Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/10777383.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      No_Archive_Warnings_Apply, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Riverdale_(TV_2017)
  Relationship:
      FP_Jones_II/Jughead_Jones
  Character:
      FP_Jones_II, Jughead_Jones
  Additional Tags:
      Incest, Parent/Child_Incest, Sexual_Tension, Manipulation, Touch-Starved
      Jughead, Hand_Jobs, Come_play_(minor), Dirty_Talk, D/s_undertones, Daddy
      Kink
  Collections:
      Riverdale_Kinkmeme
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-05-01 Completed: 2017-05-03 Chapters: 2/2 Words: 4061
****** my kingdom awaits ******
by problematic_pleasures
Summary
     FP is not above using dirty tactics to get his son back.
Notes
     written for this_kink_meme_prompt which spoke to me, suddenly and for
     whatever reason.
     i know i normally write twd, but riverdale has sucked me in. please
     heed the warnings before reading! this was fun to write since i
     always see jughead as touch-starved, so that plays heavily into this.
***** Chapter 1 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
It starts off innocuous enough. At least, Jughead thinks so. At least, that’s
what Jughead tells himself.
(It’s a lie)
 
 
It starts with words. Which is crazy as it is: his dad never talks that much,
and certainly never says anything of great importance. But when he tells
Jughead he’s proud, when he tells Jughead “you’ve got a real talent, son”,
Jughead can’t help it.
He feels warm inside. It’s like a fire, once trodden down to the littlest
spark, being stoked and brought to a proper blaze. It consumes him from the
inside-out, and he’s all too happy to let it.
He goes over to his dad’s house more and more; he’s encouraged each time by the
lack of beer bottles strewn about, the absence of liquor on his father’s
breath. They sit at the rickety old table and just… talk.
They talk about Jug’s manuscript, about school, about the Serpents. Jughead
tells his dad about something hilarious Archie did and without fail, his dad
will fire a funny story about Fred right back.
It's good. Warm. Home.
 
 
It changes during one of these get-togethers.
They’re reminiscing over the drive-in and better days and the conversation
naturally shifts to Jellybean, and mom. In unison they fall silent, as though
in mourning. In the thick stillness of the grimy kitchen, FP reaches across the
table and takes Jughead’s hand. Skin on skin is burning hot and calloused, and
Jughead’s breathing stops short.
FP speaks first. “Jug, I know you’re havin’ a good time at Fred’s. And I’m
grateful he’s been taking such good care of you…” He trails off and his thumb
trails along Jughead’s knuckles. “But would you ever think of coming back
home?”
Jughead swallows his surprise. He looks around and takes in how much cleaner
the place looks and how much nicer it’s all been lately. He feels ready to
vibrate out of his skin but he still squeezes his dad’s hand and takes
reassurance in the branding heat. “I dunno, dad.” Except he does know.
FP doesn’t push. He pulls his hand back; Jughead bites back a noise of
disappointment. “That’s okay, I understand.”
Jughead watches his dad smile. “Maybe soon, though? Just…”
“We’ll give it more time,” FP agrees easily. “Hey, how about we swing by Pop’s
before I drive you back?”
 
 
It doesn’t end there.
Far from it.
Again, most of it is innocent. It’s a fatherly hand on Jughead’s shoulder or
gripping the nape of his neck gently. It’s a heavy hand between his shoulder
blades or an arm draped across the back of the couch. All of them close and
cozy and intoxicating. Nothing that’s improper, Jughead tells himself. He
scolds himself, internally, for trying to see more in the touches. His dad is
finally trying to be a dad, why is Jughead trying to skew that?
It’s all precious and sweet—even Archie comments, says how nice it is to see,
says how it makes him think of himself and Fred—until it’s not.
 
They’re at dinner with Archie and Fred (at Pop’s, of course) when it shifts
again, irreversibly. Jughead and FP are on one side of the booth, the Andrews
are on the other. Everything is fun, good food and company. FP’s arm is thrown
across the booth, along Jughead’s shoulders. Fred is nearly in an identical
pose, until FP yawns, stretches, and his hand falls onto Jughead’s thigh.
