Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/12165606.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Riverdale_(TV_2017)
  Relationship:
      FP_Jones_ll/Jughead_Jones, FP_Jones_II/Jughead_Jones, fp_-_Relationship
  Character:
      Jughead_Jones, FP_Jones_II
  Additional Tags:
      Parent/Child_Incest, Hand_Jobs, very_dubcon_for_many_reasons, Dead_Dove:
      Do_Not_Eat, jealous_FP
  Series:
      Part 2 of guilty_pleasures
  Collections:
      Riverdale_Kinkmeme, Anonymous
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-09-24 Words: 3758
****** the stars will guide us home ******
by Anonymous
Summary
     Jughead goes to the Whyte Wyrm to find FP and gets more than he
     bargained for.
     Featuring sleazy bikers, a protective dad, and a handjob in the back
     of Riverdale's seediest dive bar.
Notes
     A follow-up to the first fic in this series, set sometime during the
     first four episodes of season one.
     Also inspired by this_prompt on the kinkmeme about jealous/possessive
     FP.
     Title is from After_Dark by Mr. Kitty.
The Whyte Wyrm.
Jughead stared at the glowing neon sign with butterflies in his stomach. A few
leather-clad men were milling around outside of the bar, laughing and talking
loudly. Their voices blended with the distant crunch of gravel and the rumble
of motorcycles to create something familiar, conjuring up memories he’d nearly
forgotten: sitting on his dad’s bike, feet barely scraping the pedals, propped
up by grease-stained hands; the rumble of FP’s laughter, deep like the drone of
the engine.
The memory made what he was about to do easier.
Jughead had prepared a speech for the bouncer (something about forgetting his
ID and not looking his age) but he didn’t have to use it. The man at the door
let him in without hesitation, waving him through with a grin and a quirk of
his eyebrow that seemed to signal recognition. Jughead filed that away for
later analysis, straightened his beanie, and stepped inside.
The air was thick with smoke, casting a sickly blue sheen over the greasy bar
and its equally greasy patrons. Jughead stifled a cough, momentarily
disoriented. He made his way to the bar and leaned on the counter, heart
racing. There was no bartender in sight, which already derailed the first step
of his plan.
The Plan:
   1. Enter the Lair of the Whyte Wyrm.
   2. Find bartender. Enquire about the whereabouts of dear old dad whilst
      avoiding the sleazefest around him.
   3. ???
   4. Force FP to face the music, sober up and fix entire family.
(Okay, it may not have been a very goodplan, but it was a work in progress.)
This was a stupid idea—he should really just go. A man down the bar was eyeing
him with a drunken smirk, and Jughead bristled under the scrutiny.
“Your FP’s boy,” the man grunted.
“Yeah, maybe,” Jughead said, trying not to let his voice waver. “You seen him?”
The man shrugged and took a sip of his scotch (whiskey? Bourbon? They all
looked the same to Jughead). A few drops of the amber liquid dribbled from his
lips and into his beard.
“Thanks,” Jughead muttered, turning back to survey the bar. Yep, this was a
stupid idea.
“Don’t mind ol’ Tug,” said an easy voice to his left. “He barely knows what day
it is anymore.”
The man sauntering over to him looked like all the others, Jughead thought:
bearded,dressed head-to-toe in leather, and with a confident swagger that was
more than likely alcohol-induced.
“Mustang,” he said, and held out his hand. Jughead swallowed and took it
gingerly. “And I know who you are,” Mustang said. He was looking at Jughead
like a hungry animal, and there was probably some stupid, clichéd metaphor that
perfectly described this feeling—rabbit in a den of wolves, maybe—but the only
word that came to his mind was fuck.
“My reputation precedes me,” Jughead managed, and Mustang chuckled.
“Your daddy’s reputation, more like. You looking for him?”
Jughead half shrugged, half nodded.
“Figures. He’s out right now, running some… errands. Won’t be long though. Why
don’t you pull up and stay awhile?”
“Thanks, but…” Jughead faltered, searching for an excuse. “I’ll come back
later,” he muttered. He turned to go but froze when he felt Mustang’s hand on
his shoulder, heavy and firm.
“I insist,” Mustang said. His smile was friendly—welcoming, even—but it still
sent a shiver down Jughead’s spine.
