Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He’s thinking about the rapists. Oddly, not the one thrusting into him, but the nameless ones pointed out to him over the years. He’s had enough stints to remember a few and wonders, not for the first time, if any of them stopped to apply more vaseline like Tully does.

The Aryan shot caller is always quick, not in that pent-up, agressive way, but like he’s just getting a job done. Like claiming Juice’s ass is a daily task that has to be performed, like the dishes or collecting the mail. It’s effeciant and strangely painless. Physically, that is. If he started to think and feel, it wouldn’t be and that’s why it’s best not to ask questions.

“Get the book for me, baby.”

It’s automatic by now, Juice thinks as Tully slips out of him and the lack of ridicule would probably be nice if there was a part of him still caring about niceties. He isn’t beause what’s the use in caring about what you don’t have and never will have again.

Eleven heartbeats. He’s counted them. That’s how long it takes from the moment when Tully is done, to when he’s forcing Juice’s head down onto his lap, the pillow mercifully keeping some distance to the nazi’s groin and the book, not the cock, comes out.

Juice closes his eyes. In the beginning he barely dared to blink and both the sweet smell of his rapist, his raspy voice and his too warm hand made him sick but the need to stay alert would win. Now he just floats away, too numb from the last six months of ongoing hollowing to even feel ashamed of himself. And as quick as Tully is with his cock, just as slow is his reading and the eleven heartbeats it takes to get to the poems, are almost too exact even for Juice’s OCD and need for order.

In the last months, it seems as if the nazi has lost interest in this. The aggression from the first times, when Jax was still alive, is long since gone and Juice doesn’t even dare to guess what’s replaced it. It’s difficult to tell if Ron Tully has any kind of normal, human feelings at all, or if he’s like Jax and Gemma: good at using them when he needs to, but not really feeling them for real. He’s using a lot of that cheap vaseline every time he rapes Juice, enough to take any physical pain away, leaving Juice with a dull but soon forgotten ache instead of sharp pain and for a coward and a snitch, that’s a hell of a lot more kindness than he deserves. And he never ever makes Juice suck his dick.

Even in this shitty place, there are small favours, Juice thinks as he feels Tully’s hand on his head. No one’s touching him in an even remotely sweet way, the last time was probably Gemma and that’s a memory Juice is grateful he’s managed to leave outside this particular hell. No one does, but Tully. A fucking nazi rapist is the only one treating him like something akin to a human being in here and what does that say about the world? Probably nothing.

The clock is ticking, not soundly, but Juice has Tully’s timeline in his blood by now and as usual, Juice makes good use of the remaining time and lets himself drift away under the hand that’s so horribly good at both hurt and comfort.

Even when the time is almost up and the nazi’s legs must be fucking stiff from sitting in the same position with Juice’s head heavily on them for so long, Tully is gentle when bringing him back from the almost-slumber.

“Wake up, boy. It’s time.”

And as Juice raises from his lap, he thinks about the rapists and how he knows Tully is one of them, how it’s just the Stockholm Syndrome speaking when he tries to see him as another kind, but today the nazi’s usually so calm, emotionless eyes look… human.

“Get your clothes in order, baby. Just because you’re in PC doesn’t mean you can’t look tidy.”

Tully seems tired. Not as in needing sleep, but more like he’s just tired of this, whatever it is. And as he slips the bookmark into the poetry collection, he turns to Juice, with a strange expression on his face.

“Do you need anything, baby?”

Juice just gapes, can’t help himself because what the fuck is this new game? He finishes buttoning the coarse prison shirt and tries to look as unimpressed as he wishes he felt.

“Yeah, sure. How about a medium steak, some strippers and a fat joint.”
“No beer then?”
“Fuck you, Tully.”

In the past, this could’ve gotten him if not killed so at least loosing some vital member or two, but the rapist gives a laugh that sounds more like a bark and his eyes still have some of that almost human glimpse.

“Yeah, fuck me. You shouldn’t be snippy when I’m feeling generous, pretty boy.”
“You’re already giving me so much, Tully.”

Yeah, he’s definitely pushing it, especially with his tone, but he’s only just gotten used to be Tully’s physically alive fucktoy and there’s no room left for games, plots and secrets. He’s already being moved like a piece on a gameboard, has been for far longer than he’s been under Tully’s mockingly gentle claws and no, Juice doesn’t want anything from him.

The nazi just shrugs then, a gesture so normal it’s fucking terrifying to see it in this inhuman creature but before Juice can prepare for some kind of immediate punishment, there’s a knock on the door.

“Time’s up, love birds!”

If Tully wasn’t a monster, Juice could swear there’s a twitch of something very close to discomfort on his mouth and then, the shot caller is back.

“I’ll see you later, baby.”

It’s the standard phrase, but as has been the case for the last few weeks, there’s no smirk to it. If Juice didn’t know better and if he cared, he’d say his rapist seems regretful.

It takes seven heartbeats until the door is opened and Juice, once again, is left alone.

Chapter Text

“Isn’t there some cute pale ass, with blonde hair and blue eyes with the fish this time?”
“Plenty, but none as sweet as you, baby.”
“Please, don’t start with some brown sugar shit because that would be a new low even for you.”
“If you’re gonna spend our time together being this rude, I have to stop giving you rewards.”
“Oh, poor me.”

In all this time, Juice has never seen Tully loose his temper, not once, and that’s kind of impressive considering how utterly stupid some of his nazi goons are. It’s also fucking scary and unnatural, as if there was anything even remotely normal with this, for lack of a better word, person to begin with.

The night is hot and stuffy, air condition sucks in here and Juice has no idea why Tully pays the guards to spend the night in solitary with him, where the air is even worse than on the cell block. The nazi has read him poems, as usual, and the fuck before that was mechanical, also as usual. Still eleven hearbeats before Juice’s head is on his lap and he wonders if his rapist has counted them too. No, that would mean he’s got a heart and Juice is pretty sure he doesn’t.

Instead of cutting him off with a sharp response, Tully gives him a kiss on his head and Juice hates that he blushes, as if it was a wanted gesture, something to feel good about. Tully sighs.

“We all have our roles to play, baby. And if you weren’t so busy bitching and whining all the time, maybe you’d learn to play yours too. Now keep that pretty mouth shut or I’ll have to make use of it in other ways.”

That actually shuts him up because sucking Tully off, especially in this heat, is about as tempting as eating pukes right now and instead, Juice curls into a ball on the narrow bed, facing the wall. He expects Tully to move away, leaving his punk to mope on his own, but as usual, the nazi doesn’t do what’s usual.  

Four heartbeats, then there’s an arm coming around him and Juice may hate what he feels about it, but the presence of his nazi rapist makes it easier to sleep. Tully smells like cheap soap, sweat and the prison laundry powder and he doesn’t say a word when the darkness and silence finally grabs hold of Juice’s dried out feelings, squeezing some sad wetness out of them.

He should be done crying by now, the rational part of his mind points out, because there’s nothing left for him to feel shit over. He took it away, ruined it all by himself and maybe being a prison bitch to a nazi is some poetic justice for Miles and Filthy Phil, but it doesn’t feel like atonement, only a punishment for something that probably deserved something far more harsh than some nazi dick up the ass.

Five more hearbeats – that makes them eleven again – and Tully sighs.

“Please, try and get some sleep, baby.”
“Then let fucking go of me.”

Surprisingly, he does. Tully leaves the bed and there’s a sound of cracking joints when the shot caller lays on the floor.

“Better?”
“Fucking amazing.”
“You’re welcome.”

Juice tries to block the sadness in Tully’s voice. It doesn’t suit him and messes with the spite Juice feels towards him – and himself. The heat still makes sleep an uncomfortable and dragged out business and when Juice finally does fall asleep, it’s restless and filled with messy dreams. He sees Tara, bloodied on the floor and Gemma is stabbing her over and over, blood is splashing all over and Juice looks down on his hands, but the blood isn’t coming from Gemma using the knife. He’s the one stabbing Tara.

He wakes up whimpering, panting and he’s stumbling over the form on the floor to the toilet, nausea depriving him of whatever there’s to take of from his stomach.

“Breathe, baby…”

Why does it have to feel good having Tully here right now? A cup of water is brought to his lips, gentleness where there shouldn’t be any and that’s what makes him cry, not the dream or the guilt it stems from.

“Please, let me… Yeah, that’s better…”

Is it? Juice finds himself in Tully’s lap on the floor, leaning back onto his chest and why not, when everything else is so twisted it’s not even a mockery of reality anymore. And apparantly the nazi has something resembling a heart, because the beats are rhythmic against Juice’s sticky face.

“Why couldn’t you just kill me?”

He’s not sure why he’s asking. Tully wont answer, he’s never told him why and Juice doesn’t expect an answer now either.

“Because I don’t kill for cowards.”
“Not even a coward?”
“Who said you’re a coward, baby?”
“Anyone who’s not insane.”
“Sanity never interested me.”
“Not your Führer either.”

The laughter isn’t Tully’s usual, it’s almost natural, as if he’s actually capable of some real emotions and then there’s the kiss on the nape of Juice’s damp neck.

“Please don’t say things like that when my men can hear. I like having you around, Ortiz.”
“Lucky me.”

It’s meant to make the man leave, or at least stop pretending to care. Or, is it? Juice isn’t that sure anymore and even if he was, he’s not good on his own.

Chapter Text

“Almost there, baby…”

It’s still unclear why Tully even utters a word to him, let alone preparing for the inevitable when he doesn’t have to. Having the nazi’s cum staining the sheets is disgusting enough already and Juice wonders why the hell the creep insists on this every fucking time – or how he’s even allowed in protected custody regularly to begin with.

There’s no indication except for the erection and the cum – and the latter isn’t always the outcome anyway – of Tully actually enjoying claiming his little brown sugar bitch. He’s almost completely emotionless on top of him, just thrusting mechanically, like a pump in a factory of some sort. It seems like he just wants this to be over with and he’s not making any attempts to mark Juice with teeth, nails or bruising grips.

The amount of vaseline and lack of violence, the near completely impersonal sense of it all, reminds more of someone trying to get shit done with as little discomfort as possible, than of a predator and his prey. And Juice counts heartbeats, his own and the nazi’s, when the speed finally quickens and it’s done.

Tully hisses when he softens and slips out, Juice can feel the cum seeping down through the sheet and mattress, the sign some of the guards here throw looks at, snickering or just looking at it with disgust. Juice’s own cock is hard too, his body is reacting to Tully in ways that disgusts him and at least the shot caller doesn’t mock him about it. Usually, he just ignores it and that’s why Juice startles when Tully dips his own hand in the jar and takes his punk’s cock.

For a moment, they’re both still, Juice’s whole body has stiffened by the touch but then he remembers it doesn’t matter, and he relaxes into the nazi’s hand.

They don’t speak, not a word, and Juice expects his rapist to be quick, efficiant, or at the very least impatient and sloppy because a shot caller jacking his punk off just doesn’t happen. But to Juice’s horror, it feels good and he wants more.

Tully is good at this, but the touch isn’t mechanical as his fucking. He’s taking his time, hand slick from the vaseline and soon Juice’s own precum, and Juice can’t help but leaning into him because yes, it does feel nice to be touched like this again. Like he’s a human, like Tully isn’t a rapist, like this isn’t Stockton and more than half of Juice’s former family isn’t dead from the stupid MC wars, the drug cartel, the treason committed by himself and others…  Juice blocks the memory, focusing on Tully’s hand, pretending it’s someone elses and when he comes, it’s not exactly an orgasm, but a simple relief of pressure, just as mechanic as the feeling of his rapist’s release earlier.

“You good?”

It’s unexpected, enough so to stop him from finding a quick, snarky answer. What is this? Tully’s version of pretending he needs consent? Juice turns around, Tully’s face is almost always impassive, close to impossible to read, but right now he seems… not caring, no, but if he actually wants to know the answer.

Juice swallows, he’s not playing this game.

“No. Are you?”

He expects a smart response, Tully is a man of words when he wants to, but he just looks at him and if the nazi was capable of empathy, which Juice doubts, this could’ve been his apologetic face.

“What ever does it matter to you, baby?”

It’s patronizing, like an adult petting a child’s cheek, explaining how some things are better left to the grown-ups. Juice is sick of this and he meets the man’s gaze.

“You don’t even like it, Tully.”

The predatory glimpse is back for a second and Juice almost scoots back, but Tully grabs his hand, firm but not bruising and Juice finds them staring at each other, neither of them prepared to turn away first.

Tully doesn’t look like a rapist now, as if there was a certain type with visible signs for people to spot, but Juice guesses he doesn’t look like a killer himself either. A coward, maybe, but not necessarily. You sure as hell can’t tell from seeing him in this cell, that he’s shot a family member he had no actual beef with, only to save his own ass while being worked by the feds and stupid enough to believe them.

They keep staring, the rapist and the coward and then, like clockwork, the shot caller knows it’s time to leave, raising from the bed and adjusting his clothes. He washes his hands and then takes the book of poetry that’s slipped down on the floor.

“Do you need anything… Juice?”

