Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11177187.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Riverdale_(TV_2017)
  Relationship:
      FP_Jones_II/Jughead_Jones
  Character:
      Jughead_Jones, FP_Jones_II
  Additional Tags:
      Incest, Parent/Child_Incest, rated_E_for_masturbation, a_bit_of_angst,
      lots_of_internal_conflict, Dead_Dove:_Do_Not_Eat, FP_drinks_a_lot
  Series:
      Part 1 of guilty_pleasures
  Collections:
      Riverdale_Kinkmeme, Anonymous
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-06-13 Words: 3500
****** if the morning comes ******
by Anonymous
Summary
     There was a need inside of him that terrified him to death—something
     awful there that he couldn’t let himself think about, because it was
     too horrible, and it made him feel too strange.
     -
     Written for a prompter on the Kink Meme who asked for FP/Jughead with
     repressed guilty incest feelings on both sides.
Notes
     Please heed warnings and tags!
     Original prompt is here. Title is from Monstrosity by KROY.
Jughead Jones always knew he wasn’t like other kids. Mostly because his parents
weren’t like other people’s parents. Other people’s parents had steady jobs,
and went grocery shopping every week, and took their families on vacation in
the summer. But not Gladys and FP Jones.
Jughead wanted to say they tried their best, but that would have been a little
too generous. Gladys was quiet and sad, and even when she was physically
present she never quite seemed all there: she’d spend days at a time on the
couch watching bad daytime TV or locked in her room with the blinds drawn,
distant and lost in her own suffering.
FP was distant in the more traditional sense. He never really took notice of
Jughead or Jellybean, frequently brushing them off in favour of his friends or
a drink or petty theft. Sometimes he’d get guilty, and there’d be whole weeks
at a time when he didn’t drink (that much), and he’d even make a point to try
and help Jughead with his homework (though he usually just made it more
confusing). Jughead could never be sure how long these on-and-off attempts at
parenting would last, but he always preferred them to his mom’s unwavering
indifference.
When Jughead was a kid, FP had done a couple stints in prison for things like
possession and drunk driving and loitering in the parking lot of the video
store selling weed to kids. Those times, when FP was away, were when Jughead
felt most normal. Archie was always there for him, and Fred and Mary took pity
on him, inviting him over for sleepovers when they knew Gladys was floundering.
And sure, Jughead missed FP when he was in jail, but not really much more than
he usually did. At least if he was locked up there was a reason for him not
being around.
It was after one of these stints that Jughead first noticed it: a feeling, or
an awareness. A slight shift that he hadn’t felt before.
It was the summer before his thirteenth birthday. He’d spent the holidays at
camp with Archie, even though his mom couldn’t afford it. He hadn’t even asked
to go—it was Fred who had extended the offer, insisting that Archie needed a
friend there with him because he got homesick, even though Jughead knew for a
fact that wasn’t true. But he didn’t bother pointing that out to Fred.
So he and Archie had piled into Fred’s truck with their backpacks and sleeping
bags and spent a glorious eight weeks at Camp Green Lake. They’d learned to tie
knots and kayak, and every night they’d sung campfire songs and had hot
chocolate before bed. At the end of each day Jughead climbed into the bunk
above Archie’s and drifted off to sleep with a wide smile on his face, because
this was exactly what normal kids did.  
FP had been gone for almost a year when Jughead and Archie returned to
Riverdale at the end of the summer, still flying high from their time at camp.
Jughead was brown from the sun, sporting dark golden highlights from all the
hours they had spent at the lake and still smelling of wood smoke and
sunscreen. He was excited to tell Jellybean all about camp—maybe teach her some
of the knots he had learned—but his smile faltered when he walked into the
kitchen to find FP sitting at the table with a beer in his hand.
FP looked up and did a double take, eyes widening like a cartoon. “Shit, Jug…?”
“Dad. You’re back.”
“You bet—good behaviour,” FP said with a crooked smile. He stood up and
surveyed Jughead awkwardly. They were almost the same height now.
“You’ve grown,” FP said. He was staring at Jughead like he was a very
complicated puzzle, and Jughead felt his cheeks flush. “You look good.”
“Oh,” Jughead said. He didn’t know what else to say. He could feel FP’s eyes
raking him up and down.
