his attention, the casual
touch of his hand. To be there, himself, but older, on the same level.
His heartrate skyrocketed when FP's eyes made contact with his lingering gaze
for a moment before rolling back to Mr. Andrews. "He doesn't care about that
stuff, Fred. Football. Sports. Takes after his mom in that respect, and I mean
that as a compliment."
The whole night, Jughead had wanted his father's attention on him, and suddenly
he wanted to squirm as FP turned and smiled down at him. "I'd rather see you
spending your time writing, thinking up stories. You still do that?" His
fingers danced in the air, his voice light and teasing. "Nose in a book? Typing
away?"
Jughead had to break off eye contact, focus on something other than the
gorgeous man in front of him. He barely heard Archie's voice beside him, until
Betty's name dropped like a bomb between them.
Dad seemed to leap on the name instantly, his voice shivering in a joking away.
"Betty? Ooooh." He tapped on the table, making Jughead jump a little in his
shoes. "Is that your girlfriend?" His face seemed so fucking interested, laser-
focused on Jughead in a way that he'd always wanted, but it made his stomach
turn.
"I want to know more about the band. What was the name of the band?"
Fred's discomfort distracted his dad away from following his teasing, just as
he hoped. Of course, Jughead knew what the band was called. His father loved to
talk about his youth, when he was strong and the world had been so easy. It was
something else to talk about, something that wasn't Betty.
Betty was... Betty was something that felt like his last chance. She was
something that wasn't quite normal, but as close to it he'd ever be able to
get. He wanted it to work, wanted to fall in love with her and get married and
have a family and hope that whatever this curse was that festered in his soul
would not fall on his own children. She seemed to like him. He wanted that to
be enough.
Betty was good, and he didn't want to talk about her with his dad, not when he
couldn't even get hard anymore without thinking of his father, not while he
wanted to be fucked by his father so badly. Jughead didn't like thinking about
sex when it came to Betty. It was... dirty. Wrong. Betty didn't deserve to be
sullied with such dark thoughts. She was his last chance for something normal.
"Hey, excuse me. Pop?" FP's voice wasn't that loud, but it felt like a shout in
the small diner. He was twisted in the booth, his eyes moving quickly between
the retreating Pop and Mr. Andrews. "We invited you guys out," he said with an
angry whine to his voice. It was his pre-freak out tone, the one he used before
he got really mad. Instantly, tension filled the air as he gestured Pop to
return to the table, fighting to get his wallet out. Pop laid the bill back on
the table, giving Jughead a peek at the cost.
He felt a moment of panic, that maybe his dad didn't have enough money, and
they'd be back in that awful place of everyone knowing what a loser he was.
Jughead tried to dissolve the tension. "Let me pay."
"Put your damn money away." His father's voice was harsh, angry, but in
control. Instantly, Jughead was hard beneath the booth, so hard he was dizzy as
he hunched over the remains of his fries. FP glared at Mr. Andrews, staring the
other man down as he handed over his money, daring him to fight over this. "You
owe me this."
FP was so hot when he was (sober) in control. Jughead shoved the rest of his
fries in his mouth, willing his erection to go away before the pissing contest
was over, so he could leave with a shred of his dignity intact. This stupid
dinner needed to be done. It had been a stupid idea, a complete failure at
being normal.
But Archie, fucking Archie, just didn't want FP to leave. He invited him over
to talk about guitars and music, and Mr. Andrews just went with it, like he'd
gone with everything that night. They split up by blood, fathers and sons
getting into their trucks to head over to the Andrews house.
---
Jughead remained silent, watching, as Archie and FP talked about bands and
music. FP's face was completely focused on Archie, his eyes dancing as he
gestured wildly, as mesmerizing here in this dark garage as he was in Pop's.
When Archie dug out a second guitar, Fred had left them to it, pleading
exhaustion as he nearly ran from the soundproofed garage.
Jughead barely allowed himself to blink as they settled on stools, each taking
up a guitar and playing. He wanted to remember every moment, savor the memory
of his father being so happy. FP was out of tune and off-beat, strumming like a
drunk with the DTs and enjoying himself immensely. He was just plain awful, but
Archie just played along, bringing harmony to the discord.