What? No baby? Tully is good with this too, confusing, fucking with his mind and Juice hears the footsteps from what must be the nazi’s escort back. He swallows, because his predator has never used his silly nickname before. Or his given one, for that matter. And there’s nothing he wants that Tully can give him. Or maybe there is.

“Ice and air.”

The shaved eyebrows looks particularly ridiculous when raised and Juice allows himself to feel superior for a moment, for making Ron Tully, the AB shot caller who literally owns his ass, genuinly surprised. Juice leans back at the wall, sitting rather comfortably on the hard bunk, considering how sore he probably should be, but isn’t. But Tully must know he wasn’t rough, can’t expect Juice to pretend when it’s only him there, right?

“Knock knock!”

The guard Tully pays, Wilson or something, is back, not seeing them yet, but Juice knows his role and curls up with his back towards the nazi. The man snickers.

“So… Ice and air, baby… No chocolate and roses, then?”
“Don’t you have some arm wavings and white trash slogans to work on?”
“I always have time for you, baby.”
“I know, I’m your own special little piece of exotic ass in here, Tully. Don’t forget the champagne and candles next time.”

He can mouth back a little in front of the guards, in fact, Tully oddly enough seems to like it. This one, Wilson, is a greedy motherfucker who’ll probably turn a blind eye to most things for the cash Tully can offer, but he’s still a guard and as the nazi says, the all have their roles to play so they stop this sick form of almost friendly bickering.

Juice hates the fact that, once his rapist has left and he no longer can hear his footsteps, he wishes him back. And it truly must be life’s way of fucking him over some more, that Tully’s walk from the cell to the door, this time is eleven heartbeats long as well.

Chapter Text

Ice and air… Juice can’t help but snicker when guard has left, clearly disappointed the package he got good money to deliver, didn’t contain anything more exciting than this. It’s a small freezer box, the kind you use to keep organs in for delivery, but instead of kidneys, there is a soda can, plenty of ice cubes and, wrapped in a plastic bag – a handsized fan.

He lays down on his bunk, trying the fan. A part of him is disgusted with himself for accepting this, for not just refusing Tully’s gifts, but the days in PC are long and humid at best, and a purgatory at worst. Even the guards complaint constantly about the useless air condition and oh, God, this little plastic piece may be a gift from Stockton’s own devil, but it feels like heaven.

Juice decides on saving the soda for later, it’s a cherry coke which isn’t a favourite on the outside, but this is inside and that means it’s the equivalence of grabbing a nice beer from your own fridge, free to drink it whenever and wherever you want. He’ll savor this for as long as he can.

Saving the battery driven fan is harder. He shouldn’t use them up this fast, especially not until night when he’ll need it the most, but it’s been so long since he was outside somewhere with good shadow and breeze, it’s impossible to resist. If he closes his eyes he can almost imagine this is the wind in his face from riding.

As the day goes on in it’s usual colorless routine, Juice finds himself thinking of how to thank Tully. He’s not seen his rapist for three days now, which should be a relief, but Juice is missing him, fucked up as it is. And in this heat, the tiny fan is a gift only an idiot would refuse. When the crappy dinner is over and the con who Juice doesn’t reckognize has collected the trays in the PC unit, he can hear the steps and they seem heavier than usual. Almost as if the nazi is dragging his feet.

“Ortiz, your boyfriend is here.”

If I met you on the outside, I’d show you some of what I learned in Belfast, you piece of shit, Juice thinks as he keeps his face passably submissive to the guard who belongs to the kind of men who think bringing a rapist to his victim is what makes their shitty job a little more fun. And Juice, of course, does his part of the game and gives a twisted smile.

“Just in time for dessert.”

He hates this. Being someone’s dessert. Eaten alive, again and again. Tully doesn’t show any emotions what so ever, though. Of course not. He’s in control of himself and his punk and the guards and this whole fucking prison, not to mentions his money, because who else could get these kind of favours? He gives the guard a dismissive nod.

“Thank you. Five thirty, sharp.”
“Have fun.”

Tully doesn’t even smile, as if it’s beneath him to share jokes with the guards and then, the door is shut and they’re alone again. The nazi doesn’t say anything, just removing his shoes as usual and then his shirt. The prison uniform isn’t exactly comfortable and Juice watches him carefully.

“Thank you… for the ice and air.”

There it is, the smile that’s almost genuine, almost normal, as if it actually meant something to this predator that his punk appreciated the gifts.

“You’re welcome, baby.”

The tone is neutral and Juice takes it as a sign that talking is over and he moves to the bed, takes his shoes off and opens his pants, pushing them down slightly before getting in position. He doesn’t want to annoy the shot caller by letting him wait, because those gifts of ice and air could easily become a lack of lube instead, should Tully think he’s not grateful and compliant enough.

He closes his eyes when Tully starts undressing because he doesn’t want to know how any more parts of the man’s body looks like. He can hear the water, how his rapist is washing up some, probably not out of care for his punk but because of the heat. When the bunk is shifting, Juice tries to slip into his usual “this is not my body and I’m not really here” mode, but even with the fan and the ice, it’s too warm for his mind to drift off now. Besides, he’s still confused and worried about what these rare gifts mean.

“Six minutes…”

The mutter is low, but Juice turns around.

“Six what?”
“Minutes, baby. Lay down.”

He obeys, of course he does, there’s no real alternative by now and Juice tries to relax, to get past the initial intrusion that his body still seems unable to prepare for. But there’s no vaseline coated piece of thick meat breaking in, not this time and when Juice turns his head, Tully shakes his.

“Keep quiet, don’t move, don’t do anything, boy. Five minutes now.”
“What the hell are you…?”
“Quiet.”

Tully doesn’t need to raise his voice, a whisper has the same weight to it and Juice quickly shuts his mouth and turns his eyes away again, as two fingers, not a cock, are working his ass.

This doesn’t hurt, not one bit. It’s real fucking lube too, not vaseline, and where the hell did Tully get hold of that in here? Juice wants to ask, but there wont be an answer and never in his life did he think he could actually like having something up his ass, but he does and his rock hard cock is leaking precum like fuck and he’s gonna have to curl up and hide from himself with the help of some horrible prison hooch soon – Tully can get him that too – or he’s gonna do something actual destructive.

Four minutes. Three, two… Tully counts down and when he’s reached to one, he quickly adds more lube, hides the bottle in his pocket and turns Juice down to his usual position. He reaches down to Juice’s ear, thank God not nibbling it, but whispering:

“Cameras and mics are on, the last six minutes didn’t happen and you’re not making any unusual moves or sounds, are we clear?”

Juice just nods, speechless for more than one reason and he wonders about the comment on unusual sounds first, but then he feels Tully’s cock and his mind that’s slow from heat despite the fan, catches up.

His rapist, this fucking nazi, has paid the guards to keep the cameras and mics off in order to prep his punk so it wont hurt as much.

It’s so fucked up Juice almost starts laughing, but then he remembers where they are and, which is one hell of a sign of Stockholm Syndrome, realises how good this feels. Tully keeps his usual rhythm, but the amount of wetness and the prep makes it very different in a truly nice way and Juice finds himself moaning into the pillow, all but arching his back to actually meet the thrusts, any counting of heartbeats forgotten.

Tully doesn’t grab his cock this time but there’s no need for that. Juice lets the weight and thrusts from the man pound him into the thin mattress and the course sheet, creating this grinding friction on his cock. It’s shameful but he doesn’t care, because he’s not had actual sex for so long and he can almost pretend it’s not Tully behind him, but some sweetbutt with a strap-on and freaking huge hands working him to climax.

He’s never had an orgasm from this, not even while playing with himself in the past, and it’s probably good that Tully puts a hand over his mouth, despite the smell of lube and ass, because the shout needs to be blocked as he comes all over his already stained sheet and his hole is clenching and throbbing around the other man’s cock.

It’s shameful and confusing, disgusting and just wrong but Juice doesn’t care. He lays there, trembling and panting as Tully comes inside him, still so slick and smooth there’s no hurt what so ever, and just lets himself feel.

Chapter Text

PC is only good for staying alive, and little else. Sure, some men are solitarian by nature but Juice isn’t, never has been and without a flock or at least a companion of some sort, there’s simply too much time and space for his mind to make things worse. He’s not even sure why they insist on keeping him here. He has no new information on the club, everyone knows he’s been ex-communicated and the only visits he’s getting apart from the mandatory check-ups from prison staff, are Tully’s.

On his next shower day, a particularly hot and humid morning, Juice walks the usual corridor to the shower room accompanied by a guard he doesn’t reckognize. A young one, clearly new here and probably new to the prison system as well. In the past, when he was still a Son, Juice probably would’ve teased him a bit, he’s the type of guy who’s still insecure with the inmates, and there was a time when another Juice, one that wasn’t a coward rat, would’ve used that to his advantage, smiling and getting on this nerd’s good side.

Those days are past though and Juice knows his smile no longer looks the same, so he keeps his mouth shut and even the short walk to the showers and when he’s uncuffed and let inside the single shower stall with a towel, his bag of toiletries and a change of clothes, he nods to the newbie.

“Thanks.”

The guy gives him a strange look, shrugs and leaves, which is confusing because a guard is to stay outside the shower curtain the entire time. Juice takes his clothes off, waiting for the water to start but instead there’s the sound of a door and for a split second, Juice thinks Tully somehow has managed to buy some time here too.

“Hey, Ortiz…”

It’s not Tully, or anyone from the AB or the Sons or even a con. It’s Wilson who’s pulling the shower curtain and the other one, the young guard who still doesn’t say a thing. Juice grabs the towel, hating himself for the nervousness he knows he’s showing.

“You wanna look, sir?”

Damn it. Why can’t he just learn when to shut up? Wilson laughs and grabs Juice’s neck, shoving his face hard into the tiled wall.

Juice knows what’s gonna happen before it does, knows there’s no idea to scream because this is PC and the only guards who’d come are those he needs protection from.

“Hold him, Mac!”
“What are…?”
“Just shut up and hold, idiot! Stay still and silent, Ortiz, for your own sake. You’ve learned that by now, right?”

The laughter is breathy and sick, there’s a sound of spitting and Juice tries to wander off, to loose himself in that space where he can pretend this isn’t happening. The pain shatters that idea immediately though and all Juice knows is how he’s being torn apart, that he’s yelling from it and no one who cares hears him.

Chapter Text

“This is for you, Ortiz.”

The mail con is no gang member, Juice knows it the moment the guy’s nervous gaze skates over the infirmary. He never has any delivery to him, the only mail Juice ever receives in here are the kind of useless shit his even more useless lawyer has to send and he couldn’t care less. He takes the card though, it has no envelope and no stamp.

“Who’s it from?”
“Fuck do I know.”

The con keeps going and Juice looks at the card. It’s a picture with ice cubes and on the backside, there’s a poem written down in a handwriting he doesn’t reckognize and doesn’t have to. Only one person would send him a card with a Brontë poem. Come thinking of it, Tully is the only one who’d send him a card at all. He hides it under the sheet to avoid questions.

It’s been almost five days and he’s healing a little more every day. The warden has been here to have a chat, asking the questions he knows Juice wont answer because that’s just how it works inside and the only thing the man knows when leaving, is that no, it’s not Tully.

What a fucking joke.

The question is suspicious and Juice has had enough stints to know that someone, probably Wilson or his little minion, is trying to cover up and honestly, it’s kind of pathetic how lousy they are at this – although not quite as pathetic as the fucked up comfort Juice finds in imagining Tully making them pay for it. He seems to be reaching a new low by the day and without any other heartbeats than his own to count, it’s a lot harder not to stare down into the pit he’s once again been digging a little deeper by himself.

He looks at the card several times every day until he’s finally released and is taken back to his less than protected cell, this time by a guard he knows isn’t a rapist. That’s something.

His cell looks like it did when he left it for the shower. Nothing’s out of the ordinary and neither is a pretty Puerto Rican punk with deer eyes and no friends getting raped. Juice puts the card from Tully under the mattress where he can reach it. Then he falls asleep.

It’s late, he can feel from the soreness that he’s been sleeping for hours, when the door’s unlocked and a voice without the usual laughter tells someone to not do “anything stupid”. There’s no answer and Juice finds himself curling up on instinct. He’s still in pain, he can’t take it again, not this soon, please, just wait a few more days…

“Hey, baby…”

It’s probably just as wrong as everything else, but that doesn’t stop Juice from rolling over and all but throwing himself around Tully’s neck, sobbing like there’s no tomorrow. For the first time since the shower, he’s almost feeling safe.

Chapter Text

No one, especially not a new pig, does anything with a shot caller’s punk unpunished. It’s expected, the retaliation Tully has put in motion during Juice’s stay on the sick ward, and now there is one pig laying on the morgue, another one is missing his dick and said male member was sent to Tully and, of course, caught in the mail.

Tully enjoys the looks, a lot of them scared, others impressed and all of them respectful, as he walks to his spot in the prison cafeteria. Since it’s a secret, everybody knows that someone dressed as a cop pulled Wilson over after a late shift, shocked him with a taser and then cut his dick off before sending it to Tully. And of course, everyone knows it has something to do someone with being stupid enough to touch a punk belonging to AB’s number three. Naturally, that means no one talks and if anyone else, con or pig, had in mind to touch Ortiz, he’s wiped those thoughts as far off as possible.