“Shit, you’re practically a man.” FP’s voice was thick, his words slightly
slurred, and his breath smelled sour. “Well, good thing your old man’s back,”
he said. FP pulled him into a tight hug, turning his head so that his unshaven
cheek scraped against Jughead’s neck. The sensation sent a shiver down his
spine. FP had been away for so long, but he still smelled the same, and
Jughead’s suspicion and resentment melted away as he gave in to the embrace. He
couldn’t remember FP hugging ever him quite like this before, and even though
he wasn’t really used to being touched he found he didn’t mind it all that
much.
After a few long seconds FP cleared his throat and pulled away with a strained
smile. When he sat back down and resumed nursing his beer, he looked faintly
ill.
                                       *
There was something different, after that, in the way FP looked at him. Or,
when he was sober, the way he avoided Jughead’s eye, like the very sight of him
was painful. Maybe FP was disappointed in him, Jughead thought at first. Maybe
he had done something wrong.
The confusing part was that FP wasn’t cold towards him all the time: after a
couple drinks his expression softened, and he turned into someone else—someone
a lot like a real dad, protective and affectionate. He touched Jughead’s arm or
his back absently, tousled his hair, sat closer than he ever used to. Jughead
soaked up the attention like a parched plant, even though a small part of him
started to suspect that this wasn’t exactly normal either.
When he looked back on it later, Jughead sometimes wondered if FP had been
working towards something—building up, grooming him. Wasn’t that what people
did? But that was a stretch—most likely he was just drunk and careless. Most of
the time he was so wound up in his own shitty life or the crime-of-the-week
that Jughead was pretty sure he wasn’t capable of that kind of manipulation.
Most likely he just never expected Jughead to catch on.
But over time, the looks lasted longer. The touches lingered. And whether FP
meant it to or not, it had an effect.
Jughead grew up: filled out, got taller. And maybe he should have outgrown
that need, too—shouldn’t have still craved that kind of affection in the way
that he did. Something about it felt indecent. After all, FP only ever
acted that way when they were alone. But he couldn't tell for sure, and he
didn’t have a great frame of reference for these kinds of things.
Jughead might have had his first growth spurt early (he was always one of the
tallest boys in his class), but in many ways he was a late bloomer. He didn’t
really feel anything for anyone the way other kids his age seemed to. He wasn’t
like Archie, who had entertained a never-ending parade of giggling girlfriends
all throughout elementary and middle school. It felt like a secret world that
Jughead wasn’t a part of—like everyone else was under the influence of some
mysterious force that he was immune to.
On the one hand it was frustrating, and he felt a little excluded. But on the
other, he was kind of glad. Felt a bit smug about it, even, because while
Archie was a love-struck idiot most of the time, Jughead was occupying his time
with more important things.
So his first wet dream came as a surprise. He didn’t remember what it was
about, exactly, but he woke with a vague sense of unease sitting heavy in his
stomach, his shirt damp with sweat and a cold, sticky spot in his boxers. He
was fifteen, and already past the point at which these things tended to happen,
according to everything he’d read online. In the bathroom, he cleaned himself
up and stared down in sick fascination at his still half-hard dick.
To his horror, the dreams didn’t stop—they got worse, and he started to
remember fragments: firm hands, a low voice, a familiar smell. Mostly just
vague disembodied sensations and impressions as opposed to actual solid images,
but they stuck in his head, and he couldn't shake the guilt that came with
them. Maybe touching himself properly would help—would get it out of his
system—but he could never bring himself to do it. He wasn’t sure why, exactly.
Maybe he was afraid of where his mind might go, or of what exactly he might
remember.
It was easy not to think about it most of the time, anyways; easy to ignore the
dreams and the itch and fix his mind firmly on something else—school, a book,
video games, Archie’s endless girl problems. Most of the time. But Gladys and
FP had been fighting more and more, and while that probably should have served
as some kind of distraction, it only made things worse.
Sometimes, when Gladys needed a break, she’d take Jellybean and go stay with
their grandparents in Connecticut for a few days. (She never took Jughead with
her—maybe he reminded her too much of FP, or maybe she just figured he could
take care of himself.) While she was gone, FP gave up the pretence of trying to
cut back; he got sentimental and fatherly, and went on and on about how he and
Jughead should spend more “quality time” together. His hand would slide from
Jughead’s shoulder to the back of his neck and he would lean in close and tell
Jughead how proud he was.
And even though that was what Jughead craved, he also dreaded it more than
anything. There was a need inside of him that terrified him to death, and it
was more complicated than just wanting comfort or validation. Because every
time FP touched him, Jughead started to remember things. His dreams—the ones
that left him feverish and shaking and sick with shame. There was some awful
connection there that he couldn’t let himself think about, because it was too
horrible, and it made him feel too strange.