Maybe if Jughead had had the talent for music instead of writing, maybe his dad
would look at him like he was looking at Archie, like he was proud of something
he made. Real pride, not that showy look his dad gave him when he teased him
about his writing. Music and football was something that FP could understand,
not old films and moody writing.
The night was winding down--fucking finally!--as Archie set aside his guitar,
and the garage went quiet. Jughead had spent far too much time just observing
his father having a great time, and his ass was falling asleep. He stood and
stretched, trying to send quiet signals to Archie that playtime was over.
Instead of heading towards his jacket, or even the door, FP casually strolled
towards the vintage fridge in the corner, setting the guitar aside. "Hey,
Archie, does Fred keep any beer in there?"
Jughead's heartbeat skipped. Archie looked uncomfortable, tripping over his
tongue as he shot panicked looks at Jughead. Yes, there was beer in the fridge,
but it wasn't Fred's, and it definitely wasn't what FP needed right now. "Uh,
Dad, don't you think it's a little late?" He gestured at the door.
At least FP could read some of Jughead's signals, catching on that he just
wanted to leave. He mumbled in agreement, steering himself away from the
promise of alcohol and towards his flannel and jacket. They were so close to
having the perfect evening Jughead always wanted. It was both the best and
worst night Jughead had had in a long time--his father was sober and attentive,
but Jughead was still so locked into dark longing he couldn't just let himself
be the happy son. Every guilt-laden heartbeat was bringing him closer to the
moment they could break apart, escaping before things went horribly wrong.
Then Archie slammed his foot in his own mouth.
"Hey, Mr. Jones, before you go, can I ask you a question?"
Jughead felt a chill creep into his fingers, and his elbows ached.
"Yeah."
"Earlier tonight, you said my dad owed you. What did you mean by that?"
Jughead squeezed Archie's shoulder, leaning into his space to make his meaning
clear. "Hey, Archie, why don't we quit while we're ahead?" /Please don't do
this to me, Arch./ Jughead felt like screaming.
But Archie was utterly obtuse, unable to read simple human emotions, even when
it was his best friend nearly vibrating out of his skin. "It's just--I mean,
it's just a question." So fucking innocent. So fucking oblivious. "Did
something happen between you two?"
So fucking self-absorbed.
FP shrugged, looking worn down for the first time that night. It was an old
look, the kind of look he'd had since he'd lost his job. Jughead could feel the
cold ice down his spine, his heart stuttering before pitching into quick, thick
beats.
"It's ancient history."
/But it's not, it's just months old, it's just like yesterday, Dad./
"But, your dad and me, we started Andrews Construction together."
"You and my dad were partners?"
FP chuckled, his throat thick as he started to tell the old tale. "He wouldn't
call us that."
Jughead knew this story too, the way that burdens had heaped onto his father,
burdens like Jughead, and his sister, and bills, and life. There were times
when Jughead really wished he'd never been born--or maybe, just born different.
If he'd been anyone else, he could have found a way to make his dad happy,
happy enough he wouldn't need to drink. If he wasn't his father's son, he could
have been his lover, young and eager and loving him enough to make things
better. If only... if only...
But unlike Archie, Jughead couldn't live in that type of dream world. He was
stuck here, aware of every minute, of every molecule of the air as his father's
despair took over.
"You know, I think I need something a little harder than beer."
He should have known that his father couldn't go far without something in arm's
reach. FP was an 8am drunk; of course he wouldn't leave the house without
booze. He dug a flask out of his jacket, unscrewing the top and swallowing the
powerful brew until he became fuzzy and distant.
It felt a little like his world falling apart, watching his father go from
sober to drunk, from in control to wobbling in disorder. That it was happening
in front of Archie, perfect fucking Archie, was an added humiliation. Sure, Mr.
Andrews had his own brush with alcoholism, but he'd never fallen as far as Dad
had. The two boys shared the uncomfortable silence of children used to their
parents getting drunk and clumsy.
It started with the flask, then graduated to those beers that Jughead had
thwarted him from earlier. FP was still charming, still commanding his
audience, but his words were dropping off, his sentences dissolving into sighs
and giggles as he lost his place. It didn't matter, they were well-worn
stories, things that Jughead had heard a thousand times before. When he'd
started rehashing the very stories he'd told earlier that night at Pop's,
Jughead stepped in to catch his attention.