Tully, who can manipulate the prison staff in his sleep by now, almost lazily denies any knowledge about the meaty mail and as there’s nothing at all connecting him to the deed, the less than happy warden has to drop the case since, of course, the little piggy who thought he was gonna gain some respect by helping to rape a shot caller’s punk, doesn’t want to loose something more than his precious cock.

It’s not about Ortiz, Tully tells himself as he digs in on his lunch and listens to the casual talk from his men. It’s about sending a fucking message, reminding little piggies as well as cons, what happens if you play with toys belonging to others without permission. And Tully doesn’t like to share.

He visits his punk later that night, prepared for about anything than the reaction his entrance triggers. The boy, who lays curled up in fetus position and of course startles as the door opens, throws himself in Tully’s arms the moment the guard is out of sight and Tully is dumbfounded. Juice is crying and with anyone else that would’ve, at the very least, annoyed the shot caller, but instead of telling the punk off, he just holds him and lets him cry.

Consent might be a foreign language to Tully, but comfort isn’t and when Juice has stopped crying and, with a face expression and movements that honestly make Tully cringe a little, starts scooting down his pants, Tully grabs his wrist.

“Stop.”

Jesus Christ, the boy really thinks he wants to…? Tully isn’t used to think of anyone but himself unless it’s about manipulation and he’s also long since forgotten how it felt to be someone’s punk. He’s also made sure of that anyone else who might still remember him or his cellmate from his first stint after juvie, suffers from some kind of permament memory loss. Fucking punks is any strong con’s right, Tully learned that the hard way and if you’re not the predator, you’re by default the prey.

But there are different kinds of predators – and preys – and Tully finds it beneath him to fuck Juice now. It’s his right, of course. The boy is his punk, his property and this is how it works inside which Juice knows as well as anyone. It’s not as if he’s shown any surprise, like the first timers. He might not be a Son any longer, but while Tully has little interest in the bikers apart from when they’re good for business, he’s aware that the Son’s wouldn’t have taken Juice in, let alone have him handle their intelligence serves, had he not lived up to basic standards. Claiming a former Man of Mayhem, has more edge, more style to it than fish who wets the bed and cries for mommy.

Not while he’s still recovering, though. It doesn’t become an AB shot caller to take some pig’s sloppy seconds. Juice looks as scared as confused, so Tully gentles his grip around the wrist and pulls the boy back down on the bed.

“You should rest, baby. C’mon, lay down.”

There’s a small whine and Tully stops. He’s not used to this, being careful with someone, but if Juice starts screaming this will end and it’s too intriguing for Tully to give it up yet. So, he forgets his pride and slips down from the boy’s wrist to his hand. Two huge brown eyes stare at him, incredulous, and Tully is about to loose his patience.

“Lay down, boy.”

It’s like pressing a pause button and almost comical, was it not for the terrified look in the boy’s face. But he lets himself be pulled down now, onto the pillow and, which is something Tully wasn’t planning – his arm.

A shivering rabbit, Tully thinks, only mildly contemptuous and more amused. Then he realises that no, the boy actually doesn’t understand that Tully has limits and the shot caller sighs.

“I’m not gonna fuck you tonight, baby. Not until you’re fixed. And no one’s touching you unpunished.”

Blunt, certainly not his usual way with words but it seems to work. The boy stills on his arm and Tully reaches to his own back pocket for the well-used copy of poems.

“Let me read to you, baby.”

Chapter Text

He’s not sure what to expect and that’s why he’s trying not to expect shit. While it’s kind of sickening to know that the reason he’s no longer bothered by guards or other inmates is because of his nazi rapist, he can’t deny it’s a relief.

Tully visits almost daily and when he doesn’t, he sends gifts. A pot brownie wrapped in paper, a milk carton that’s been emptied and filled with hooch, some toothpaste when Juice runs out of his own and – oddly – a bunch of comic books. (You look like the type who wont read poems on your own, baby.)

Well, the fucking nazi rapist is smug as hell and also right. And reading Venom and Avengers while getting high and drunk on brownies and that disgusting but effective prison moonshine, is probably the closest thing to happiness Juice has felt since Roosevelt started the shit with his dad. Feels like another life and when he’s drunk and high, that memory doesn’t hurt so much.

One of those nights when life almost seems real again, Tully visits and Juice doesn’t startle but smiles and the shotcaller’s surprise to that turns the smile to a laugh.

“What gives me the honor, your highness?”
“Mouthy today, baby? You took anything?”

Juice just grins.

“You should know.”

Of course he does and maybe it’s the hooch and pot taking over, but right now, Juice is kind of happy to see him. For real. And for some reason – Juice refuses to think it’s coming from a place of empathy or even fucking decency – the nazi hasn’t fucked him since the assault. Perhaps the shot caller doesn’t like other’s sloppy seconds. At the moment, it doesn’t really matter though. The hooch and pot is good, so was the chocolate brownie and Juice knows he’s sunken so low, the brownie alone – without the green stuff – would’ve  made him a little happy.

If he was still alive, still a man, he’d be disgusted by himself, but not only doesTully have his ass and balls, apparantly he took what was left of Juice’s spine as well. He looks at the devoured little bottle, remembering something.

“The cameras…”
“Oh, they aint on.”

That smug, predatory smile again. A little pet on Juice’s head, demeaning in every way.

“Neither are the mics, baby.”

Juice thinks he should just stop wondering how far Tully’s power on the inside actually reaches – and by extention what that means to his punks. Juice certainly can’t be his only one, it’s too risky and too much of an effort even for a rich shot caller with enough guards in his pocket. These visits cost money or favours and not a small amount. With or without the mics and cameras, Tully wants something in return and the only assets Juice have left, are his not so smart mouth and still sore ass.

“C’mon, baby, lay down.”

It’s not a question because Tully doesn’t need to ask and neither does he need to bark or growl for his punk to obey. Juice does as ordered and then automatically starts scooting down his pants, but his nazi rapist stops the motion again.

“Just lay down.”

There’s firmness to it, but he’s not rough. Not the voice, not the movements, and Juice feels the hand not tugging down but up. Maybe Tully means it, that he’s not going to fuck him, and it’s not like Juice will protest. He lays down, clothed and still high from the divine brownie and settles on his rapist’s arm.

The nights are easier now with the small fan and when Juice reaches out to put it on, there’s a little hum from the nazi, not pleased exactly but approving. With all the people Juice has let down, some straight down to the grave, perhaps this is as close as he can come to please anyone without using his ass or mouth.

It’s sick, of course, but who’s there to keep track on what Juice is doing, except for Tully? Who’s gonna ban him from something he’s already been ex-communicated from? The patch has been ripped off, the kutte no longer awaits for him in the storage for the day he’ll get out and if this nazi shot caller insists on keeping him alive, there’s either a knife, a lighter or – if he’s lucky – some prison ink from a needle that wont give him either septicimia or HIV waiting to remove the ink too. The pot, the hooch and also the sweet, lingering taste of rich chocolate, eases those thoughts as well.

Tully doesn’t talk now, there’s just his strangely clean breath down Juice’s neck and it should freak him out, but the touch, just this… reckognation from someone that he’s still a human being, is something Juice has craved for so long now, it’s as if his brain wont give a shit about the source of it, as long as it’s offered and within reach. And now, on top of it, Juice is feeling sleepy and can’t stop a yawn.

“Falling asleep, baby?”
“Sorry…”
“Nah, don’t apoligise. You can sleep.”
“In your arms? How romantic…”

It’s as if he can’t help himself and then, he tenses, realising what he just said and curls up again.

“I’m sorry, I…”
“I know. Rude, ungrateful, disrespectful, and so on…”

There’s a snicker from the shot caller, ending with a sigh.

“I’m tired too, baby. And no one’s coming until dawn or, if any of us scream.”
“What if I scream?”
“Then things will get uncomfortable for both of us, so be smart, baby.”
“Don’t call me baby.”
“As you wish, kitten.”

There’s no way to win, Juice’s drunken mind realises as he settles more and more comfortable in Tully’s arms. He’s not purring, not by a long shot, but there’s been so long since he actually felt this good with touch, he can’t let it go, so he snuggles closer, not feeling the slight pause of breath from the nazi when his punk freely leans into his chest.

Chapter Text

He was young. Seventeen and not yet true to the cause but he’d never been to juvie and his first sentence – driving and hitting an old lady under influence – sent him straight to jail with the adults. Of course, the Brotherhood took care of their own, young or old, and Tully isn’t a victim, never was. Saying no to his buff cellmate, a brother with way, way higher ranking than some barely grown-up pup who was smart but too impatient, cocky and inexperience to realise when to shut up and listen, was a bad idea.

Well, he learned that, eventually.

Tully has kept punks many, many times during his stints and he’s never thought about it as anything but the order of nature on the inside. He no longer remembers how he used to count his own heartbeats when that first older cellmate pushed him down the thin mattress and dirty pillow. It’s in the past, this Tully doesn’t cry at night, quietly not to disturb the ranking member who sleeps lightly and isn’t bleeding through his orange jumpsuit either. He’s not walking a little bowlegged, not biting his lip when sitting down in the cafeteria and he doesn’t pretend not to hear when his brothers joke about breaking the new ones in gently.

No, Ron Tully doesn’t remember, doesn’t care, doesn’t hear the past anymore. The boy is dead, or at least safely muzzled by now, and so are the punks. Unfortunately, Ortiz is… different. It was easy at first, teaching the little spic a lesson, but he already seemed lost to the world that time. He didn’t fight back, didn’t cry, didn’t beg. He just laid there, staring into nothing, not making a sound. Just taking it, as if thinking he was doing the right thing by doing nothing. Too numb to care and that’s intriguing, because Tully never reached that state.

When he couldn’t fight back, at least he tried to keep up a carefree face. To piss his cellmate off, at the very least. Not just laying there, offering no resistance. Like a prey, too weak from sickness and injury to keep running and just lays down, accepting the predator. Only this time, Tully thinks as he looks at the shut camera, it’s not as simple as that.

The absence of the little red dot, means he can leave his punk be for the night. No one’s watching to make sure the AB shotcaller doesn’t slip into some kind of charity mode and that’s not just a relief to the punk’s sore ass.

His boy is cuddly. A word Tully honestly doesn’t think he’s ever taken in his mouth, only thinking it feels fucked up, but there’s no other way to describe this spic punk who once was a Man of Mayhem. He’s a little drunk and high, yes, and the plan was to make him easier to fuck but it doesn’t work. Or rather, Tully doesn’t feel like fucking him now and to himself he explains that with the novelty of cuddling. He’s not done that in years and his boy seems to be a natural at it.

Did that older con do this too?

No, Tully may be good at selective memorizing, but he can safely say the high-ranking member didn’t hold him unless to keep him firmly down. And had he done it, Tully might’ve thrown up, but Ortiz gives a content little sigh, dozing off on his chest and only then, the shot caller stops counting his own heartbeats.

Chapter Text

He’s getting out of PC soon. It’s no surprise, really, since he doesn’t cooperate, doesn’t talk about the club with anyone anymore, least of all the shitty lawyer and the even shittier shrink who’s clearly longing for retirement more than anything. PC is for cons who’re threatened but also showing a little good will and Juice doesn’t.

Being let out in gen pop means he’s gonna be a far easier target, but it also means an end to some of the worst loneliness. Tully is powerful, yes, but there are limits even to his possibilities to bend the rules and Juice is more than aware that these nightly visits cost money – and that with our without them, there’s always a risk some guard decides to flip and turn the mics and cameras on. It’s worrying him far more than it should, considering he’s supposed to be dead if not physically, so at least inside. He’s just a punk in the hands of a nazi shotcaller and the moment Tully finds a funnier toy, he’ll throw Juice to the wolves.

When Tully’s visits suddenly stops for four days without a word, Juice tries to prepare for inevitable. More pent-up guards or cons on a powertrip, grinded glass in the food, a shank in the dark. No one tells him anything and Juice isn’t gonna give them the satisfaction of asking for the shotcaller. He should be happy to be left alone. Instead it worries him to the point of panic.

Dealing with panic attacks is something Juice is used to, inside and outside alike, but in the past, he had friends or at least some kind of allies during the stints and there’s no Chibs or Bobby or even Tig here to provide that sense of stability. If there are any incarcerated Sons here, no one’s told him and they’re not family anymore, they’re a death sentence. Ratting them out to the nosy feds again would secure that green light to be carried out fast, at least, but there’s nothing left to protect except his sore and sorry ass and during these long, horribly lonely days, Juice realises he started leaving the club the very day Roosevelt and Lincoln brought him in.

On the fifth day, Juice is ready to actually panic in front of the guards but it doesn’t come to that. Instead, the warden visits him, explaining that since he’s not cooperating and they have other, more valuble cons who could earn the PC spot, Juice will be moved to gen pop after dinner.

“Unless you decide you want to start speaking, of course.”

The warden obviously doesn’t count on that and for some reason, that almost makes Juice proud. Not that he has any right to such feelings anymore, but the fact that the man didn’t expect him to rat, means he’s not showing more weakness.