So Jughead sat.
From nowhere, the bartender appeared. Mustang signalled to him and before
Jughead could even blink he had set two glasses of liquor on the counter in
front of them. Mustang pushed one towards him and watched keenly as he brought
it to his lips.
“’Atta boy,” Mustang said as Jughead took a long sip and erupted into a
coughing fit. The alcohol burned his throat, but almost instantly he felt a
queasy kind of warmth start to spread through his chest, settling heavily in
his arms. Mustang was grinning at him, and Jughead didn’t want to think about
how he’d feel when the glass was empty.
Then again…
As he stared blearily into the depth of his glass, Jughead thought resentfully
of his father. If it was good enough for FP, why wasn’t it good enough for him,
too? If FP would rather live his life in a drunken daze, maybe there was
something to it after all. Jughead raised the glass to his nose, this time to
decipher the acrid smell. He’d always heard people talk about alcohol in terms
of smoke and wood and citrus, but it just smelled like paint thinner to him,
and it burned his nose. He took another gulp anyway; this time he resisted the
urge to cough and kept drinking despite the burn. At his elbow, Mustang
chuckled heartily.
“Take after your daddy, huh?” he asked as Jughead set the empty glass on the
counter.
Jughead shrugged. His head felt strange and his stomach sloshed unpleasantly
whenever he moved.
“You know my dad?”
“Who doesn’t? FP Jones is a legend round here.”
“What?”
Mustang burst into laughter. “Oh, you didn’t know? FP, he’s been running the
show for a while. Smart guy—we all owe him a lot.”
Somehow, Jughead’s glass was full again. He took another gulp to suppress the
panic rising in his throat. It seemed to do the trick—he already felt looser
and more relaxed, despite the news that his dad was some kind of Serpent
kingpin.
Mustang had started droning on about bikes and maple syrup and family business,
but the words were nothing but white noise to Jughead’s ears; his mind was
racing. He kept sipping his drink. It wasn’t long before the burn all but
disappeared, dulled a pleasant, numb warmth.
“When will he be back?” Jughead asked abruptly. Mustang faltered.
“Well, can’t say for sure. FP, he does things on his own time.
Jughead looked down to find his glass empty again. Without warning, the panic
was back, and the hazy atmosphere of the Whyte Wyrm seemed suddenly,
overwhelmingly claustrophobic.
“I have to go,” Jughead said. His tongue felt thick and sluggish.
“Easy there kid,” Mustang said as Jughead stood too quickly and lurched
sideways, only just managing to catch himself. “Still a bit of a lightweight,
huh? Don’t worry, I got you…” Jughead jerked away as Mustang grabbed his arm.
He didn’t much like being touched, especially by some low-life biker who
smelled like stale beer and cheap aftershave. Still, he found he was too tired
and too uncoordinated to push Mustang away. He doubted he could walk a straight
line on his own, anyways, so he let Mustang guide him.
Damn, was two drinks really all it took? Jughead had always avoided alcohol, so
this feeling was more-or-less new to him. He felt like his head was on a rubber
band, swinging back and forth every time he moved.
It took him a minute to notice that Mustang wasn’t headed for the exit.
Instead, he was steering Jughead toward the back of the bar, past crowded
tables full of cards and drinks and patrons with curious eyes.
Mustang led him through a set of doors covered by thick black curtains and the
noise of the bar disappeared. Jughead shook his head, suddenly aware of the
hollow ringing in his ears. His stomach lurched as Mustang dropped him
unceremoniously onto a nearby sofa that smelled like fifty years of spilled
bear and cigarette smoke.
Jughead closed his eyes and willed the room to stop spinning. This was not what
he had planned. Still, he felt a little smug—he imagined what his dad would say
if he found him like this. Would he be horrified? Amused? Straight-edge Juggie,
drunk in the back of the roughest biker bar in town.
No, FP would hate it. Jughead had always been his shining beacon of hope—the
creative genius, the smart kid, the writer. Even if it was too late for FP to
rise above his trailer-park-tragedy of a past, Jughead could still make
something of himself. His whole life he had felt the weight of those
expectations—the pressure, the worry, and the goddamn hypocrisy of it all.
So there was something satisfying about being the disappointment for once.