"Hey, um, Dad? You think we should head out? It's getting late."
FP nodded, tossing the empty can away in the general direction of the trash.
"Yeah. Big day tomorrow." His eyes opened wide suddenly, then squinted down
like he was trying to read fine print. "I need to piss."
"Dad--"
FP waved him off. He lowered his voice, leaning towards Archie in a
conspirator's whisper. "I think your dad's asleep. I'll just go outside." He
wobbled his way to the door, leaning out before his feet caught up with him,
sending him towards the bushes.
Both Jughead and Archie blew out a sigh of relief, glad that FP wasn't going to
try to go inside the house. Mr. Andrews didn't need to see him like this. They
busied themselves, Archie cleaning up the space and Jughead glaring at the
wall. Like always, Archie had to be the one to speak.
"Jughead... what your dad told us... I had no idea."
Fucking innocent little Archie. "Me neither," Jughead lied easily, barely
biting back his temper. "Illuminating, isn't it?" He picked at his nails,
trying not to look over at Archie. He felt he might scream if he did.
Archie sighed heavily. Jughead could almost see his brain working overtime to
defend his own angelic father. "My dad must've had a good reason."
"For screwing over my dad?" It slipped out before he could stop it, but luckily
FP chose that moment to stumble back towards the garage, announcing his
approach with a loud, "Are you ready to roll, Jugs?"
Jughead scooped up his dad's jacket, managing to hide the almost-empty flask
into the space between the couch cushions before his father could tumble
through the door. The man was smiling, warm and open, as he tossed his keys in
the air. Jughead caught them easily against his chest. Even in his drunkenness,
his father's aim was still good.
Jughead was supposed to be spending the night at Archie's, but he really didn't
want to. Not with his dad right there, needing to be taken care of. He'd sleep
on his old bed, the couch, back at the trailer. "See you tomorrow," he said
evenly as he stepped into his father's space. FP rolled into his side, sweeping
his arm over his shoulders and pulling Jughead close as they walked towards the
truck. Warmth blossomed in his chest at the friendly gesture.
Jughead drove, of course. At the very least, his father had recognized he was
more than a little too off to be able to drive safely. The older man huddled
into his jacket and snuggled into the bench seat as Jughead revved the engine
and waited for the heater to pick up. It was getting colder more quickly at
night, winter encroaching on the fall. FP nuzzled into his collar, looking like
a puppy settling into a blanket, just impossibly vulnerable as his mind swam
with alcohol.
Jughead pulled out, trying not to look back at Archie's house. It was a bit of
a drive to the trailer park, more than 3 times as far as his (old) house used
to be. Too far to walk. There were times when they were young when Archie would
sneak out of his house and come over to play in Jughead's treehouse. He'd loved
that treehouse. FP had built it himself, made it strong and sturdy and perfect
for his son. It was something special, something that was his alone, that
Archie would never have. Mr. Andrews didn't believe it was safe, and would
never build one for his own son.
It was the one thing he had that was special, that showed him his daddy loved
him best in the world. And now it's gone.
All Jughead could do is look at his father's face as he slept, his gaze
switching between the empty road and FP's features, mentally tracing them and
dreaming of getting to feel those lips.
***** Chapter 2 *****
The Sunnyside trailer park was brightly lit like its namesake, even this late
at night, but it didn't help with the sad, worn-down vibe that permeated the
rusted signs. The scratch of gravel was muffled by the closed windows, the
squeak of the brakes as he parked in front of FP's trailer. The engine ticked
as he withdrew the keys. FP was sleeping, his breath sweetly heavy, bordering
on a snore. Snuggled down, he just looked so warm and vulnerable, handsome and
tempting.
Jughead threw himself out of the truck, letting the cool air penetrate his
clothes, drawing off his arousal. His cheeks burned in the chill breeze, but it
did nothing to ease the ache from being so hard for so long. His balls were
starting to feel sore, like the come was backed up inside, desperate to be
released. He felt he could shoot at any moment, every second another stab of
need hitting him to his core. He breathed deeply, holding the chill deep inside
as counted to twenty.