To Fred and Archie, Jughead knows it looks like FP’s hand is on the seat
between them—but it’s not. FP’s hand is on his thigh and it makes Jughead
dizzy; sick panic and elation twist together in a storm inside his lungs.
Jughead’s breathing is way too shallow and he focuses on fixing that.
His dad squeezes his thigh, just once, and Jughead can breathe again. His dad
shoots him a smile; Jughead mirrors the expression easily, thankful that Fred
and Archie are wrapped up I their own conversation.
FP pats his thigh then takes his hand back. Again, Jughead barely stops from
sighing in disappointment.
 
 
“Have you thought about it at all?” FP asks one night in the trailer. As he
speaks, his fingers toy with the hair on Jughead’s nape.
Jughead plays dumb. “Thought about what?”
That earns him a laugh and a pinch. Both send a shiver through him, down to his
toes. “Brat,” his dad mutters happily. “Movin’ back here. You thought about
it?”
Jughead shrugs. “A bit. The place is looking great,” he says this not for the
first time. It’s a half-hearted attempt at deflection.
“Did it for you, Jug.” FP turns on the couch so that his whole self faces his
son—who still stays focused on the television. “Did it so we could have a home
again.” His fingers never stop. They’re rough Jughead’s skin, they tangle in
his hair every few moments. Each tug, each scrape of a nail on flesh has
Jughead inhaling sharp enough to hurt.
“I’d—I’d like that dad.” Jughead nods along with his words. “I just don’t want
it to go to shit again.”
FP grins. He looks a little hurt; the pain casts like a shadow across his
already ashen face. But it doesn’t stop him. He doesn’t push but he doesn’t
stop touching Jughead this time, not like before. It was a couple weeks ago but
feels like eons.
“I understand, kid. I know it’s gonna take more than a clean place to prove to
you I’m serious about this.” His hand trails from Jughead’s neck down his arm.
Skitters down his bare arm until FP can take his son’s hand again.
Jughead can’t stop staring. His dad’s hand doesn’t quite dwarf his, but it
feels like it.
“Whenever you’re ready, you tell me. Alright?” FP scoots across the cushion
until his and Jughead’s knees knock together.
“Dad—?”
“Nope, don’t gotta explain it to me.”
Jughead lets the words die in his mouth, on his tongue.
FP smiles. He doesn’t let go, not until Jughead quietly mumbles that he needs
to get back to the Andrews’ house. Only then do they disconnect their hands.
That night, in bed, Jughead misses the warmth so much it aches.
 
 
The heat at the small of his back startles him enough that he can’t contain a
small noise of surprise.
“S’just me, Jug.”
That only helps him relax a little bit. He looks up and over his shoulder at
his dad, who grins back. “What’re you doing?” This is different from a guiding
hand between his shoulder blades: this touch is lower, feels exposed like an
open wound.
“How’s it going? You’ve been quiet all day.” FP looks around at the stores.
Riverdale doesn’t have a mall, but a few miles outside the town there’s a
decent place. When FP had suggested they make a Saturday of it, heading out
early and coming back late, Jughead had agreed almost immediately.
“Yeah, yeah, m’fine.” Jughead can’t get his mind off his dad’s hand. “Just a
lotta stuff going on.” He waves his hand around as if to encompass all the shit
that’s happening.
FP snorts. “That’s bein’ a teenager for you.”
Jughead nods. “I guess, yeah.”
They’re slipping into a bookstore when FP murmurs. “Is this okay?”
Jughead is so thrown by the question he doesn’t think before answering. “Of
course, yeah. Doesn’t bother me.”
His dad smiles at him and the moment stills around them. “Good, good,” his dad
says quietly. “Hey, if you’re gettin’ bored we can always bail early.”