Jughead laughed aloud, feeling reckless.
“Having fun?”
Mustang’s voice was close—closer than he remembered—and his breath was hot on
Jughead’s face. Maybe it was the liquor, but Jughead didn’t mind all that much.
Mustang shifted closer; his leg brushed Jughead’s knee, and Jughead’s stomach
jumped into his throat.
“Can see why FP didn’t want you here.”
“Why’s that?” Jughead asked. His heart was pounding and his limbs tingled with
adrenaline.
Mustang chuckled. He was so close that his whiskers tickled Jughead’s cheek.
“Why d’you think?”
Jughead’s breath hitched when Mustang’s hand moved to his thigh. It was an
unfamiliar feeling, but it sent a wave of heat through him that pooled in his
stomach. He let our a soft sigh as Mustang reached his crotch and started
massaging his half-hard dick over his jeans.
“Thought so,” Mustang said and pressed his lips to Jughead’s neck. His beard
was soft, Jughead thought vaguely. As Mustang’s teeth grazed the tender skin
below his jaw, he found his thoughts drifting again to his father.
FP never wanted Jughead to be like him—to feel the things he felt. The guilt
ate him up inside until all he could do was pull away, because he didn’t want
Jughead to get to close or to need him too much. But it wasn’t a matter of
need, Jughead thought as the hand between his legs gave a particularly hard
squeeze—it was a matter of wanting FP to act like a dad, for once. Like he
actually wanted a son at all. The other stuff—the stuff he didn't let himself
think about anymore—he'd long since given up on. 
Jughead gave a small moan. It felt good to be touched like this—with a greedy
kind of hunger, like Mustang wanted to possess him and swallow him whole.
“You’re too pretty for your own good,” Mustang breathed. Before Jughead could
respond, Mustang was kissing him, sloppy and rough, sliding his tongue deep
into Jughead’s mouth while his hand fumbled with his belt.
The panic was back. Stop, Jughead tried to say, but the words stuck in his
throat. Suddenly Mustang’s hand’s weren’t electrifying or exciting anymore,
they were constrictive, smothering him, holding him in place even as the bile
rose in his throat and his lungs screamed for air.
Dimly, he was aware of a distant thud—a door slamming?—and the Mustang was
gone. Jughead reeled, gasping, clawing at the threadbare fabric of the sofa as
he tried to get his bearings. The room was mostly dark, lit by only a few dusty
lamps here and there, and at first Jughead couldn’t see anything but shadows.
Mustang was on the floor with another man sitting on his chest, gripping him by
the collar, snarling a stream of profanity in an all-too-familiar voice.
“Dad?”
FP—because it was FP, Jughead could see that now—hoisted Mustang to his feet
and dragged him out of the room.
For a moment everything was quiet. Jughead blinked furiously, trying to clear
the fog from his mind. He didn’t dare move. Outside, he could hear some kind of
commotion—muffled yelling, splintering wood, and then nothing. He exhaled
shakily and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes.
He was still sitting on the couch when FP burst back into the room. He jumped
to his feet as fast as he could, trying not to sway on the spot as FP stalked
towards him.
“What the fuck, Jughead?” FP spat. Jughead braced himself as FP seized him by
the shoulders and slammed him roughly into the wall.
“I was just—”
“What? Gonna let that motherfucker do whatever he wanted to you? Take whatever
he wanted?”
“No, I—” Jughead tried to find the right words, but nothing was coming; his
mind felt thick and muddled. FP paused, breathing heavily. His hands were
twisted in the fabric of Jughead’s shirt, and Jughead squirmed, trying to
loosen his hold. “I just… came to find you,” he muttered. FP’s mouth opened in
surprise.
“Are you drunk?”
Jughead glared up at him defiantly. “Are you?”
FP shoved him into the wall again, knocking the air from his lungs.
“Don’t you dare speak to me that way,” FP said through gritted teeth. His
breath smelled sweeter than Mustang’s had, Jughead noted with a sickening rush
of warmth.
“Let go,” he mumbled weakly, trying to pry FP’s hands loose. They didn’t budge.
“Why’d you come here, Jug?” FP growled, his voice breaking in a way that made
Jughead’s chest ache. In this light, the lines on his dad’s face were softer;
he looked younger, but still just as broken and guilty as the last time Jughead
had seen him.