The day had been good, up until--but no, he wouldn't waste any more of his time
on Archie tonight. They were friends, yes, and he loved him like a brother, but
that didn't stop the sharp jealousy and anger he felt against him. At this
point, Jughead was used to the negative emotions that mixed and mingled with
his every thought of love. He breathed out, watching the curling wisps of his
stale breath, still feeling way too aroused and sore. He just needed to get his
father inside, and then he could find somewhere private to take care of his
problem.
Once he felt nominally back under control, he circled the truck and carefully
opened the passenger door. FP was leaning against it enough that he jolted
awake as the door opened, his body swaying in the cab as he looked around
fuzzily. "Hey," he mumbled, his cheeks dimpling as he looked over at Jughead.
His heart gave a painful squeeze at the sight. FP was breathtakingly beautiful
at times.
"Come on," Jughead cajoled, wrapping a hand over his arm and tugging. "Inside."
FP giggled and sighed, a strange light noise that shuddered in the air. He
pretty much fell out of the truck, his weight pleasantly heavy in Jughead's
arms as he held him up. He held him close for a moment, breathing in his smell,
memorizing the feel of him in his arms. Walking was almost like wrestling, his
drunken father barely able to assist as they navigated the sodium light leading
to the trailer's stairs. Jughead was sweating under his coat by the time he
jiggled the keys enough in the lock to elbow the door open.
The place was pretty much as messy as it had been the day before, but it was
easily navigable in the dim light. FP wiggled his arms out of his jacket,
getting caught and almost falling over until Jughead helped rescue him. The
heavy leather fell to the floor with a thump as soon as he was free. It was an
awkward dance as the two shuffled past empty bottles and pieces of trash as he
headed towards the couch. They fell together, in a mismatched pile of arms and
legs and huffing breaths. FP pitched to the side, almost face-planting into the
cushions as Jughead wrestled to keep his father from accidentally brushing his
groin.
"Oh, wow," FP mumbled as he was manhandled, his head loose on his neck. He beat
a hand on the couch, looking at the cushion like he'd never known how soft it
was before. "I'll sleep right here, on this couch." He breathed slowly, like
the very act of filling his lungs was a strange pleasure. He shifted until he
was flat out on his back, Jughead trying to lift his legs onto the couch with
the rest of his body. "You can have the bedroom."
Jughead sighed out a deep breath to keep from having to acknowledged the way
the thought brought a bead of precome dripping from his cock. What better place
to find some private time than in his father's bed, surrounded by his scent? He
forcibly killed the thought, scooting away as his dad squirmed and kicked. "I'm
not gonna take your bed, Dad," he said as he helped to settle his feet in his
lap.
"It wouldn't be the first time I crashed on this thing." He squirmed a little,
until Jughead started picking at the laces of his boot. "Ah, thank you." He
leaned back, grunting in relief. "If you stay--" he nearly sat up again, his
drowsy eyes squinting in the twilight darkness to try to read Jughead's face.
"Are you?" He seemed almost panicked for a moment, his eyes swimming around the
room. "You're gonna stay?" He waited until Jughead nodded, then he fell back,
rubbing his eyes. "Don't be late for school."
It made Jughead smile, the normality of it all. Maybe he would stay the night,
just for the night. He threw himself into the role of the good son, filling the
suddenly silence with familial chatter. "It's all right. I'm already way ahead
in all my classes." With Kevin no longer responding to booty calls, living in
the school really gave him a chance to catch up with all his homework. He
focused on the knot he was untying, talking almost without thinking to fill the
silence. "Hey, I talked to Mom." He pried off a boot, setting it on the floor.
"She got a job at a call center to pay for her online classes. I guess she's
finally going after her GED. Jellybean is helping her study."
He laughed at that, keeping his eyes focused on the laces, keeping his mind on
how real--how NORMAL this all is, how it could be without the surreality of his
erection in the way. "By the way, Jellybean wants to go with JB now. She thinks
it sounds cooler." He finally pried the last shoe off, tucking it onto the
floor next to its mate. "She's 10 years old and listens to Pink Floyd on vinyl,
I don't think she could get any cooler..."
Jughead felt that familiar spark of anger when he found his father asleep in
the middle of what had felt like the first time in a long time that he was
listening. Of course the man was asleep. With how much he'd drunk on top of a
day of hard work, he'd probably dropped off before Jughead even started
talking.