The rest of the day, Juice feels kind of excited. For the change, if nothing else. Then he realises this means Tully wont be able to visit him, a notion that hits him with a sudden nausea and he looses the lunch in the toilet, sore, confused and utterly disgusted with himself.

When the evening comes, dinner’s been served and Juice has shoved the untouched tray away, he’s told to get his shit and then he’s cuffed and roughly pushed ahead. He counts heartbeats all the way to the door, until he can hear it shut behind him.

He’s brought to gen pop and of course there are comments, shouts, some wolf whistles and the usual glares, some curious, other impassive and some predatory. He knows them all. He’s not sure what to expect, but once he’s shoved into his cell, Juice realises he’s disappointed. Because his cellmate isn’t Tully, but some huge, old guy with a light beard and a shining spot on the top of his head, surrounded by hair that ironically looks like a halo.

“Hi.”

He’s new and he’s the youngest, so he has to start. The man just grunts though and Juice thinks this isn’t the time to introduce himself or saying anything at all, so he just takes the free top bunk, makes his bed and puts his meager belongings away in the locker. Then he changes his mind, worried by the silence from the other man, and picks out the poetry book from Tully.

Lights out simoultaneously feels too far away and too close, but he leaves the bunk to brush his teeth, removing his shoes and the uncomfortable shirt. He gets back silently, resisting the urge to curl up in fetus position and just lays on his back with the book, sometimes reading, sometimes pretending to.

His new cellie, Frank or something, still doesn’t say a word. He’s doing push-ups, grunting and the massive body on the floor is right now a lot more threatening than Tully’s ever was. Maybe this Frank guy isn’t the sort of con who likes to take punks. Maybe he just doesn’t give a shit about who shares his cell and that thought holds Juice up until lights out, when he leaves the bunk to take a piss and on his way back gets a punch to his guts.

“Don’t fucking wake me up again.”

The voice is soft, disgustingly so, and especially coming from this giant. Juice just shakes his head, because the punch was hard as hell and he’s barely able to get back up again.

He buries his face into the pillow, not to muffle crying, but to stop from grunting in pain. He’s lucky if this didn’t injure some internal organs and the pain is almost as bad as the one in the showers. And it’s not until his new cellie starts snoring, loud enough to raise the dead, that Juice dares to release the cramped tears and hope for sleep.

Chapter Text

His boy isn’t showing up to breakfast and Tully refuses to admit it worries him as much as it annoys him. He’s not been able to see him for four days now, thanks to wrong guards on the wrong shifts and the warden needs to know – subtly, of course – that this is not sitting well with the AB shot caller.

Frank Evans chows down sitting on his usual spot with his small group of cons who don’t belong to any particular gang. It’s not a surprise they put the Puerto Rican with someone who has no connections to gangs – in particular the Sons or Mayans – but Evans is a psycho with iron fists and no, Tully doesn’t care about his punk’s well-being, not at all, it’s just… Ortiz belongs to him no matter who’s his cellie and if Evans has a problem with that, well… Then Tully has a problem with that too.

At lunch, the tattooed head, now with a black eye and cheek added to the decors, finally shows up in the chow line, and Tully brings his second close, whispering an order and gets a nod back. Evans is as dumb as he’s strong, but even he knows not to defy one of the most powerful shot callers in Stockton, and when Juice gets to him, Evans grunts and points towards the AB table.

The boy has no expression in his face, strangely, as he slowly turns and heads to the end of Tully’s table. He’s not stupid enough to choose a spot close to anyone, nor does he sit down before Tully nods. The rest of the lunch is uneventful, Juice is treated like he doesn’t exist and Tully’s men aren’t interested in discussing the punk either. What’s good though, is that he sits down without any visible difficulty. That means the giant idiot hasn’t been stupid enough to try and fuck him which, considering everyone should know clear enough by now who Juice’s ass belongs to is to be expected, but some men in here are animals in more ways than Tully: literally incapable of resisting temptation no matter the risks. Hopefully, Evans has some kind of self-control.

Tully wants to kick himself for these… whatever fucking emotions Ortiz is stirring up within him and he gives the boy a cold glare, his reptile eyes really, pretending it doesn’t feel wrong to scare him. It’s all about appearance, surely he knows that as well as anyone, but still…

The boy picks at his mac and cheeese, keeping an arm onto his stomach and that’s probably what kept him from breakfast this morning, rather than the black eye. Tully doesn’t care about other people, he really doesn’t, but the boy is his and he thought he’d made it clear what happens if you touch his belongings. He whispers an order to his second to pass down the table to one of the lowest ranked in the AB, who clearly doesn’t appreciate being the messenger to a spic.

He leaves his spot and goes down to Juice though and Tully is reluctantly pleased to see that the punk doesn’t even flinch, let alone seems to care. He just nods, an almost invisible confirmation that he understands the order and, probably, will abide by it.

It’s not as if he’s choosing to, of course not. After all, punks have no choice, only between obeying or being killed. That’s just how it works and in Tully’s world, there’s nothing even remotely strange or wrong about that.

Chapter Text

“He hurt you.”
“So? You’re jealous someone else touched your toy?”

He doesn’t care about being mouthy. Being ordered over to the shot caller in the cafeteria, was humiliating to say the least – isn’t he supposed to not feel shit anymore? – and Evans had a look of pure hate dodging his steps. Juice glares at Tully, he can do that now in this relative privacy.

“I’m a punk, everyone knows that. You thought you had private access to my ass?”
“He fucked you, baby? Because if he…”
“No! He… he punched me, alright. Jesus…”

The room – the conjugal sort, which is more than a little disturbing – couldn’t have been cheap and Juice hates that he, for some fucked up reason, is worth that amount of money to a nazi rapist just to make a point. He’s a piece on a gameboard, for real, and the room with it’s huge bed and the carpet is just… wrong.

“You really need a king size to fuck your punk?”
“Who said I was gonna fuck you, baby?”

Tully cups his chin now, soft, and that’s disturbing too. It’s like he’s inspecting his plaything. Juice swallows.

“Let me guess? No cameras or mics?”
“Smart boy.”

Good dog.

Juice knows he should be grateful. It’s still humiliating as hell, but by paying for a conjugal room, Tully shows he means business.  And he’s so strangely soft on his hand when touching Juice’s face.

“Come. Shoes off.”

The bed is comfy as hell, especially compared to the bunks and Juice’s whole body gives some kind of sigh of relief when laying down. Right now, Tully can do whatever he wants, as long as they’re staying on this bed. He can fuck him dry, choke him, leave fucking cum on his face – anything as long as Juice can rest.

The nazi does none of those things though. He just arranges them so that Juice lays on his arm and then folds the other arm over him, in that cuddle thing that seems so fucking off in this place. Not any less good though and Juice all but naturally falls into the only comfort given to him.

“You want me to read to you, kitten?”

Not really. But what else is there to choose from? If he had a real choice. Still, Juice shakes his head. He’s not a kitten. Not a good dog either.

“No.”

And when Tully doesn’t answer, just keeps him in his arms like some cuddle toy, Juice swallows, hoping he’s not gonna regret this.

“Just… hold me. Please?”

He expects a joke, some of that snicker or smart words, something that shows the shot caller and not this… whoever this Tully is right now. But the shot caller doesn’t show up. The man holding him just pulls the thin cover over them, spooning him and they lay like that, in something akin to comfortable silence and just as light and easy as the breaths onto his neck, Juice drifts off.

Chapter Text

He had a girlfriend once, seems like a lifetime ago and as Tully watches his punk sleep, curled up in his arms almost peacefully, he can’t help but think of her. Or, not her specifically, but how they used to sleep together. She was a cuddler too and Tully, as any other guy in the Brotherhood, put the usual show up, pretending it was something he did to keep her happy. Sex is easy access in prison, but affection – real or acted – is rare and of course never talked about. The only reason Tully can do this, is because of his connections, his money and reputation.

He’s a snake, patient even for a shot caller and guards learn fast not to fuck with him. Figuratively. Tully hasn’t been a prey for… well, honestly he was another man back then, a boy, and that boy is dead. He died slowly, little by little, under the heavy man with stinking breath and shanking him during a riot and getting away with it, might have been the most satisfying thing Tully’s done inside. He’d learned to be smart and he’s where he is, who he is thanks to that skill. Most cons never have the patience or the brain to create a truly fearsome reputation. They never learn that in order to survive as something more than a punk in here, you have to play the long game and not give in to a temporarily satisfaction when you can cause much more damage with a little patience.

That’s why Ron Tully, the AB shot caller, can pay for this room, knowing the guards in his pocket wont talk. They both have families and while Tully finds it weak and pathetic to kill children, the guards don’t know that. They only know how shitty their paycheck is, how little effort it takes to increase it and how quickly you can loose your dick or life if you don’t keep your hands off other people’s playthings.

He can cuddle his punk because the people he pays to make it happen, know he doesn’t forget and certaintly doesn’t forgive. Not that his punk was maimed and certainly not that the same guard threatened to turn the cameras and mics on, being stupid enough to fucking tease Tully about it. Well, he’s not teasing anyone anymore, least of all that fat wife of his who’ll have to get a strap-on or a divorce to get some dick again. Tully feels no remorse, he can’t remember the last time he did, for anything.

His boy is different and Tully knows he should despise the Puerto Rican for showing his throat like this, but Juice doesn’t do it like other punks he’s had. He doesn’t beg, doesn’t cry, doesn’t make empty threats. He’s no longer a part of the MC and for all the effort he put in to be a part of it again – Tully still can’t believe the stupidity of trying to sell intel to a rival gang and then actually thinking there’s a chance for forgiveness – he’s as good as indifferent now.

Not completely, but enough to allow this. Allow as in allowing himself, Tully thinks, because that’s the only choise Juice has left. What the shot caller doesn’t think of, is how he’s using that stupid nick name in his thoughts. Spic. Rat. Puerto Rican. Punk. Boy. Ortiz… In his mind, he’s unknowingly been humanizing the traitor and that’s why he hates whenever the cameras are on. Because it’s no longer easy to fuck him to show the cameras that he’s doing his job: putting the punk in place.

A little sound from the boy draws Tully out from his thoughts for a moment and thank fuck there are no cameras because no one can ever know what a relief it is not having to fuck Ortiz. Most punks put up at least a minimal fight, although they were younger and, Tully realises, not former high ranked gang members. Ortiz was the intel officer, he’s a tech pro and to be allowed a seat at the table of fucking Redwood Original, he must’ve impressed not just Teller but old Morrow as well. Not that Tully has a high opinion of any of them, but he didn’t become a shot caller by being ignorant of other people’s intelligence. The boy had something that granted him a seat at the table at the mother charter of the club and that makes him a lot more interested to keep as a punk, than any of the white, shivering, still wide-eyed boys doing their first stint. Some of them, like Tully himself, maybe left a girlfriend outside, both young enough to think a two year sentence wouldn’t be the first of many and that it would be easy to wait.

Tully missed fucking her, of course, but after the first year, when she’d left him because of course she did, he missed the cuddles more. She was a pure white girl, of course. Aryan all the way with blue eyes and that blond hair she used to swirl up in a bun. Short, but any girl is short next to Tully and he made her pout and beg for cuddles, giving in with a sigh and pretend he didn’t need it. That it was just something he did for her, to keep his girl happy because that’s how it was supposed to be. Tolerating cuddles because you girl craved it and you were, in that sense, a gentleman. Not that you needed it, of course not.

And now, there’s a soft kitten sleeping in the embrace of the snake Tully has become. On the other hand, snakes do serch for sources of heat and Juice Ortiz is warm just like a cat, basking in the sun.

Chapter Text

Evans has asked for a new cellie and Juice plays dumb when the cell block’s unit manager, Bernards, comes to the cell with his suspicious questions. He suspects something and doesn’t like MC guys anymore than the warden does so when Juice calmly says his black eye stems from walking into the bunk, the warden has had enough of the bullshit and brings out the big guns.

“How about I put you with your lunch pals?”

Juice just raises his eyebrows and Bernards sighs.

“Tully, you idiot. Ron Tully, Stockton’s own little hillbilly führer has no cellie and no one’s been too keen on moving in with him, not that I can think of why.”

The sarcasm is almost comical and Juice isn’t going to give away a single hint that yes, he can think of why and no, it wouldn’t be as bad a punishment as Bernards thinks. But he wouldn’t put Juice with him if he wasn’t so tired of this, so Juice shrugs to annoy him even more and the warden gives a joyless laughter.

“Well, you’re not picky, I’ll give you that. Grab your shit, you’re moving after breakfast.”

Breakfast sucks, as usual, but Juice doesn’t care. It’s a relief, moving in with the devil you know. And as sick as it is, it’s also a small, very small pieace of him that likes the feeling of being asked for by anyone. It means there’ll be no more visits to the conjugal room and the soft bed there, but for all his nasty shit, at least Tully isn’t interested in punching him on daily basis. And he doesn’t snore, he uses lube and he’s maintaining basic hygiene.

You have to be grateful for the small favours, especially when you don’t deserve any at all. Beggers can’t be choosers and rat punks can beg all they want because that’s the only thing they’re good for. Begging for scraps of humanity, feeding off the left-overs of an already meager portion of decency most cons neither need nor can afford. Luckily for Juice, the AB shot caller is rich.