It was probably nothing, he told himself. Misplaced loneliness, maybe, or a
byproduct of his shitty upbringing. Anyways, everyone had bad dreams from time
to time. 
Still, when FP drank, Jughead avoided him more resolutely than ever. Whenever
his parents fought, he stayed with Archie. They’d play video games and eat junk
food and he wouldn’t even think about FP or his dreams or the mess waiting for
him at home.
But Archie wasn’t always reliable, and as things got worse and Gladys’s trips
got longer and longer, Archie cancelled on him more and more often. Offered
lame excuses about needing rest because of football, or having to study for a
biology test they both knew he’d just barely scrape a pass on anyways.
It was one of these times, when Gladys and Jellybean had gone and Archie had
bailed on him yet again, that forced Jughead to stare all the fucked up things
inside of him square in the face.
                                       *
“Grab me another one,” FP called from his favourite spot in front of the TV,
and Jughead did, because there wasn’t any point in refusing, or giving him a
lecture. “’Atta boy,” FP grunted.
This is why mom can’t stand you anymore, he thought as he handed FP the bottle.
He turned to go sit down on the other side of the room, but FP made a
disapproving noise low in the back of his throat.
“C’mere,” he said, and patted the spot on the couch next to him firmly. Jughead
swallowed a sudden lump of panic and looked away.
“Jug. Come here,” FP said again.
So he did. Because as much as he was afraid, he also wanted it more than
anything—the closeness. He wanted his dad to look at him like that again; like
he was the only thing in the world that mattered. Like he never did when he was
sober.
FP shifted slightly when Jughead sat down, angling himself so that their knees
were touching. Jughead tried to focus on whatever was playing on TV—some show
about crab fishermen in the Arctic. Apparently it was a pretty lucrative gig,
but Jughead wasn’t listening very closely when they told the camera crew how
much they made.
“Maybe I should think about a career change, eh?” FP chuckled. He shifted
again, stretching out his arm so that it draped around the back of the couch
behind Jughead. He felt himself relax a little as FP’s fingers started tracing
slow, soothing circles on his shoulder.
The show ended, but Jughead barely registered it. FP was so warm, and
underneath the smell of stale beer was the scent of his skin, hot and masculine
and overwhelming this close up. It made Jughead feel feverish and jittery, like
he’d had one too many cups of coffee.
When FP spoke, his voice was low and gravelly, and Jughead felt it resonate
deep in his own chest. “Listen,” he said. “Your mom and me… we haven’t been
seeing eye to eye lately.”
“I know,” Jughead said, his own voice barely a whisper. His throat felt tight.
FP squeezed his shoulder gently, drawing him in closer, and Jughead found
himself curling in against FP’s side. His chest rose and fell steadily in a
soothing rhythm.
“Doesn’t change anything, though,” FP said gruffly. His voice sounded strained.
“Doesn’t change how much... how much I love you.”
Jughead blinked back sudden tears. Do you really mean that? he wanted to ask,
but didn’t, just stared ahead unseeingly at the TV.
“Hey,” FP said. “Hey, look at me.” And Jughead did. He turned his head and
looked up at his dad, and all he could think about was how close they were. And
it felt wrong, but he wanted to be even closer. FP’s eyes were glassy, and he
was looking down at Jughead with a pained longing that made his heart stutter.
“You know... you know I love you, right?”
Jughead swallowed and looked away.
“Jug,” FP said tightly. There was guilt there—Jughead could hear it. FP tensed
and seemed to hesitate; a moment passed, and then he let out an unsteady breath
and slid his other arm around Jughead’s chest, holding him tightly.
Jughead’s eyes fluttered closed. He was dizzy and a little nauseous—his heart
was beating wildly and his body thrummed all over with adrenaline. He wanted
more, and he knew he wasn’t imagining that FP did too: Jughead could feel him
shaking and his breath was ragged in Jughead’s ear.
Jughead shifted, and for the first time he was aware of how hard he was. He
should probably be horrified by that, he knew, but the realization only filled
him with a dull kind of acceptance. He wondered if FP could see the bulge in
his jeans.
He brought a hand to where FP’s palm rested over his heart, lacing their
fingers together. FP hissed at the touch like he’d been burned, but he didn’t
pull away. Instead, he squeezed Jughead’s hand and pressed his mouth to the
silky hair at Jughead’s temple, just below the hem of his beanie. Jughead’s
breath caught in his throat, and—he couldn't help it—he rolled his hips, just
barely managing to bite back a cry as the fabric of his jeans chafed against
his erection.