Figures. It made the perfect end to the day. It was like he was being punished
for his gross thoughts, the tantaling possibility that things could be normal
held out of his reach. He couldn't have FP as a real father, anymore than he
could have him as his lover. The most he could hope for was a couple stolen
moments, and the shame of jerking off alone while using memories to fuel his
perverted fantasies. It was pathetic. He was pathetic.
Jughead stared at his dad. Asleep, he looked younger, like he'd looked laughing
and joking with Mr. Andrews. The usual stress was eased. Jughead absently
rubbed his father's feet as he stared. It was mesmerizing, being this close,
the man so soft and vulnerable. Everything he wanted, right here, just out of
reach. He was so tired of fighting, of being denied the smallest bit of
happiness. Or pleasure.
Pleasure, so close, he could feel it.
Jughead suddenly realized that he was rubbing his father's feet against his
erection, the pressure doing a little to ease the throbbing ache he'd spent
hours living with. He stopped his hips immediately, feeling mortified at what
he was doing. FP wasn't even awake, and there he was, molesting the man. He
stared in horrified guilt at his father's face, searching for any sign of
awareness.
Nothing.
Jughead couldn't help the guilty twist of his head, the need to check to see if
anyone was watching. Of course there was no one. Even if they could see into
the trailer, the twilight gloom of streetlights would render the scene a
strange tangle of shadows. Nothing really to give away the fact of what he was
doing. Just two forms in the darkness. Alone.
Tentatively, Jughead leaned forward, tilting his hips a bit towards his father.
God, he just wanted to touch, to feel, just once, just something. He rubbed his
hard cock against the arch of his father's socked foot, moving his hips in
slight circles as he increased the pressure. It was heat and pleasure and
torture, but no one was there, no one could see him humiliating himself. How
pathetic, rubbing off against his own father's foot, like a pervert. He sucked
in a shuddering breath, his heart skipping as he crushed his pelvis to his
father's foot.
It felt so good, to have something real, to be able to open his eyes and look
down and see his father's slack face even as he shamefully humped his arch. He
wanted to be naked, to feel the scratch of wool on his cock, to rub his precome
between his toes, to mold his balls into the smooth arch of his sole...
/Jesus fucking Christ, what the fuck am I doing?!/ Jughead let go of FP's
ankle, tossing himself back into the arm of the couch. The old wood groaned
under his weight, the whole couch rocking slightly with the force of his
revulsion.
So close. He had been so close to coming in his pants while dry humping his
father's foot. Fuck. He knew he was a pervert, but this was getting out of
hand. The familiar shame that usually came after a spectacular orgasm washed
over him, doing nothing for his aching balls but twisting the pain of longing
even deeper.
He was sick. Just a pathetic, sick, pervert who was nothing more than trailer
trash, with a broken family and a drunk for a dad. He was always a weirdo,
shunned by other kids, like they all knew there was something horribly wrong
with him. They were right. He had deserved every beating he'd taken. Hell,
right now he wanted to punch himself. He thrust one hand into his tight jeans,
wrapping his fingers around his feverish prick, and squeezed, hard. He didn't
deserve to feel good, he didn't deserve a nice night out as a family. He was
broken and rotten, and there was nothing in this world that could fix it.
FP slumbered, drawing soft breaths, unaware of the war raging in his oldest
child. For an insane second, Jughead wanted to take the pillow from behind his
back and use it to smother the man. The urge passed quickly, his frustration
and fear and arousal turning the mental image of patricide into one of simple
incest. Instead of smothering him, he could cover FP in kisses. He could taste
his slack lips, suck his cock, rub his face against his stubble until he was
scratched and burned. He could do whatever he wanted--had very nearly done so
when he'd almost fucked his own father's feet.
No one would know. He probably wouldn't even wake up.
Jughead shook his head, squeezing his cock in another punishing clench that
just made him want to moan for more. He shouldn't be thinking this. He
shouldn't be doing this. It could destroy everything between them.
But it would be so worth it. He'd already debased and humiliated himself in so
many ways. First coaxing Kevin to play rough and dirty, then finding other men,
older men across the river, once Kevin latched onto Joaquin. He'd fucked his
own fist so many times, dreaming of FP's mouth. Hell, he'd fucked a bottle
pretending it was his dad's dick. He'd nearly fucking come just touching his
feet! If he was going to humiliate himself like this, he might as well go all
the way.