The soggy toast is barely edible and Juice soon leaves the cafeteria, not even looking at AB table and goes to pick up what few items he has in the cell, then trying to wait without pacing until it’s time. The transfer to unit D is the usual walk of wolf-whistles, but they stop when Tully’s usual, predatory face shows up from the other side of the bars because apparantly, people really don’t want to get on his bad side no matter how much they despise the MC rat.

The guards delivering Juice – yes, deliver, because he feels like nothing more than a package of treats with no will of his own anymore – are not as smart and one of them pats his ass right in front Tully. In another time, Juice might’ve said something, but he’s just a piece of meat here and there’s no part of him left that people haven’t claimed already. Even the ink once showing he was a Son, is now not blacked out but at least scarred over enough to show he’s an outcast. The Chinese already had their little fun with his ass and Tully may be a white supremasist, but he had no problem fucking yellow’s leftovers.

As it is, the AB shotcaller is sitting on his bunk, lazily, with a book in his hand and a predatory gaze that borders on vengeful is sliding over Juice and the guards, who clearly don’t have a very long memory. Tully on the other hand, Juice is certain, doesn’t forget anything unless he wants to and he really doesn’t like others touching his punk. He makes a little gesture with his hand, like some kind of royalty granting the peasant access and Juice puts his meager possessions on the top bunk.

“Have a great time, boys. Please don’t turn it into a multicultural orgy.”

Laughters and Juice doesn’t give a shit because Tully already had one guard disabled for life on a really shitty pension for giving someone else access to his punk and the other guys on the unit are politely deaf to the insults. Tully isn’t only dangerous to the lowest in here, far from it. It’s those higher up in the food chain who should worry, because they’re those most likely to forget their place.

Juice has no place, as far as he’s concerned, and he puts his stack of blue uniforms, cheap underwear and even cheaper toiletries in the locker before making the so called bed. The shot caller seems tidy enough. The sink isn’t covered in hairs or toothpaste, there are no piss stains around the toilet and the place doesn’t stink.

“Welcome home, baby.”

Tully speaks too low for the others to hear, yet Juice still feels that uncomfortable twitch. He’s on display again and this time it’s a show with more viewers.

“Looking good, chica!”
“Marty?”
“Boss?”
“You suck at complinents. Go brush your teeth and say your evening prayers, little brother. It’s way past your bedtime.”

Another round of laughters, brutish but not hostile and Juice realises Marty must be one of the youngest in the inmate circle of AB members. A little too eager to show his teeth and not yet disciplined enough to use them to his master’s satisfaction. Marty mutters a “yes, boss” and the rest of the guys seem to make the unified decision not to bother the shot caller anymore tonight, because suddenly everyone gets terribly busy with anything but the newest punk.

And yet, Juice can feel their gazes prickling his back, poking his not dark yet not fair skin for sore spots, for places most likely to crack and show something, anything, that can offer entertainment in the grey, lifeless existence that is a sentence at Stockton State Prison.

Chapter Text

The Puerto Rican isn’t happy, not that Tully expected him to be. A little gratitude would be in place, but they can save that for the dark. A mouth can be put to far better use than a smile, after all. Those nervous hands fiddling with the sheets too. Tully realises he’s smirking when the boy’s eyes widen and then quickly turn down. Tully isn’t a nice person, he just knows how to act like one and the Puerto Rican might not be the brightest crayon in the box, but he’s not stupid enough to think he’s safe around him.

Literally keeping his eyes down is a sign of survival instinct, of some kind of fucking backbone and Tully silently appreciates it’s, because what’s the fun in breaking in something that has no fighting spirit left what so ever? The boy is quite tidy, or maybe he’s just trying to seem occupied with the bed. The sheet is so perfectly made you could bounce a quarter on it.

Tully is used to his punks – and other cons – to act nervous and submissive around him. He is who he is after all and unlike certain shadows of the past he doesn’t need to use his mere physical strenght to keep a punk down. He just needs to play his part of the game, that’s all, and if the punk has half a brain he knows to step into his role too. Ortiz is a rat but not a mouse and Tully likes this game far too much to make a quick end to it. He smirks again, looking at the military state of the blankets.

“Hate to break it to you, but that’s unnecessary work, baby.”
“I know.”

It’s matter-of-factly. No emotions, just a simple answer and then the boy adjusts the pillowcase for the third time, sighing. Tully realises this is the first time he’s having Ortiz all sober. No blow, no pot, no moonshine. He’s nervous but making a good effort not to show it. He seems tired though, his fists are clenching, as if trying to hold on to something and Tully looks away again, annoyed that he’s been staring.

There’s something strange with the punk’s eyes. It’s not drugs, Tully would reckognize that, but something that seems… off. Like he’s not seeing, just staring out into nothing and that wont do. That, if anything, will eventually creep Tully out.

In the cell across his own, there’s this old man, Paulie, who just wants to get through his time in quiet and keep away from drama. He’s never looking into other’s cells but Tully still gives him a small wave to show he wants privacy and Paulie turns away with his little radio and earphones like a wall between himself and his neighbors.

Tully watches Ortiz lay down, face to the wall and curled up in the usual fetal position. Occasionally, there are some more wolfwhistles from other inmates, since everyone knows about the new cellie, but the Puerto Rican seems completely deaf to it all. He just lays there, so still the only sign of life being those small breaths. All the way until ten minutes before lights out, when the punk gets up to brush his teeth, wash up some and remove his shirt and shoes, there’s barely a sound coming from him.

Once the guard for the night has made bed check and light’s are out, Tully waits another ten minutes and then he climbs down to the not sleeping, but shaking form.

Chapter Text

He’s not scared, he’s cold. It started to happen after his suicide attempt when Chibs found him. Some nights he’d suddenly start shaking in bed, getting an ague that wouldn’t stop for hours no matter how many blankets and hot beverages he’d take to. He’s not sure what’s causing it and at this point, he’s not cared for a long time.

When the nazi shot caller climbs into his bunk, Juice isn’t surprised but grateful. The disgusting, fucked up rapist is warm and all that body heat does wonders with the ague. And he’s not reeking.

“Hey, I’m not gonna fuck you…”

The murmur is so quiet one can barely hear it, but of course Tully thinks he’s scared because why shouldn’t he be. But he isn’t and suddenly it feels important that his rapist knows this.

“M’ cold…”
“You’re having an ague, baby. C’mon, take your shirt off.”

What’s the point in protesting? The undershirt is thin and Juice squirms out of it, feeling the shot caller doing the same and then he’s in the man’s arms again, spooned close to the warm bulk. Tully wraps the blanket over them, closing Juice in like a cocoon and God, it’s just… just what he needs.

He’s not sure who the last person was that he freely spent the night with, in that other life when he still had a choice yet always seemed to make the wrong one. Now he has no real choice and for the moment it feels so good. Warmth is given and like the rat he is, he takes it, not asking where it comes from or if it’s deserved.

“Better?”
“Yeah…”

He could lie, but the shot caller would probably see right through it. Tully makes a humming sound, the ague is still rattling Juice’s body, but the intensity is decreasing. It’s good to feel sort of alive again, like there’s still blood running through his veins.

No, he’s not scared right now and in Tully’s arms, the cold is going away too. Juice sighs, squeezing the other man’s arm.

“Read to me?”
“No book close, baby.”
“Then recite something. Please?”
“Recite?”
“Fuck do I know what you nazis read.”

He’s rude, he’s not thinking and he prepares for Tully to push him away but instead there’s just a chuckle and, holy shit, a nuzzle on his neck.

“The tenure of kings and their magistrates, by good men it must be deposed. The covenant made can be voided at once. Disanoint him, take his crown. They plead for their king, and they pity their lord. Put him to death, that's what I say… Though never so just these dancing divines, endue him with reason and grace. Their gibberish, words dissemble the facts, God's will they falsely will claim… Let him curse my name, on these blood-stained pages of misery. Let him call me a tyrant so cruel, let him curse my name, but remember the truth…”

Singing. Ron Tully, shot caller of the Aryan Brotherhood is fucking singing to him, a song that Juice sure as hell has never heard before and he wants to hate it, but it’s nice. Really nice, reminding of a folk song of some kind and the nazi has a surprisingly good singing voice.

Juice is warm, he’s not lonely. The silence isn’t grinding him down, it’s embedded the soft humming, in the song he doesn’t know, now lulling him to sleep.

“Falsely they praise, deify his majesty. ‘He's blessed the anointed's fulfilling God's will’. Curse them all, no further he's king. Providence brought him straight into our hands... Let him curse my name, on these blood-stained pages of misery. Let him call me a tyrant so cruel, let him curse my name but remember the truth…”

The truth… Juice sinks deeper into the fucked up comfort, the song and the voice providing it. Not  quite a lullaby, but probably the closest to one he’s heard since he was a small child. He can feel Tully reaching up for the other blanket, pulling it down and tucking it around him – around them – to stop the last trembles from what’s either cold or worry.

A tyrant so cruel.

He’s also warm. And gentle. His breath isn’t panting sickly, it’s slow and controlled. His arms are steady and in the darkness, Juice can pretend the nazi ink isn’t there, just like the night probably allows Tully to paint the body he’s cuddling white. And yet, the singing, the brushing of lips onto his neck, the softness of the embrace… It’s too vulnerable to be a complete act. There’s something real in this, even if it’s just a sliver smaller than a crescent moon, but it makes Tully human. Makes Juice one too.

Let him curse my name, but remember the truth.

The scrap of the human Tully apparantly still is to some point. That’s the truth he’ll remember tomorrow, Juice thinks when the sound of his comforter’s hearbeats lines up with the humming and he becomes heavy and lax in the arms, no longer freezing. And Tully’s name isn’t a curse on his tongue now. It’s soft, like the rumble lulling him to sleep.

Chapter Text

There’s always a chance Ortiz could shank him in his sleep. He’s got enough fighting spirit left, despite trying his hardest to act indifferent. But he’s sleeping calmly, he’s not rigid in Tully’s arms but pliant and not like he was when Tully fucked him in PC. Back there he was almost limp all through, barely making a sound and that’s new.

Tully doesn’t use the word rape in his thoughts. Rules on the inside is different and fucking this punk to release some tension and put him in place isn’t frowned upon on by a lot of people in here. And these people, the cons, are in a sense Tully’s people. His neighborhood that he can rule but not choose the population. Pretty much like the outside. America should belong to the white race and Tully smirks into the soft neck.

Ortiz is his and the next person trying to touch him in any way without Tully’s permission, will not live long enough to even regret it. Not that Tully will allow anyone to touch his punk. He’s possessive and of all the punks to choose from, Ortiz is pretty much the winning number save for his skin colour and name. He’s clean, he doesn’t snore, he’s smart enough to keep his mouth shut, a lesson he seems to have learn only too late for it to matter. He’s excommunicated and the shot caller muses that’s by far the biggest reason for this half-chosen surrender.

In here, Tully is the best he can get, which is a pretty depressing thought. Not that Tully cares about Juice’s feelings, that’s not gonna happen, but it still paints a disturbing picture, knowing that a man can sink so low. And it also irritates Tully that he can’t seem to stay with addressing the punk with his lastname or the usual race slurs in his thoughts. Juice simply fits so much better than Ortiz, spic, punk or whatever.

Never, not once has anyone on the inside slept in Tully’s arms like this. So calm, so deep, like they’re a safe place to lay in. He could so easily break the boy’s neck right here and now, which would probably be a favor but still a murder.

He could also turn him to his stomach, spit in his hand and take him here and now, not even bothering to wake him up first. There’d be an initial fight from the shock, most surely, but then Tully has no doubts his boy will just lay still in position and try to disappear. Tully knows because that’s what he did.

Good lube is hard to come by in prison and that first cellie never used enough spit or soap or that shitty lotion to make it easier. The asshole ended up getting chafings on his cock though, which served him right. And little Ron was a smart boy who knew to act in the sick ward.

No, no one had forced him. Of course not.

Then where does the bleeding come from, Tully?

Guess I got my period early, doc.

He could play some of the staff back then really well. He was a pretty boy with a cute smile that in time bought him more favors than just gentle hands in the sick ward.

Physically hurting his punks to that point has never interested Tully. It’s beneath him and he refuses to admit that he’s gentle – or far more gentle than expected – with them because his body still remembers the pain, after all these years. And fucking Ortiz that first time was… acceptable, but since that shitty guard who got greenlighted wanted to make sure that Tully used his Puerto Rican as expected, it’s felt less and less good every time and Tully is still lost to why.

He strokes the still bruised face gently, a gesture traditionally simply missing in prison, but it’s dark and Juice (Jesus, why can’t he stick to calling him one name?!) is asleep and can’t see how Tully’s gazing over him.

Tully doesn’t want to think about his past, but the comparison is simply too clear. He never ever slept with his cellie like this. In fact, he can’t remember ever sharing the bunk with someone other than for fucking. Either using or being used. A rough thrust in, speeding up to make sure to finish before the guards hear. Burying whimpers in the pillow, learning a better technique for it as time goes by and the pain isn’t new anymore. Forcing your body and mind to shut off, to become numb and distant, counting the heartbeats in silence because how the hell can they be so fucking loud when you’ve taught yourself not to feel anymore?