Jughead looks around at the bookstore. They’re barely a few feet inside, and
there was a new release he’d been hoping to pick up, but he can’t remember the
title of it anyway.
He nods and lets his dad guide him out, of the store and the mall, all the way
to the car.
 
Jughead tasks himself with getting the trailer door open, only because he can’t
get enough of how it feels to have his dad pressed up along behind him. Warm
and comforting, he drinks in the scent of cologne mingling with an undercurrent
of cigarette smoke.
“Havin’ trouble?” His dad asks teasingly.
Jughead looks up at him and aims for a disdainful look but knows he misses it
by a mile. He looks away and finally gets the door unlocked and they shuffle
inside together.
It’s dark except for a dim table lamp on its lowest setting.
“What d’you want, Jug?”
“I—I don’t know.”
FP hums. “Okay. Trust me, alright?”
Jughead looks up and nods jerkily. FP lays his hand across the small of his
back again and steers him toward the couch. He slips around his son, then FP
sits first and gestures broadly. He’s on the center cushion, space on either
side of him or—
—Or in his lap.
Jughead stands between his dad’s spread legs awkwardly until he closes his eyes
and forces himself not to overthink this.
Panic starts in his chest as he settles in his dad’s lap, as his dad’s hand
settle on his hips. By the time they’re comfortable, the panic is nothing but
wisps of air inside his chest.
Jughead curls his arms around FP’s shoulders and for a long while, they sit
perfectly still. Jughead sinks down and tilts forward and hides his face in his
dad’s hair. In response, FP’s arm wind around him tighter. It’s a hug, and it’d
be nothing out of the ordinary if Jughead wasn’t fifteen and half-hard in his
pants.
Warm chapped lips on his neck startle him again. “This is nice, Jug.”
Jughead replies with something pitchy, muffled, unintelligible. His dad grins
against his neck.
The longer they stay like that the easier it gets. It’s almost too warm but
Jughead can’t bring himself to move. He feels safe and loved and at-home. Each
gentle kiss to his neck is like an electric spark that’s as soothing as it is
arousing.
“Move back, Jug.” FP’s words are wet-warm on Jughead’s overheated skin. “Move
back here, with me.”
Jughead shivers and forces himself to pull away and look at his dad. FP looks
surprised for a moment before he schools the expression to something else.
Something Jughead can’t quite name, but makes his blood rush quicker.
“Move back, and I’ll give you whatever you want.”
A million thoughts flicker through his head, then Jughead swallows. “Okay,
yeah. Okay.”
Chapter End Notes
     i wasn't sure how smutty OP wanted it to get, so i ended it here. BUT
     if there is interest, i have a companion piece i can post as a second
     chapter, so... yeah.
     (eta: there is clearly a 2nd chapter now lol )
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Summary
     FP and Jughead share a bed--for exactly the reasons you think.
Chapter Notes
     the interest in a second smutty part was overwhelming, so here we go!
     This chapter takes place a couple weeks after the first, and is
     purely smut, minimal plot.
     hope you all like this as much as the first chapter! thanks to
     everyone who's been reading!
It takes a couple weeks—the first of which is spent convincing Fred and Archie
that yes, Jughead is sure he wants to move back in with his dad—but it happens,
eventually.
It’s the most normal things have felt in a while. There’s so much to do that
the touches become less frequent, with all their focus put into getting
Jughead’s minimal stuff back into his bedroom at Sunnyside. The entire time,
Jughead is torn between elation and disappointment. He wants the closeness
again, the warmth, and a certain degree of regret bleeds into him as he moves
in.
It lasts up until they’re bringing the last box inside. Jughead has barely set
it inside his room before his dad is coming up close behind him again. His
hands find Jughead’s hips easily and their bodies fit together, snug.
“Dad?”
“Hey, kid,” FP murmurs. His mouth is right against Jughead’s ear (he abandoned
his hat because it was too stifling, and he’s glad he did). “S’looking good.”