He was a terrible person, a pervert, a deviant. Broken, dark and ruined. Why
didn't he just go for what he really wanted? His father was passed-out drunk,
and Jughead was already damned.
Just once. He just needed to feel it once, then he could go through his whole
life without it. He could settle down with Betty, move far away from Southside
and Sunnyside and Riverdale and Greendale and all of it.
It would be such a simple thing, to use his father's drunkenness as an excuse.
When he was drunk enough, stayed drunk enough, his father would lose whole
days. He'd probably never even remember anything, even if he woke up. It could
be like a dream.
Jughead didn't allow himself to pause or think it over any further. He just
made the decision, and leaned over, rubbing his hands from the warm swell of
FP's thighs to the soft pouch of his Henley-covered stomach. He pressed his
face into the curve of his balls and breathed in deeply, his fingers pulling at
his father's belt and fly. The fabric was worn but stiff with old sweat. The
faint smell of hard work and hard liquor clung to everything, from his jeans to
the soft flannel. It was familiar from the slow descent his dad had followed
for years before finally jumping head first into alcoholism with unemployment.
Some part of him was grateful that his father didn't also go in for the whoring
part of the whole white-trash downward spiral. That would have been more
public, more humiliating as rumors of his father's partners would swirl around
the small town. But a bigger part felt like it would have been easier. It would
have given his mother a better reason to leave, and himself a good reason for
staying. It certainly would have made this easier.
Not that it was exactly difficult, pulling his father's cock out of his pants
and into the night air. He held the limp, soft organ in his hand, memorizing
the weight, the wrinkles of flesh. He'd long imagined this very moment,
stretched out nearly on his stomach, so close to his dad's dick. The sweat
smell was stronger now, as he leaned forward to lick a stripe over the saggy
skin. Just a quick taste, enough to get some lubrication.
Jughead squeezed his fingers, resettling his grip like a guitar player tuning
up as he coaxed a little interest into his father's sleeping dick. For a long
moment, he worried that FP was too drunk to even react, but slowly, his penis
filled out, lengthening and thickening, feeling weighty and hot in his palm. A
grower more than a shower, at half-chub his erection was a good mouthful as he
pressed his lips and kissed the peeking crown. Like father like son they were
both uncut, and he couldn't wait to feel the whole thing sliding down his
throat. He'd sucked cock before, so many times, it was a reflex to stretch his
neck, move his lips, and get into position.
But no, not this time. He wanted something special, something he'd been saving
no matter how hard those other daddies begged for it. Later. He could do
whatever later, if there was ever another opportunity. But right now, he needed
his father inside him.
Jughead licked all the way down to his pubes, then used the combination of
loose skin and spit to to jerk his dad to full hardness. FP remained asleep,
just making small movements with his hips, his breathing quicker. When Jughead
let go in order to find the bottle of lube in his jacket, his dad's proud
erection remained firm, jerking onto his stomach as a small, sad whine escaped
his mouth.
"Just a moment, daddy," Jughead couldn't resist saying, a shiver of pleasure
making his own dick pulse a thick release of precome. The word never failed to
get him going these days, another little humiliation as he called strangers by
that sacred name and pretended hard enough to get off when they in turn called
him son.
Jughead stood to shuck his jacket completely, kicking off his shoes and
shimmying out of his pants completely. He barely swiped at his hole with the
lube, just getting it wet enough to work. He wanted to feel it later, to walk
around bruised and aching and knowing what it was from. If this was his only
chance, then he wanted to remember it for as long as possible. This was his
first time, and he wanted it to hurt, to bleed, to give that one last special
part of himself to the man he truly loves.
Jughead was more thorough slicking his dad's cock, feeling every centimeter of
skin and working him until a small drop of precum eased out the tip. The slight
curve of the hot flesh seemed to fit his palm perfectly, like his hands were
made to bring pleasure to this man. The thick lube glittered in the murk,
squelching moistly in the quiet. When he let go this time, his dad's dick
bobbed in time with his pulse.