“Wanted to see you,” Jughead mumbled.
“You know that’s a bad idea.”
“I know,” Jughead muttered. The words tasted bitter in his mouth; he swallowed
the lump in his throat and tried his best to blink back tears.
FP sighed, and Jughead could feel him relax ever so slightly. He brought a hand
to Jughead’s forehead and brushed back a loose strand of hair that had fallen
into his eyes. The touch sent a shiver down his spine, and he couldn’t help
savouring the closeness. Despite everything, he felt safe like this.
“You’ve really grown up, hm?” FP mumbled. Even in his current less-than-sober
state, Jughead could hear the liquor in his voice. “You look just like…”
There was a dreamy sheen in FP’s eyes, along with something else Jughead
couldn’t quite place. Longing, maybe. FP’s hand slid down to cup Jughead’s jaw,
his thumb moving in soft, soothing circles over his cheek.
Jughead’s skin tingled under FP’s touch, and he felt a familiar heat pulse
through him. He didn’t want to think about what that meant. Instead, his eyes
fluttered shut and he let his mind wander. It felt good, that was all. It was
nice like this—touching this way.
Maybe it shouldn’t have been a surprise when FP kissed him.
Jughead’s mind went blank and he froze, stiff as a board, heart pounding in his
throat.
When FP finally pulled back, Jughead’s lips felt raw. With a deafening rush a
million different thoughts and feelings filled the vacuum in his mind. He
reminded himself to breath, at last drawing air in sharp, jittery gasps. It was
probably a good thing that FP was pinning him against the wall, because he
didn’t trust himself to stand.
FP’s hand snaked up the back of Jughead’s neck. The look in his eye wasn’t sad
or tired anymore, but wild and dangerous. Not for the first time that night,
Jughead felt laid bare and entirely vulnerable.
FP’s breath was hot on his lips, and when he spoke his voice resonated deep in
Jughead’s chest:
“No one touches you but me.”
Jughead said nothing. His mouth was dry and his head was spinning.
“You hear me?” FP whispered. His words were laced with mint and liquor.
“Yes,” Jughead managed. His voice sounded dreamy and far away, and his skin was
on fire. There was a rushing in his ears like a leaking tire, and the heat
pooling in his groin was almost unbearable. Before he could stop himself he had
closed the gap between them for a second time—they were already so close, and
it only took the smallest movement.
The kiss was deep and rough; FP twisted his fingers in the fine hair at the
nape of Jughead’s neck, and Jughead made a small noise when FP’s tongue slid
past his swollen lips. The sound seemed to encourage FP, and he slipped a hand
between Jughead’s legs. “Hard for me already?” he asked breathlessly.
Jughead squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. Hot shame curled in his
stomach, and he couldn’t help a strangled moan as FP started massaging him
through his jeans.
FP pressed his lips to the shell of Jughead’s ear. “This what you wanted?” he
asked. “This what you wanted from that fucking scumbag?”
Jughead bit his lip and shook his head again. He tried to speak, tried to
say—what? The words in his mind turned to gibberish as FP trailed kisses along
his jaw, stubble raw on his feverish skin. The sensations all blurred together,
overwhelming him with pleasure and shame and that desperate, burning need that
had been building inside of him as long as he could remember. Dimly, he heard
the jingle of his belt.
Jughead gasped when FP’s hand slid into his boxers, but the sound was lost into
FP’s mouth. FP oscillated between rough and tender—demanding and hesitant—but
each time he felt FP falter, Jughead only pulled him closer, terrified that FP
would come to his senses and finally push him away for good.
“You’re still my boy, aren’t you?” FP whispered between kisses. The knot in
Jughead’s stomach twisted. He’d wanted to hear those words for so long, and he
felt relief flood through him at the fondness in FP’s voice.
“Yeah,” Jughead said, his voice ragged; barely a whisper. FP’s hand was firm
between his legs, but he moved with surprising gentleness. With a jolt and a
whimper Jughead realized he was already close.
“You gonna come for me now?” FP asked, sensing his desperation.
Jughead groaned as FP tightened his grip.