“It’s a disaster, dad.” Jughead laughs.
“Yeah, but it’s alright. Not like you’re gonna sleep in here anyway.”
Jughead’s breathing catches. “I’m not?”
“Don’t play dumb.” FP’s chiding leaves no room for argument. “That’s what you
wanted, right? Spend the night with me? Let me give you everything you want?”
Slowly, FP’s hands slide until his arms are wrapped like a vice around
Jughead’s waist. It pulls them that much closer.
Jughead rests his hands on his dad’s arms. “That’s what I wanted,” he confirms
softly.
“Then,” FP declares. “What are we waitin’ for?”
They separate just enough for FP to hold out his hand and put on a cheshire
grin when Jughead links their fingers. Jughead knows the way to his dad’s room
all too well; he flashes through memories of nights dragging his dad, drunk,
down the hall and letting him collapse on the bed. Family puppy-piles, back
when the two of them were actually four, and things hadn’t gone to hell yet.
By the time he comes out of his reverie, FP is waiting just inside the bedroom
for him. Their hands are still linked but hang between them.
“You coming?”
Jughead exhales through his nose. He can’t find the words so he nods.
FP yanks, not hard but not gentle, and Jughead stumbles over the threshold.
Just as careless, FP pushes Jughead toward the bed until he’s backed up against
the edge. FP pushes him again but keeps his hands on Jughead to lower him down.
It’s jarring, a soft touch one moment and the exact opposite the next.
Jughead feels exposed, even though he’s not even naked yet. He chokes on his
next breath when he realizes that’s where this is going. Not that he hasn’t
known it all along, but facing reality is different than playing up fantasies.
“This still what you want?” FP is unbuttoning his flannel as he speaks. He’s
got a t-shirt on underneath it, so it’s not like a striptease. Far from
scandalous. But Jughead’s face won’t stop burning with a blush.
“Yes,” he pushes the whisper from his throat.
“How do you want it?” FP asks it so casually. Not like it’s of no consequence
but like he’s happy to oblige whatever Jughead might have in mind.
“I have no idea.” Jughead feels like his eyes are going to bulge out of his
skull.
“You want me to take the lead?”
“I trust you.”
FP’s eyes glint in the low light of the bedroom. “Good boy.”
Jughead keens under his breath and FP just laughs. It’d almost seem cruel if he
weren’t crawling onto the bed and holding himself over his son, smirking down
at him. Jughead doesn’t know where to look and he has to close his eyes to
focus.
“Look at me, son.”
Jughead opens his eyes hesitantly.
“I’m gonna lay out some ground rules, alright?”
Jughead nods.
“M’not gonna fuck you. Not tonight, not ever if you don’t want.”
Jughead isn’t breathing, he knows he should inhale but he can’t get his lungs
and brain to coordinate.
“You want to stop? You say no. Alright? None of that playin’ games shit.”
Jughead nods. He really needs to inhale, he’s getting dizzy.
“Last thing, then I’ll get goin’, okay?”
“Okay.” His voice is so hoarse but speaking finally forces him to breath, if
only raggedly.
“Don’t tell a single person about this, got it?”
Jughead raises shaking hands to grip his dad’s shoulders. “Got it.” He grips
the shirt tight and tugs. “I got it, dad, I got it.”
Despite Jughead pulling him closer, FP moves back. He sits up on his knees and
pulls his shirt off in a swift single motion.
“Need a hand?” He gestures to the shirt still clinging to Jughead’s own torso;
the fabric is still a little damp with sweat, his skin is clammy underneath.
Even though only a moment or two passes, FP gets tired of waiting and reaches
for the hem himself.
Not that Jughead struggles. He raises his hands obediently over his head and
lets it slip off, lets his dad toss it aside. He shivers and it sparks another
laugh from FP. Next go both their belts, FP once again leading the charge by
removing his own first and then his son’s.