“Shit, Juggie,” FP breathed into his ear. He was gripping Jughead’s hand so
tightly it was almost painful.
“Dad?” Jughead managed shakily. FP swore under his breath.
“Jug, I—” He stiffened and made to pull away, but Jughead didn’t want this to
be over—not yet. He twisted around so they were face to face, his hands moving
to FP’s collar, gripping him hard, trying to hold him in place.
“’S’okay,” Jughead said desperately. “Dad, it’s okay—”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” FP choked out.  “Jug—”
FP tried to push him away, but Jughead clung to him tightly until he stilled.
For a second, Jughead thought he would stay; his hands shook as he moved to
cradle Jughead’s jaw, pulling him in, pressing their foreheads together, and
Jughead wanted so badly to close the space between them. But he was afraid of
what it would mean. All of a sudden FP seemed to come to his senses—he squeezed
his eyes shut, shaking his head in silent horror.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m so sorry, Juggie,” and then he was gone.
Dimly, Jughead heard the back door slam. Heard his FP’s shitty pickup truck
sputter to life.
The warmth of FP’s body was gone, but Jughead still felt hot all over. He got
up and paced the living room, breathing heavily, trying not to think of his
dad’s mouth against his skin and all the other fucked up things that were
racing through his head.
“What the hell, what the hell, what the hell,” Jughead muttered over and over.
He sat back down and tried to calm himself. He should call someone, maybe—FP
shouldn’t be driving right now. But his mind going a mile a minute, and the
couch was still warm where they had been sitting together only moments earlier.
He pressed his face into the fabric, breathing in whatever trace amounts of his
dad’s smell still lingered there. He groaned, and in spite of himself his hands
moved to his waistband.
What was wrong with him?
Jughead gasped aloud when he slid a hand into his jeans—the touch was painfully
intense after denying himself any kind of release for so long. His dick was
swollen and aching, and Jughead barely had to touch himself before he was
coming hard, whimpering and thrusting wildly into his fist.
                                       *
FP didn’t come home that night, or the next one. On Monday morning Fred showed
up at the trailer to take Jughead to school.
“Your dad called,” he said as Jughead slid into the back seat beside Archie.
“Said he had some emergency business up North.” The look on Fred’s face said he
didn’t buy it, but Jughead nodded anyways as if it were true.
“Sorry about this weekend,” Archie muttered sheepishly under his breath.
“It’s fine,” Jughead said.
But it wasn’t fine—none of it was. Jughead tried not to think about that
night—tried to tell himself it was some kind fluke, some kind of temporary
insanity that had made him act that way. But that was a lie. Whatever it was he
had felt had been there for years, building, and now that the floodgates had
opened it was impossible to close them again.
He avoided jerking off as much as he could, but sometimes the pressure got to
be too much to handle and he didn’t have a choice. And no matter how hard he
tried, he couldn’t help imagining it was his dad’s hand on his cock instead of
his own—his dad whispering in his ear, telling him how proud he was and how
much he loved him.   
And maybe FP thought about that, too, because he avoided Jughead more
thoroughly than ever. He would leave for days at a time and come home
incoherent and reeking of liquor, and even then he always kept Jughead at arms
length and avoided looking him in the eye.
From there, things between Gladys and FP deteriorated quickly, and it was hard
for Jughead not to blame himself when she took Jellybean in the middle of the
night and left for good. That was the only time Jughead had ever seen FP cry
properly—sobbing, tears rolling down his face. Jughead tried to reach out—tried
to comfort him, or take some kind of comfort, maybe, because he was hurting
too—but FP only turned away and buried his face in his hands.
“’M so fucked up,” he mumbled. “’M sorry, Juggie.”
And Jughead didn’t know what else to do, so he left. The Twilight Drive-In was
understaffed, and since no one ever went in the projector room but him, Jughead
made himself at home.
Sometimes he saw his dad around, and he seemed to be doing better. After a
while, the pained expression that always flashed across his face at the sight
of Jughead even started to fade. Occasionally he came by the drive-in, and even
though they never said much to each other Jughead felt better knowing he was
close. So maybe this arrangement was better for both of them.
Jughead didn’t like to be alone with his thoughts too much, so he spent a lot
of time at Pop’s. He started writing about Riverdale, and the people who lived
there, and in a way it was therapeutic. And maybe things weren't perfect, but
life went on.
After a while, he could almost trick himself into believing everything that had
happened was just another dream. The only problem was that he couldn't decide
if it was a good one or a bad one. 
 
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