“No, not—not yet,” Jughead mumbled. FP didn’t slow his rhythm, and Jughead
rocked his hips, fucking into FP’s hand. He needed to go faster—harder. He
needed more. 
“Dad,” Jughead gasped. It was almost a plea, but Jughead didn’t know what for.
He should want this to end—shouldn’t have let this happen in the first place.
But, as fucked up as it was, wasn’t this what he’d wanted all along?
FP shivered. “It’s all right,” he whispered, though he didn’t sound convinced.
Jughead buried his face in the crook of FP’s neck, savouring the scent of
him—sweat and aftershave and smoke-stained leather. The rest of the world faded
from his mind—there was only the two of them, and nothing else mattered; not
the shame, or the guilt, or the fear of what happened next.
Jughead reached up, fumbling for FP’s face in the dark. His fingertips scraped
rough stubble as he pulled FP in for another kiss, wet and desperate and deep.
 FP worked him slowly, steadily—he swirled his thumb over the head of Jughead’s
dick, smearing precome down his shaft to ease the movement of his hand. Waves
of pleasure rippled down Jughead’s legs, adding to the pressure building inside
of him.
“It’s all right, Jug,” FP said into his ear. Jughead shuddered violently.
“Ah—I’m gonna—dad, I’m—” Stars burst in eyes and then Jughead was coming hard,
rocking his hips erratically. He couldn’t help crying out, moaning loudly as he
thrust into FP’s hand until he was spent and shaking.
When he thought about it later, alone and sick with guilt and need, Jughead
took the most comfort from the memory of FP’s voice in his ear, whispering the
same words over and over like a mantra:
“Good boy; my boy; my son.”
Jughead didn’t move for a while after; he was afraid to. Instead, he lost
himself in his father—the feeling of his broad shoulders and solid chest and
the pounding of his heart.
“Time to go,” FP muttered after a while, and began to gently pry Jughead’s arms
from his neck.
Jughead leaned back against the wall and gazed down blearily at the mess on his
jeans. Cold horror blossomed in his stomach, writhing like a live animal. Or
was that—?
“Jug?” FP asked tightly at the look on Jughead’s face. “Are you—? Oh, fuck—”
FP lurched backward as Jughead turned and vomited onto the carpet.
                                       *
The walk back through the bar was a dreamy blur. FP slung Jughead’s arm around
his shoulder, guiding him through the maze of tables. It was more than a little
surreal, seeing as Jughead was usually the one carrying FP home in a drunken
stupor.
He didn’t remember much after that, only the rumble of a motorcycle between his
knees and the heat of FP’s body against his chest. The next thing he knew, FP
was shaking him awake. Jughead opened his eyes to find them parked in front of
the Twilight. The fence was chained shut, and behind it the white screen rose
high into the night sky like the sail of a ship.
Neither of them said a word as Jughead slid off the bike, heart heavy and a
lump in his throat. He pulled out a ring of keys from his pocket, and FP
cleared his throat awkwardly.
“You should come back to the trailer. If—if you want.” He gestured vaguely to
the drive-in. “It’s not much, but it’s gotta be better than this place, right?”
Jughead frowned and looked at the ground.
“I just mean… it would be… nice to have you,” FP went on. “Could be fun.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Jughead said. It was late, he was still drunk, and with
everything that had just happened he didn’t exactly have the mental fortitude
to think that far ahead.
“Good,” FP said, like that settled the matter. “Take care of yourself, all
right?”
“Okay.”
FP smiled uncertainly as he revved his bike, and then he was gone into the
night.
Jughead stood for a minute, staring at the spot where he’d been, before he
finally turned and trudged towards the gate of the drive-in. The empty field in
front of the screen was eerie in the dark, and Jughead walked quickly to the
small building that housed the projection room. He breathed a sigh of relief
when he finally closed the door behind him.
Jughead flopped down on his bed and stared at the ceiling. It was still
spinning in a vaguely unsettling manner, but not as much as it had been back at
the bar. The bar…
He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to block out the memory. He was too tired
to think about how fucked up he was.
Still, as sleep began to take him, he couldn’t help letting his mind wander to
the memory of his father, and his voice, and the feeling of warm leather under
his fingers.
Maybe living with FP wouldn’t be so bad after all.
 
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