Jughead carefully climbed onto the couch, straddling his dad's hips as he found
a way to fit. He settled carefully on top of the soft bump of his lower belly,
feeling the hot, wet kiss of his erection slide over his skin. FP's nose
wrinkled, his slack hands lifting and dropping clumsily. For a moment, Jughead
just hovered, watching his father's face for any sign of awakening. He had
always wanted to see those ethereal blue eyes sharp with pleasure, and he was
torn between wanting Dad to wake up and stay asleep. He leaned close, looking
for any hint of blue, but only felt the faint tickle of his fingertips touching
his knee, his sour breath on his face.
Jughead reached back, flailing for cock until the lube-sticky flesh rolled into
his grip. He squeezed, watching that beloved face so close he caught the deep-
chest grunt as his father jerked up into his grip.
Jughead resisted the urge to kiss him, and instead slid back, focusing his
attention on getting past the tight resistance of his own virginity. He'd
fingered himself so many times before, even getting brave enough to try
stuffing larger things in his ass once mom moved out, but this was bigger than
anything before, even bigger than the bottle.
He closed his eyes, focusing on the mental image of how they must look right
then--his father fully dressed, himself only missing his pants, his small hips
stretched wide over his father's hips. No one else could see them, no one else
would have this. FP was going to be his first, his only, his best. Jughead's
cock twitched, pulsing with pleasure at the thought, distracting him enough to
just let the head pop inside. It was a shock of sensation, and he gasped, "Oh,
daddy."
"Jugs?"
Jughead jerked back in surprise, impaling himself more onto his father's
burning erection. His eyes snapped open, his heartbeat thudding into his throat
as he looked down.
There was a bare glitter of eyes slitted open, like tears trapped between his
lashes. The fingertips at his knee dug in, gripping and holding as a deep
moaning groan broke from his dad's throat.
"Fuck," Jughead breathed.
Then his father lurched, his hips snapping up in a powerful thrust, fucking a
deep burning path through Jughead's body. It ached like overworked muscles,
like he was splitting apart and being created anew. Deep! So deep. Sweat broke
out over his body, and he shuddered like an exhausted horse. "Daddy," he
moaned, his voice oddly high and strained. FP's eyes never opened further than
that slit, but his lip curled in that familiar rictus of amused pleasure. He
looked like he did when he finished a deal, and things were going his way.
"Baby," FP murmured. His hands climbed Jughead's thighs, coming up his hips to
rub and squeeze and hold him for a few shallow thrusts. The slight friction
alone would have been enough to get him off despite the distracting pain, but
then his dad's hand--rough, dry, but so strong, so big--wrapped around his
dick.
An unrecognizable sound escaped his mouth, a broken whimper tremoring into a
moan that caught and hitched in his throat.
"Shhhhh," his dad slurred, "son. So good, baby boy. Gon'a ride daddy's cock?"
Jughead gasped another strange noise, his own hips starting a weird jerking
circle as he tried to thrust into the tight grip. It caused the cock buried
deep inside to jerk and stir up his insides, causing all sorts of conflicting
sensations to flood his brain. He hiccuped and gagged, moaned and cried, shook
and panted and gasped.
"Shhhhhhhhhhhhh." It was just a breath over pursed lips, but the noise,
meaningless and formless, was soothing. Like when he was a kid, waking from a
nightmare. Just a noise that let him know daddy is here, you're safe, time to
settle down. "Shhh."
"Daddy?" Jughead gasped out, shifting his hips carefully. The aborted in-out
glide was a more familiar feeling, something he knew and wanted.
"C'm'n, baby. Shhh."
This time he managed to rise up shakily on his knees, his body tingling as his
father's dick started to slide out with a release of pressure. The tight grip
around his own cock rode the movement, pulling down on his foreskin as a
counterpoint. He dropped down, the sharp force pushing back in, filling him as
suddenly as the first big thrust. This, this was what he'd been wanting. He
shifted, rolling his hips as he slammed himself down. The slap of their skin
started to fill the air as he found a rhythm, riding his daddy like he's always
dreamed.
Jughead stared down at that beautiful face, the way FP's eyes crinkled at the
corners, his teeth like pearls between his slack lips. His eyes were still just
two liquid slits in the darkness, never quite opening all the way even as he
growled out sloppy encouragements, half-formed words becoming incoherent noises
that turned to groans.