“How far you want this to go?” FP asks as he pauses; his hands freeze where
their poised over the button and zipper on his jeans.
“I trust you,” Jughead says again.
FP snorts. “I know, kid, but trust doesn’t tell me how far you wanna go. I
wanna make this good for you, remember?” Slowly, he sinks to cover his son’s
body with his own. He slots their bodies together, chest to chest, mouths only
a couple inches apart. “I could touch you, get into your pants, huh?” FP skirts
his lips across Jughead’s jaw, the tense tendons in his neck. “Or do you wanna
rub off on my thigh like the kid you are?”
Jughead’s hands snap to his dad’s shoulders again and this time his nails bite
into skin.
His dad grins. “What’ll it be?”
“Anything. I don’t care—I trust you and I don’t care. Please.”
FP pulls back again, lips quirking when Jughead sighs unhappily, and takes
stock of the sight before him. “Alright, spread your legs.”
It takes some maneuvering since FP is practically caging his son’s body against
the bed, but eventually Jughead’s jean-clad legs are spread and FP is settled
between them.
“Good boy,” he says again.
Jughead’s hips jump at the words.
“M’gonna touch you. Get you off, okay?”
“Dad, please.” He can’t help the edge of impatience tinging his words.
FP raises an eyebrow. “Only because you said please,” he taunts. He drops a
hand to the front of Jughead’s jeans. He makes quick work of the button and
zipper.
Jughead doesn’t want to look down at himself—he knows he’s hard and he knows
he’s staining his boxer-briefs with precome—so he watches his dad’s face
instead. Watches the way his chest heaves and the way he licks his lips when he
looks Jughead’s body up and down.
Slowly, FP works jeans and underwear down Jughead’s body until they bunch
around his thighs. It leaves him exposed, body soft and pliant. He runs his
gaze across his son’s body, takes note of the light dustings of hair across his
stomach and legs; he lingers on Jughead’s prick and the way it stands at full
attention.
Jughead lets out a shuddering sigh and draws FP from his thoughts.
FP ignores the impatient stare flashed at him and instead reaches out. He cups
one hand around the back of Jughead’s ass and hauls him closer; his other hand
drifts to grasp his cock. The minute his fingers curl around it, Jughead keens.
“That good, huh?”
Jughead glares at him but it lacks venom since it’s framed with flushed lips
and even redder cheeks.
“Alright, alright,” FP concedes. He pushes until Jughead’s laps wrap around his
waist, and then he tilts forward. “Y’ready?”
“Dad, jeez.”
FP smirks. Slowly, he strokes. He keeps his touch light and fleeting and
teasing. Each time he teases his hand around the crown Jughead’s hips jolt
up—as though chasing the sensation.
“Tighter,” Jughead murmurs breathlessly.
FP hums. “I dunno, what’s the magic word?” He keeps his movements slow,
measured; all the while he watches Jughead bite at his lower lip and struggle
to string together a sentence.
“Please.” Jughead opens his eyes, barely, and FP loses himself in how dilated
they are.
“Please, what?” He taunts as he tightens his grip by a fraction.
Jughead throws his head back and sighs through his nose. His adam’s apple bobs
as he swallows his frustration, and eventually he speaks.
“Please, dad, tighter.”
“That’s it,” FP praises. He gives in and strokes faster, tighter, immediately
wringing startled moans from his son’s swollen lips. “That better?” He asks,
just so he can lick into Jughead’s mouth when his son starts to answer. The
kiss is deep, wet, filthy, and Jughead lets out an endless stream of cut-off
noises into his dad’s mouth.
“Fuck, fuck,” he gasps once FP eventually pulls back. “I’m close.”
“Oh, to be young again.” FP shakes his head with a short laugh. “Let me see,
Jug.” He pushes his own hips forward so that his denim-clad erection presses
against Jughead’s ass, so he can feel it. “You know what you do to me?”
He leans in and presses his forehead to his son’s. “So glad you’re back,
Jughead, so fuckin’ happy I can touch you like this.”