In the world of Stockton, where you’re either the predator or the prey and pain in all forms is part of your daily bread, it’s a strange new thing to Tully, not to abstain from inflicting it on someone, but  not wanting to. This usual need, the one that’s been with him since his teens, to make someone else cry or shiver from hurt, is simply not present with J… fuck, he’s doing it again. Ortiz. It’s Ortiz!

Tully must’ve tensed because the boy suddenly makes a little stressed sound, tensing too and Tully’s first reaction isn’t to nudge him to tell him to calm the fuck down, but to rub his chest, soothing him and when the boy stills almost immediately, his spine curving in relaxation against Tully’s frame, the AB shot caller no longer hears his own sped up heartbeats, just his cellmate’s soft breathing.

Let him curse my name, on these blood-stained pages of misery. Let him call me a tyrant so cruel, let him curse my name but remember the truth.

What’s the truth?

Chapter Text

As far as Juice is concerned, there are several reasons why he’s still alive. First of all, because of Tully’s strange ideas of cowards. Or to be more precise: who’s the bigger one. Apparantly, meeting Mr. Mayhem on John Teller’s bike on the highway, counts as suicide and no shot caller in any gang honors a deal with someone who, one: by own choosing isn’t alive to honor his part of it, and two: tried to make it look like something it wasn’t: a well-deserved exit on his own terms.

That’s the major reason why Juice hasn’t gotten shanked (yet) and the second one is due to the fact that since Juice is ex-communicated, the club really can’t make a new Mayhem vote since Jax already “delivered” him to the Aryans. The third is that he, for some reason, seems to enjoy his new possession, no matter the color of Juice’s skin. And the fourth reason, probably the most important come thinking of it: Tully likes to fuck with people’s heads.

The first morning after the move, Juice wakes up far more warm and rested than he’s used to – or deserves. It’s only sickening for a moment, before he remembers that he’s already lower than the lowest with no dignity or rights left and that no one cares what he feels. Least of all himself.

The bunk is far from as comfy as the conjugal visit bed, especially with two grown men sharing the limited space, but with the bodyheat from the nazi, the night has been warm enough to give Juice’s aching muscles more relaxation and he’s hidden from the world for a little while longer, as he’s facing the wall and Tully lays curved into him like a human – not humane! – barrier on the other side. The nazi is still asleep but his morning wood is prominent against Juice’s lower back and it’s still not morning count for at least twenty minutes.

Juice swallows. It’s been a long time since Tully actually touched him for that reason, but if he wants to, the shot caller could take him while the others are waking up, which would be a shitty start of the day. Just because everyone knows he’s the nazi’s punk, it doesn’t mean Juice is completely immune to the idea of them seeing him being used in plain sight.

He digests the thought for a moment, shuts the door to his feelings and starts squirming, quietly, against his cellmate’s frame. It’s like clockwork, he thinks, when the barely conscious shot caller responds, first slowly then with some more purpose that tells Juice he’s coming awake.

“Good morning, sunshine…”

Sunshine.

Son. Shine.

He should be out of tears, shouldn’t he? Since his downfall started with Lincoln and Roosevelt, Juice has been crying more than he can remember ever having before. It’s only recently, since getting into Stockton really, that the tears have decreased some. He swallows, letting the pillow suck up the tears.

“Please, don’t call me that… Anything… but that…”

He’s not sure if he expects the nazi to accept his request or use it to torment him, but he’s taking his chances because there’s not much left to loose, is it? He can feel Tully’s mouth on his ear, nibbling it a little, playfully, but still poisonous.

“Since you’re asking so nicely, sweetheart…”

Mercy. He’s asked for it and it’s being granted. Maybe he’s not dead enough inside for Tully to treat him like he is.

The lube is hidden within reach, of course, underneath the mattress and Juice tries to not show his surprise when his shorts are yanked down and instead of a cock, there are slick fingers and Juice wonders why he’s not even capable of hating himself – or Tully – a little more, when the expected pain isn’t there at all.

It’s a lot like that time when he heard Tully count down in the PC unit and instead of tensing and shutting down, Juice goes along with the strange, surprisingly pleasant and entirely wrong feeling from the nazi’s wicked, talented fingers. The angle is a little awkward, but Juice finds himself scooting up his knee to give the shot caller better access and gets a small kiss for his co-operation.

“Such a good boy… Be good and this wont hurt…”

He’s right, it doesn’t. Tully is gentle, he’s not pressing him down and the arm around Juice’s chest isn’t there to keep him still, at least the grasp isn’t ironlike. The slight skrieking from the bunk is enough to alert their closest neighbors that the shot caller is taking what’s his, making good use of his little spic punk, but other than that, Tully doesn’t alert what’s going on. He’s not grunting loudly, doesn’t tug or tear, doesn’t speak any degrading words for others to hear.

It doesn’t hurt, which is a relief, but Juice is pretty sure it’s a bad thing that it actually feels good. Tully is using lots of lube, making him slick and fucking dripping on both ends. A hand then suddenly covers his mouth, not hard, just firm.

“Shh, keep it down, baby, or they’ll hear…”

That reminds Juice of where they are, within earshot from several other cons and also the tired night guard just waiting for his shift to be over. Neither can know that there’s a part of this that Juice actually likes. He nods and gets another small kiss on the nape, that too is feeling far better than it should.

He’s not counting heartbeats now, or seconds or sheep or anything. He snakes a hand to his own cock, Tully doesn’t stop him, just keeps thrusting and Juice takes that as permission to touch himself. He’s not had an orgasm for a long time, he’s pent-up and far more emotionally exhausted than he’s conflicted and ashamed. Does everything have to hurt, because of what he did to the club?

Maybe not.

Whatever nerve ends that fucking prostrate apparantly contains, they’re receptive as hell to Tully’s ministrations and Juice is not prepared when the orgasm slams into him, his recovered hole constricting around the nazi’s slick cock and fuck, this shouldn’t feel so good, this is so fucking wrong on so many levels, but Juice can’t help himself.

He’s muffling himself, Tully doesn’t even have to press him down the pillow, but a small whine is slipping through, one that doesn’t reveal anything more than a punk taking it up the ass from his master.

But Tully doesn’t speed up, he’s not finishing himself off as quickly as possible. Juice can’t tell how he knows this, but the freak of a nazi is fucking waiting for his punk to come and Juice is a good boy, apparantly, so he lets go of everything but the feeling of his own orgasm, his cock giving up the ghost to the sheet and whatever the shot caller is doing, it doesn’t matter.

The reason for him being alive, are fucked up, yes. The fact that he’s feeling alive from this fucking is just too much.

Chapter Text

Making others obey is power. Having them beg is even better. Being able to provide it, being the one holding their requests and deciding what to do with them is how you know they belong to you. That you owe them.

Ortiz is still a punk and it pleases Tully that he doesn’t act like their encounter this morning has changed that. The Puerto Rican keeps a low profile when the alarm sounds, only looking in the mirror to make sure there are no signs of the night that shouldn’t be seen. Like content or even something akin to a smile.

Head count is business as usual and the inmates go back into their cells for whatever morning routine the stick to. Ortiz returns to his bed, clearly waiting for Tully to finish with the toilet and sink first. He’s making the bed as strictly as before, not visibly concerned about the cum stains and once Tully is finished with the toilet, the boy silently grabs his towel and toiletries, taking his turn.

Tully can’t help but glancing at him, silently appreciating the boy’s care for hygiene. Too many cons can’t bother washing their junk until shower time so this thorough routine is an up-grade. Ortiz changes into clean shorts too before throwing his pants on and then returns to the sink to wash his hands, face and fucking armpits.

Yep, definitely an up-grade, skin color and rat status aside. Juice – Ortiz! – makes his bed neatly, discretely folding the stained sheet with the wet side out to hang from bedend to dry, hands slightly fidgeting in the process, but Tully can’t help but stare until the fucking bell calls to breakfast and the ward starts emptying.

His punk walks behind him first, then letting the rest of the AB pass to walk last in line. Tully can’t say he likes it, it’s not as easy to keep track on Ortiz – ha! He used the right name! – there but it’s the punk’s given place and no one is stupid enough to try anything with him on the walk to the cafeteria.

“Boss?”
“You awake already, Marty? Maybe I should make a set bedtime for you, it seems to work wonders.”

The men snicker at Tully’s reply. Marty is usually grumpy as hell before he gets his coffee and they all avoid talking to him until he’s properly induced with caffein, because only idiots pick fights before breakfast by choice. Maybe he’s learning.

“Spic’s sitting with us, boss? Really?”

Or not. Tully doesn’t comment on the use of the slur. Usually, he’s not too keen on others commenting his punks in any way and coward or not, Jax Teller was right about one thing: the only colour Tully really cares about these days, is green. A secret he’ll take to his grave. He doesn’t even turn around to look at the little fucker.

“Ortiz sits wherever I want him to sit, which, if you keep speaking before you’re spoken to, will be in your spot – on your lap.”

That wouldn’t happen, of course, but Marty is an idiot and believes anything said with enough authority and Ortiz… well, he’s quiet and impassive as usual as Tully’s men bark a round of laughter. In fact, it’s as if the only one not noticing him, is himself.

Tully ignores him and by extent so do the rest. It’s as if the spic punk is sitting on a little island of his own, isolation within a crowd so to say, and Tully pretends like he’s not constantly aware of him, of his lowered eyes and hollowed cheeks, the slow, disinterested moves with the spork, a small mouthful of hot cereal at the time.

One fucking heartbeat at the time and Tully pretends like he’s not still counting them.

Chapter Text

He’s not hungry. Honestly, he can’t really remember when he had an appetite. Must’ve been before shit went down and he doesn’t want to think about that. It’ll only make the tasteless hot cereal even more difficult to swallow.

Being ignored should be nice. They’re fucking nazis after all, but isolation has always eaten him away quicker than fire consumes a dried out forrest. He’s simply not good on his own and he picks about the meager breakfast until he’s simply tired of pretending he’s gonna finish it. He’s the one who should be finished. You don’t waste food on a corpse and Juice suddenly just shoves the tray to the empty spot before him, folds his hands onto the table and waits.

He can’t leave before his cellmate allows it and he doesn’t. Tully notices, sure, but he’s not giving any sign acknowledging his punk’s wishes to leave. Of course he isn’t.

“Snitch!”

The voice is unknown and comes from behind him. But it’s not Juice who’s tensing, it’s the nazi and he makes a small gesture for whoever spoke to Juice’s back to approach. Juice doesn’t look up entirely, only casts an eye at the man who looks less than happy about whatever the nazi whispers to him. He leaves though and doesn’t say anything else. Juice catches a grim light in the shot caller’s eyes, not directed at him, but simply floating over the cafeteria like a sick shadow.

Don’t touch, don’t address, don’t fucking look at my property.

Then, just like that, it’s gone and replaced with a look of… it’s not grim, at least. Or even condescending. Just those catlike eyes, neutral, like the shot caller has literally no opinion about the spic punk he’s gotten as a cellmate. Juice doesn’t know, doesn’t fucking want to know why it makes him wanna cry.

But he doesn’t. He sits through the breakfast without touching it, not demonstratively, just passive on his seat and when the shot caller and his nazis are done and get up, Juice follows suit. He’s a shadow too and if Tully wants to go outside, then his spic punk will too.

Juice doesn’t see the looks and if he did, he wouldn’t be able to read them properly. Everyone knows he’s an ex-communicated Son and he expects nothing but the despise he deserves, but not all looks are from disgust, hatred or contempt. Some are confused, others surprised and there’s even a couple of admiration. Because despite being a rat and a punk, the bitch who’s ass belongs to the AB shot caller, Juice moves with a kind of fuck off and fuck you vibe that you only really see in those who’ve given up and doesn’t give shit about anything, least of all appearance, anymore.

Tully does, though. The rapist finishes his tray and then waits a few more minutes for his men to finish before he raises and they follow, Juice as the last in line, of course. He doesn’t care, he justs wants to go back to the cell and pretend he’s still gonna meet Mr. Mayhem soon. It’s truly irony, that what used to be his nightmare, has become a daydream.

Chapter Text

Daytime in prison can be quite different from nighttime, depending on your cellie and your wants. As the Puerto Rican gets undressed after an almost completely silent day, Tully can’t help but longing for lights out, not so he can fuck his punk – there’s time for that as well – but to explore this image of indifference. Find the cracks, so to speak.

Tully wouldn’t say people have respect for the former Son, but today’s show of indifference, of a coldness he honestly didn’t believe his punk capable of, had some effect. There are less disgusted looks and more confused ones, which Tully for his part likes. Breaking a punk is easy, after all, and old news after the number of stints he’s had. A punk with something akin to a backbone is new and challenging and Tully likes challenges.