"Oh, daddy. Fuck. Daddy," Jughead chanted with his movements. The term itself
seemed to push both of them on. "Daddy, daddy, daddy," he moaned until he burst
to pieces, splattering come over his father's Henley. FP's hips studdered,
pushing impossibly up and in and then he, too, was coming. The extra internal
pressure added another shiver of pleasure, and a long string of come spurted
belatedly out of his softening cock.
When his ears started working again, it was to the familiar sound of his father
snoring. Jughead was lightheaded, sore, and tingling with pleasure. He closed
his mouth, working up some spit to wet his dry tongue as he tried to calm his
breathing. Exhaustion was pulling at him, coaxing him to just slide off to
sleep, but he knew he had to move. He could feel the wet slide of his dad's
softening cock slowly shrinking and leaving him empty. He flexed his internal
muscles, trying to hold him inside, feeling a small jolt of distant pain, but
it only delayed the inevitable.
Jughead had a hard time finding his feet, or his feet were having a hard time
finding the floor. Either way they were operating completely independent of his
legs, and he wobbled dangerously before all his body parts snapped back
together. He looked down, fearing what he'd see.
His dad was asleep, as peacefully as before. What had felt like a giant fist
punching into his rectum was now just a cute curl of flesh, exhausted against
the darkness of his jeans. The massive load of come he was sure he'd blasted
out of his balls was just a few wet stripes soaking into dark spots on the gray
fabric of his dad's Henley. The pain and the wet, sloppy feeling in his ass
were extra proof that everything had been real, that he'd fucked his father and
now the man was sleeping, and it had been the best night of his life.
Holy shit, he actually did it. He'd fucked his father!
Jughead wanted to laugh, but he was afraid of waking the man. FP had seemed
somewhat awake and aware as the fucked--as he road his dad, as he had his
daddy's dick in his ass, as he called out his name--holy shit! It was real!
Maybe he would think it was just a dream in the morning. Or, maybe, it had been
everything that FP had been dreaming of, too. Maybe they could do it again,
this time awake, fucking for hours in the dank atmosphere of the small trailer.
Carefully, Jughead tucked his father back into his pants, but left his fly open
and belt loose. At least this way his dad would be somewhat more comfortable on
the couch. He wanted to join him, but it wasn't wise. Not yet, not until he had
a chance to measure Dad's reactions, his memories. He'd just go to sleep in the
big bed in the back, curled in his daddy's sheets, covered with his smell. At
least the come dripping from his ass would be less noticeable in his own dirty
sheets.
Jughead couldn't resist one last touch, a brush of his hand across his father's
lips. The man shifted, those wet slits glittering again in the darkness. "Go
'sleep, Joaquin. Daddy's tired."
The name was airy and slurred, but it was clear. Joaquin. That dark-headed boy
Kevin was currently hooking up with. The talented boy Kevin was mooning over.
Holding back the odd feeling of betrayal, Jughead swiped up his discarded
clothes into his arms and stumbled to the bedroom. It was a mess, like the rest
of the house, but it gave him some room away from the thick scent of sex in the
living room. Taking in a shaking breath, Jughead shucked out of the rest of his
clothes. He wanted to run, but there wasn't anywhere he could go. He'd just had
the most amazing sex of his life, with the man he'd lusted after since puberty.
Sure, he'd been taking advantage of a drunk man, but for a moment there, he
really thought it was real. That all his dreams about his dad could come real.
And instead, he finds out his dad has been fucking some young punk in his gang.
Fucking him, calling him son, getting called daddy and getting off even though
it wasn't really his true baby boy. It was irrational, this fury, it was as
crazy and nonsensical as wanting to fuck his father in the first place, he knew
that, but...
He just needed to sleep. In the morning, he could measure his father's
response, look at his own feelings objectively, poke and prod at all the
corners and possibilities until he understood it all. Naked, he slid into the
sheets. They were grimy and well-used, but comfortable compared to the places
he'd been sleeping for months. The familiar smell of booze and sweat were
strong in the sheets, wrapping his head in a warm dazed afterglow.
He'd done it. He'd fucked his father.
While his father had been thinking of someone else.
It was both the best and worst night of Jughead's life.
He'd be replaying most of the night's events over and over in his mind for
weeks to come, for the rest of his life. He tightened his internal muscles,
feeling the pull and soreness as he did. Yes, it was a good night, even if it
didn't end well. If nothing else, he could hold this night in his memory
forever.
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