Jughead hiccups a moan, a strangled “dad” that FP barely hears.
“C’mon, let me see. Be a good boy for daddy and come all over yourself, can you
do that for me?”
Jughead’s body goes tight before the words have left FP’s mouth. His grip on
FP’s shoulders tightens and his nails dig in; his hips rut into his dad’s hand
and the string of moans that tumble from his lips are little more than
unintelligible gasps.
FP shivers as Jughead’s come coats his hand, coats his son’s stomach, milky
white on pale skin. “Good boy.”
Jughead whimpers as his body goes lax.
FP sits back with a snicker. Jughead sticks his tongue out and throws an arm
across his eyes. FP waits until his son looks at him again to start licking his
hand clean.
Jughead’s still-pink cheeks flush darker. “Dad—?”
FP wipes his sticky hand on the bed sheets once he’s clean off most of the
come. “My turn,” he says quietly. Still sitting back FP makes quick work of his
button and zipper.
“I want to see.” Jughead’s voice is soft, stilted as he sits up. He props
himself up on one elbow and his eyes are blatantly glued to the bulge in his
dad’s boxers. “Can I?”
FP toys with the band of his boxers. “What do you say?”
“Please, can I see?” Jughead briefly meets his gaze, blush worse than ever, but
he’s grinning ever so slightly.
FP mirrors the expression except ten times wider, full of teeth and hunger. “Of
course,” he obliges. He pushes his jeans and boxers down, a reflection of his
son’s own dishevelment, and lets his cock spring forward.
Jughead’s breathing catches and it spurs FP on.
He wraps his still-damp fingers around his own prick—mentally, he catalogues
the fact that his own dick is thicker but his son’s is longer, tucks the
thought away for later—and starts to pump. He teases himself at first, same as
he teased Jughead.
“How do you like it?” Jughead asks.
“Wet and tight.” FP keeps his pace leisurely.
Jughead gulps. “Can I help?” He adds the next word quickly, “please?”
FP groans and grips the base of his cock. “Yes, you can, c’mere.” He motions
for Jughead to sit up, and once his son obeys FP lets go of his erection.
“Lick,” he commands as he holds out his hand.
Jughead pauses for a moment before complying. He laps in flat, broad stripes
across his dad’s palm. FP catches his nose wrinkle at the taste, and would
laugh if his brain weren’t so fogged over with lust. Jughead keeps licking
until FP’s hand is coated, across the flat of his hand, his fingers, in between
them. He’d probably keep going, too, but FP pulls his hand back.
As a thank you, he leans in and steals a kiss from his son. He starts to stroke
again with his spit-slick hand and uses his clean hand to grip Jughead’s chin.
As the kiss breaks, he lays his hand on Jughead’s chest and pushes.
Jughead falls back with a gasp and looks up at him curiously.
“Gonna get you all dirty.” FP explains as he strokes himself faster. “Gonna
come all over you.”
Jughead’s look shifts immediately. He practically melts into the bed, nodding
eagerly as he does. He arches his back and FP notices that his son’s dick is
almost at half-mast again.
“You look good like that, Jug, all fucked out and spent.” FP closes his eyes
briefly to stave off his orgasm a little longer. “I could look at you all day.”
“Now you can,” Jughead replies with a hazy grin.
Holding off is an impossible task as FP listens to his son’s quiet words.
“Anytime you want.”
FP grunts as the words tip him over the edge. His rhythm is lost as he strokes
and chases the friction as long as he can. With half-lidded eyes he watches his
come spill onto Jughead’s groin and hips. “Oh, fuck, yes.”
He rides out his orgasm until there’s nothing left. He lets his soft prick go
and wipes his hand on the sheets. When he focuses back on his son, he realizes
Jughead is hard again, and looking sheepish. FP just smirks.
“What do you say?” He says once more.
The sheepishness is replaced with eagerness.
“Please.”
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