Problem is, the only thing that seems to work on the Puerto Rican, is physical pain and not that Tully cares about him crying, but it’s irritating and increases the risk of a guard showing up. You can’t always trust money. (No, he doesn’t care if the spic is crying! He just wants a good nights sleep, is that so weird?) Speaking of sleep, Ju… Ortiz looks exhausted too. He’s been keeping up an acceptable – more than acceptable, to be honest – appearance all day, and the big, brow eyes are as hollow as his cheeks.

The boy brushes his teeth, washes his face and undresses. He keeps his pants and undershirt on and then curls up in his usual roll on the bunk. It sure looks weak, submissive, but Tully isn’t all too sure about that anymore. He approaches the punk and leans onto the mattress.

“You’re coming out with us. Need some sun on that pretty face.”
“Thought you didn’t like color.”
“Don’t be difficult, baby. I’m not a morning person. Come down.”
“Yes, mom.”

Tully clenches his jaws at that. The boy speaks too low for anyone to hear, but it’s still disrespectful and he gives him a little pinch, not too hard, on the nape.

“Now, boy.”

Ortiz just shrugs and climbs off his bunk, getting his shirt back on. He truly looks pale and that says something considering he’s a Puerto Rican with a black dad. Yes, Tully knows. Jax Teller told him a lot but blondie is dead now and the sheep shagger currently leading the Sons isn’t the least interested in using his former brother as leverage against either the Brotherhood, Tully personally or anyone else. The boy is dead to them and while Tully despises the MC for allowing spics and goons at all, he also despises them for the lack of background checks. If the rules aint clear enough from the beginning, you’ll start to get the wrong people in and from what Tully has found out, Ortiz didn’t have a reputation for being either a coward or an idiot before he started that shit with the sheriff.

Oh, well, that sure as hell was an idiotic move and Tully really can’t find much sympathy for him. But whatever his heritage and stupitidy, Ortiz at least isn’t running away from his actions anymore and that counts for something. And a new Mayhem vote without a really good offer from the MC means shit to Tully. Ortiz is more fun alive.

He walks behind him, not straight to his back of course, but sidelong to the left and the men don’t comment or push him, meaning the spic punk at least knows how to walk like a man even he isn’t one. Not anymore.

Tully heads for their usual picnic table and puts his sunglasses on. It’s acceptably bright and warm this early and today’s work wont start in another ten minutes so there’s time for a smoke. Ortiz hasn’t been assigned a job yet, he’s probably considered too depressed, and will most likely be in some kind of therapy group. Tully really doesn’t care and he sits down on the table, gesturing towards the spot right beneath him, between his legs really, and unlike other punks Ortiz neither looks eager or anxious, neither offended. He just obeys.

Let him curse my name, on these blood-stained pages of misery. Let him call me a tyrant so cruel…

Tully isn’t sure why this song has stuck in his head or why it was the first thing popping up when Ortiz asked for him to read to him. Blind Guardian, the band, is German but definitely not playing for the Cause and it’s not even the kind of music Tully generally listens to. He honestly can’t remember when he heard them or where and who played them.

It was inside, though. And it wasn’t during his first stint in regular prison. Of that he’s sure. Carl Green liked country music, especially Hank Williams, and Tully was about to go complete crazy in the first weeks.

Carl Green… Tully hasn’t thought about him for a very long time and why should he. The bastard is long since dead and can’t do shit anymore. And the boy who laid underneath him is dead too. The first times he cried for mercy. For mom. Carl Green loved to repeat that plea loud in the yard and it wasn’t until Tully’s dad came to visit, furious about the rumors that his son took it up the ass like a bitch and whined about it, that he learned to shut down and just count his heartbeats.

The memory is a nasty one and Tully takes up his packet of smokes to set it on fire for now. He’s always used lube with his punks because he doesn’t want to hear them cry and he offers the Puerto Rican between his legs a smoke that’s accepted, lights it for him and pretends it doesn’t make him relieved when the boy looks genuinly grateful for it.

“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”

No sass. No name calling. Ortiz takes a blow at the little white roll and for the split of a second, he leans back with eyes closed and almost, almost feels alive. And Tully pretends he doesn’t remember how the pale marks from Green’s smokes came to land on his own back and hips.

They’re just memories and memories can be burned to nothing if you suck the air out of them. Like the cheap cigarette between the Puerto Rican’s lips.

Chapter Text

Anti-depressants, group therapy and gym hours. Rehabilitating a corpse. What a joke. Juice has never been subject to this kind of prison health care before, or whatever you’re supposed to call it. He swallows the pills brought by one of the prison nurses, follows the guard to the daily group sessions and shows up at the mandatory fortyfive minutes at the gym three times a week.

It’s a privilege, a temporary treatment assigned to him, Bernhard, the unit manager says and Juice would like to laugh right up that naïve face who thinks he can turn rats into humans with some pills, bench press and sob groups. What’s next? Vitamin shots and nicotine patches? Fucking yoga with whale song?

Yes, he wants to laugh, which is odd, but he doesn’t because he’s not that crazy. It’s treatment program or isolation and the choice is easy, even if he really doesn’t deserve to have one that actually counts. The only thing worse than this, is being alone with no way out. And as much as it disgusts him, having Tully holding him at night makes it a lot easier to sleep. So Bernhard can believe that Juice does this only because he wants to keep out of isolation, since there’s no way anyone, least of all the staff, can know that being held by that fucking nazi asshole at night, beats all the sleeping pills Juice has ever tried.

That’s the privilege he doesn’t want to loose, not the fucking gym sessions. And the anti-depressants do help to numb the shame a bit.

Tully is difficult to read and Juice was never very good at that to begin with. That’s one of the reasons he’s where he is right now. Had he been able to read Roosevelt just a little better and had just some fucking more trust in Chibs and the others, things could’ve been so different and those are the thoughts the nazi shot caller is so good at shutting down.

In his presence, Juice’s head doesn’t get so loud, even the disgust he feels for taking comfort in his rapist’s arms seems muffled. He doesn’t even feel shame for accepting the smoke out in the yard because no one, literally no one, expects him to have any pride left to protect. There’s a sort of freedom to that as well, one that feels too wrong, too fucked up for Juice to think about, so he lets the nazi choke that one too.

Tully works in the prison library and when Juice passes it on his way to the group therapy, he wishes for it to catch fire while the nazi stands on a ladder or something. That he’ll fall and break a foot, hit his fucked up head and being too heavy for anyone to pull out. He’s not fat, only tall and bulky and Juice can’t be the only one who’d gladly see him go up in flames, right?

The therapy sessions consists of a round of eight chairs in what could be called a lecture hall, six cons apart from himself and a nun without a veil. Sister Peter Marie with short, dark grey hair and glasses hanging around her neck. She assignes Juice a chair, the others aren’t new to this, and welcomes him. He doesn’t answer because corpses have no voices and even if they did, who really wants to hear them?

He sits and he listens that first time, hears the rules about respect, about listening, about sharing and that it’s fine to just listen this first session but tomorrow he’s supposed to partake in the conversation too.

They don’t get it, Juice thinks as he listens to sob stories and excuses and even some actual, personal revelations and progress among the sad lot this nun thinks she can save. They don’t fucking understand that Juice Ortiz has been dead in a sense ever since he jumped from that tree. That the life support that is suicide watch and pills and three meals a day can only make the mechanical beatings of a ticker going. The actual heart is another thing completely and if they think that's what's sitting here, they're even more pathetic than he is.

Chapter Text

His boy looks exhausted at lunch and dinner as well and it’s not just the drugs they’re giving him. Tully watches him picking at the food, shovelling it around rather than eating. A couple of mouthfuls, then he stops. It’s as if he just can’t bother to try, being physically too fucking tired and with no real will to actually keep himself on his feet. He should probably be in the sick ward but Tully prefers him close.

It’s selfish and wrong and completely normal to him. You keep your possessions where you have control and access, simple as that. In PC or even the sick ward, it’s far too easy for others to try something with him. With his punk. Sure, people know what happened to those who raped him last time but cons aren’t famous for thinking twice when they want something. And depressed or not, Juice Ortiz is still a really fine piece of ass in here. Still lean and muscled, abs maybe not as defined as they used to, but definitely prime meat to cons fighting for the best substitute for pussy.

When they return to their cells for the night, Tully ignores him and just takes to his bunk and books. It’s almost unnaturally quiet from the other man though and after a little while, Tully checks on the Puerto Rican who’s clawing and fucking gnawing his wrists.

“Baby?”

Tully keeps his voice low not to startle the boy or draw attention from the others. They’re busy though, knowing the shot caller likes his peace and quiet after dinner, and Tully leaves his bunk and approaches Juice.

“Stop that, baby.”

Right. The boy seems lost in his own little world and it’s not a good one (not that Tully cares, because of course he doesn’t!) and his eyes are staring into nothing, glassy and unseeing.

“Hey, Juice…”

The use of his stupid nickname gives some form of reaction, a little blink, a small parting of the lips, a strangled breath. Tully realises the boy has probably used up every ounce of energy and strenght he has left for today and instead of despising him, Tully can’t help but pitying him. And feeling… yes, a little proud.

He’s just a punk. A fucking spic punk. A lowlife, a lesser human in every sense and still, Tully feels proud of him.

Honestly, Tully has never been good at staying true to the cause without the money as a motivator. Ideology is for teens and pathetic white trash like the Nords. He’d never fuck a coon or a chink, there are limits, but officially Juice is strictly Puerto Rican and that’s what counts. That and this bizarre way of defying the odds, the MC, the chinks and even those guards by just keep living and act like it didn’t matter, like what they did meant nothing to him. The way he mouths back at Tully like it’s nothing.

So Tully takes the arms where the ink has been enough roughed up to count as a start of covering up real estate the Puerto Rican no longer has any right to. He grabs the wrists, not to hold the punk down, but to stop him from scratching.

“Don’t hurt yourself, baby.”
“Because that’s your little privilege, right?”

The voice. It’s so hollow yet still pushing for Tully to do something. To punish him for the mouthing, to hurt and draw some fucking line, but the only thing he can think of, is Carl Green’s fists, his nails and teeth, the pain whenever Tully had to take a shit and how the burn marks were on display in the showers.

How Carl Green used to touch them under the water, showing off his embellished goods.

She got mouthy, boys. But then I gave her a little gift and you know how grateful she got?

Show us, Green!

You want me to show them how grateful you are, honey? Be a good girl now and lets show them how to put that mouth to good use… See, she’s getting better. Ah, that’s a good girl… She doesn’t even gag now! You gotta train them properly, boys…

The sound of some others on the block laughing at something snaps him out of the memory and Tully realises his punk is looking at him with a worried face, like he doesn’t know what to expect. Tully is still holding his wrists and he drops them and slaps his punk hard on the cheek.

“Go to bed, baby. You need to sleep.”

Chapter Text

Maybe it’s the benzos. Maybe it’s the therapy – although he doubts that. Maybe it’s the way Tully looked at him, seemed to look right through and beyond him, lost somewhere before slapping him. Maybe it’s part of the punishment for betraying the club. Maybe it’s God’s way of joking.

Or maybe this is exactly as meaningless as it seems and there is no point neither in resisting nor accepting it. Maybe he shouldn’t care, maybe it’s as pointless as weak to cry from a bitch slap but maybe there’s no one left to take notice. At least no one that matters.

Light’s out was hours ago and the benzos should make Juice sleep, but they don’t. He started crying, soundless, when Tully slapped him and he hasn’t stopped yet. The nazi could be asleep or awake, Juice can’t tell, but he’s apparantly not disturbed by his punk’s muffled sobbing. Maybe he likes to listen to it, like some sick kind of lullaby. At least he hasn’t mocked him about it.

The shift from the other bunk makes him shiver and how pathetic isn’t that? The nazi leaves the bunk and now he’s gonna fuck Juice dry, because you need to put your punk in place, especially a shot caller, and Juice has no strenght left to pretend it doesn’t matter. Not tonight.

“You gotta stop crying, you know… Gotta get some sleep, baby.”

Tully quiet voice sounds tired, not angry or even mocking. He just makes Juice move further in and then curls around him like he’s done before.

“Hey, shh… calm down, Juice. Come on, boy, you really wanna alert the guard, huh?”
“Just… do what you’re here for, Tully.”

A sigh.

“Fucking you’s gonna make you shut up?”

Juice keeps crying and he could swear the nazi is shaking his head.

“Probably not and either way I’m too fucking tired for that. No, I’m not fucking you, boy. But if it makes you shut up and sleep, I’ll hold you, okay?”
“Whatever.”

He has no real choice, has he? Even if so, the comfort provided by the nazi is too hard to resist and the hand that hit his cheek before is now stroking it, softly.

“I mean it, baby. Crying’s only gonna make you more tired tomorrow…”

A small kiss onto his nape.

“You need your strenght out there, my pretty Puerto Rican. Can’t keep the wolves at bay all the time for you.”
“Then what the hell are you then?”
“The best of several shitty options, baby.”
“You’re the best?”

He almost laughs at that, almost, because the grip around his arms tightens and he feels Tully’s teeth scraping his earlobe.

“You ever been fucked dry in the showers for the entire cell block to see, baby?”

The whisper is more of a hiss, a threat of something Juice is lucky enough to have been spared. For now.

“And I mean dry, sweetheart.”

Something’s different with Tully’s voice. An almost unnoticable shiver, knuckles getting even whiter in the grasp around his punk. He’s scary now, the shot caller, and it’s different than before. It makes Juice curl automatically, not in fear of being raped again, it’s not that, it’s something else, something he can’t name. A concealed yet not healed wound he accidently touched and it’s sore. Sore and old and well-protected. He’s come too close to it and it changed Tully’s voice, made it different in a way that gives Juice cold shivers.

He shuts up but keeps shivering but to his surprise, the shot caller calms down and pulls him closer, tucking him in under the blanket.

“Never said I was good, boy. Only the best you’ve got in here.”

Ron Tully is many things. Nazi, rapist, criminal, scum. Killer. Five things that each on their own makes him an awful human being. And that’s the problem: despite all those things, he’s actually not a liar and his arms make the best bed Juice has had in a long time. Out of all the slivers of comfort to get in here, Tully is the only one who can make him sleep well through the night and come thinking of it, that goes for the outside too.

Juice cries himself to sleep, but unlike when he was alone on the outside, not yet in prison but maybe even more of a prisoner than he is in here, there are arms to rest in. They don’t hurt him now, just hold him until he drifts off. It’s a small mercy and not the one he wants, but it still counts.

Chapter Text

It would be easy to blame it on the skin, the heritage, the secret Jax Teller told him that papers don’t show and Tully’s pragmatic mind therefor can afford not to admit. The white race has the natural and/or divine right to the spoils of war and Ortiz is just that: one of few survivors from the war Jax Teller and his goddamn careless bikers let loose. A lesser human being, not as bad as a nigger but definitely not even close to white not to mention aryan. Tully didn’t lie to Teller when saying the Nords was a joke, he just never explained how.

The pretty Puerto Rican stopped crying a while ago and is sleeping calmly in Tully’s arms. That’s a joke too, only one no one’s laughing at and something’s truly fucked up in this world when an AB shot caller feels something reminding of remorse for slapping his punk. Fuck, he’s strangled men of more consequence and dignity for less without a sliver of guilt.

Tully sighs and then pulls in the strangely pleasant scent of the punk. He’s not sure why he’s so lenient with him. He has no reason to and it fucks with his usually black and white thinking that he can’t seem to stop seeing something more than an outlet to him. He shouldn’t but he does and he knows it because… well, because of the things Ortiz shouldn’t poke into.

Like being fucked dry until you throw up or pass out. Like waking up in the sick ward with other cons watching you from their sickbeds, cons who’re older and know exactly why the tall but skinny fish is laying on his stomach or the side. Compared to many on the cell block, he’s lanky and already owned by someone. When he gets released from the sick ward, of course without ever saying a word about what’s happened, Carl Green celebrates by giving him a makeover and shaves all of Tully’s long hair off, save for a little tail on the top of his head, before branding him with a tattoo.

Apparantly it’s funnier to pull his head backwards in a small tail while fucking him and Tully pretends it doesn’t hurt. Neither being humiliated with the razor or the hair pulling, or the forced ink on his swayback, a little heart framing two words: good girl.

The boy who entered prison is already dead and in his place, well, there’s no one really. Not yet. Just something wild still not taking form, doing what it can to keep a straight face. At least, the boy trying not to cry over his shaved head and humiliating ink at night thinks, at least I’m not a spic or a nigger.

When Carl Green finally got shanked, the boy got rid of the little tail, started to grow it all out again and stopped counting heartbeats. He wasn’t a punk anymore, or a boy, and those who didn’t learn that fast enough, lost more than hair. The man is brutal, inside prison or outside, and people who remembered the crying boy learned to forget. Tully has rarely carried out the green light to women. Only those equally dangerous as men and in the world of gangs and cons, few women are. But he has and people remember that too.

He’s survived and risen from the crushing weight of Carl Green because he learned how to be ruthless and it’s a very strange feeling not needing to be ruthless in order to keep Ortiz pliant – or even wanting to. And the swayback ink, Carl Green’s marking of him, is long since blacked out and replaced with a goat head, sticking a long tongue out.

Logic only takes you so far in prison and Tully has learned not to rely too much on it, especially when it comes to punks. He really doesn’t give a fuck about Ortiz’ dad or his skin colour or his name or status or reasons why he ratted out the MC. He couldn’t care less because things are different inside and there’s still a long time until Tully is even close to up for parole. You have to take pleasure and comfort in whatever comes your way in here, he learned that a long time ago and Ju-… Ortiz will have to deal with it like everyone else.

And at least Tully wont shave or ink him. The pretty Puerto Rican may not know it, but it’s actually a huge kindness, one that Tully doesn’t have to show. Just as with the lube. It’s not about care, absolutely not. (Fuck you, it’s not!) It’s merely courtesy, Tully decides as he pretends not liking the sweet, sleepy scent of his punk. As he pretends like colors matter. Like there aren’t two hearts beating in the cell. 

Chapter Text

Jax hands him the kutte, Chibs has turned away, can’t stand looking.

“Sorry for sponsoring him, Jackie boy.”
“Nah, you couldn’t know, man.”

They don’t look at him, the snitch, the rat, the coward. Jax is comforting Chibs and Juice wants to explain, wants to go to him, but he can’t move, can’t speak.

I never meant to hurt the club.

He’s talking but no sound is coming out, he’s invisible to them, to his family. The only thing he can see are their backs with the Reaper grinning blindly at him. And when Juice looks at the piece of leather in is hands, it’s no longer there. Instead he’s holding a rope and he’s standing on his Dyna, the engine roaring and it takes off… He’s swinging…

“Juice? Hey, wake up, baby. You’re dreaming…”

He can’t breathe, his throat is cut off, the rope is burning into his skin, marking him as the coward he is…

“Shh, it’s alright, boy. It’s just a nightmare.”

Hands, not Chibs’ rough ones, but softer, slower. They don’t grab his kutte, they cradle his head and the scent isn’t Chibs’ either, it’s… Juice cries when the nightmare fades and he’s back in another, waking one, where he’s being comforted by his rapist.

Strokes on his cheeks, kisses onto his head. His face pressed into an old undershirt, a warm chest. A scent that used to make him gag, now giving comfort. He’s crying and it’s unrestrained and ugly and for the darkness alone. The darkness accepts everything and Tully is his darkness now. Swallowing it all.

“You cry if you need to then… Just… try and keep it down, baby.”

The grip is loosening and Juice can’t accept that. It doesn’t matter who it is, he needs human contact or the nightmare will take him again and he grabs hold on whatever he can. Skin, flesh, fabrics.

“Don’t… don’t let go… Please… S’ too loud…”
“What’s too loud, baby?”
“My head… P-please, hold me… D-don’t hit me again… Please? I’ll be quiet.”
“Shh, baby, keep it down. I’m here, my pretty Puerto Rican… Not gonna hit you, okay? Want me to sing to you again?”
“Please? That… song you sang before…?”

His mind isn’t alert enough to realise what he’s asking or whom. That he’s grasping for arms and hands that hurt him. A voice that could end this with one word.

“The tenure of kings and their magistrates, by good men it must be deposed. The covenant made can be voided at once. Disanoint him, take his crown…”

But it sings. Low and raspy, softer than it should be able to. It pauses for a moment, lips brushing over his head. He never held a crown, Jax once did but it was too heavy in the end…

“Sorry for hitting you earlier, okay? I’m not… I wont hit you or fuck you or whatever it is you’re crying over. But you gotta be quiet now, boy, or the guards will show. At least try to… I’m holding you, baby…”

Few people have cuddled him like this and he should be grateful for that. You gotta be royally fucked up if being the prison bitch to a nazi shot caller is your love goal in life but Juice is touch starved, body and mind, and Tully keeps the nightmare at bay now.

It’s so wrong. Such a relief.

Chapter Text

It’s been a while since he fucked him. He could fuck him more or less anytime when they’re confined to their cell, which is most part of the time, sure, but he doesn’t and it’s honestly a bit worrying. Not that he doesn’t fuck a Puerto Rican, exactly, but that he doesn’t fuck a punk and one that’s so easy to take yet not boring or barely good enough.

Tully fixates his boy who’s reluctantly making a slow lap around the yard, ordered to by Tully and only partly because it makes the area more fun to gaze at. Ortiz is supposed to do exercise according to the so called rehabilitation plan money has given Tully access to. Group therapy bullshit, some iron lifting and cardio for now. Attending classes or work will come next. Once he’s deemed stable enough to do laundry, swab floors or change sheets up in the sick ward. Sure, he’s a tech pro, but the staff aint stupid enough to give someone known for hacking into prison files access to computors and the kitchen is too much of a wanted job for a punk, even one owned by a shot caller.

“Boss.”

Tully is about to tell his second to shut up, to leave him be, when he notices what Leroy is nodding at. Ortiz is still doing laps, but he’s got company now and not the kind he should have. A trio of coons, all of them tall and muscled, are surrounding him on the track, not openly hostile for the untrained eye but Tully knows what he’s seeing.

He’s not sure of their names but they’re Niners, or at least associates, and they’re far too close to his boy for his liking. Tully nods at Leroy who in turn growls something to Marty, always eager to be useful only not when he’s forced to act babysitter for a Puerto Rican. He’s not openly hostile towards his boss though and while looking unimpressed as hell, he does interrupt his pull-ups to go and fetch the punk.

Ortiz isn’t defiant and interrupts his jog once Marty comes up. Unfortunately, one of the niggers decides to slap the Puerto Rican’s ass, touching Tully’s punk and Marty, the idiot, not only doesn’t realise he should move his pale ass and let Leroy or someone else handle it. No, the little fucktard actually joins in, as if the nigger is an associate, as if they’re fucking friends and kicks the boy himself, hard in the chin.

Next thing happens too fast for anyone to react in time. With a movement far more fluid and quick than anyone, least of Tully, had expected from the usually exhausted and stiff Puerto Rican, Ortiz turns around and grabs Marty’s leg, pulling him off his feet right there and just keeps walking.

The roar from the yard is one of laughters, whistles and applauds and when Tully looks at his men, he realises they’re laughing too. Everyone, save for Marty and Ortiz is laughing at the completely unexpected little display of backbone. Tully doesn’t really laugh, but keeps a small, predatory smile at his boy who looks like he just wants to get out of sight.

He can’t though, he’s not allowed and when he gets back to the bench where Tully and his second are sitting he slumps down a bit away on the ground, trying to become invisible which isn’t possible until something more exciting happens. That being Marty, who’s finally gotten up from his sorry ass and with his pride far more wounded, decides to throw caution to the wind and go for an immediate revenge.

This time, the boy isn’t as quick and the kick is aimed for his ribs. Tully is already on his feet, as are the rest of the AB and the lazy ass guards finally see what’s going on, turning the alarm on and ordering them to the ground. The boy has folded down and Tully really shouldn’t feel like this, but he wants to go to him, to keep him from hitting the ground, to support him, to… Well, he can’t unless he wants a rubber bullet somewhere and he saves his reputation and gets on his knees and faces down like everyone else.

He wonders, for a moment, if his boy is counting heartbeats.

Chapter Text

It looks and feels worse than it actually is and one of the nice medics works today so that’s something. The painkillers work and Juice only hopes for his mind not to. It’s reeling, as if on bad speed and that makes his hands fidget. Outside he had a hard time staying still unless he was by a computor or on something. Here there are no such distractions and to make it worse, one of the guards who’s not on Tully’s paylist – yes, Juice knows who are by now – was hauling him off the yard.

“He’s set?”

For the hole, no question. The medic checks Juice’s eyes and pulse.

“Do dizziness?”
“No.”

He could lie, of course, but for some reason he can’t. He’s too wound up tight, his head spinning too much and not in the way that grants you a bed up here. Most likely, they’ll take him to the hole. The medic nods at the guard.

“He’s good, but take it slowly. No rushing, no roughness, okay?”
“Yes, doc. C’mon, Ortiz.”

The guard actually is fairly gentle, considering what happened. Juice is already cuffed of course, but he’s not being pushed or shoved forward as he’s taken from the ward, not while they walk in the more visible corridors at least, and Juice counts his step this time, not his heartbeats because he can’t hear them over the buzzing in his head.

It’s not until they’ve entered the isolation block and the guard there starts tugging Juice’s clothes off, that the reality kicks in and pointless as it is, he starts to struggle under the hands.

“Goddamn idiot, stay still or I’ll use this!”

The taser is not as bad a threat as isolation though and Juice mindlessly tries to make himself heavy and harder to move, as if that has ever worked. He gets a blow in his lower back and sinks down with a grunt, still cuffed as one of the guards holds him down and the other one takes his clothes.

It’s not the same guard who hurt him in the showers, no, but Juice’s mind doesn’t grasp that. He’s panicking, thrashing wherever he can and the one who tased him gives him another taste. This time, Juice’s body obeys and becomes pliant as he’s undressed and then left alone on the floor. The sound of the door and the lock getting turned mix with the ringing in his head and he’s alone with only his head, a piss bucket and four merciless walls shutting him off from time and what little sanity he’s got left.

Alone. He’s not good on his own and his ribs hurt, as do his knees and wrists, his swayback. He sits down, back against the cold wall and knees pressed to his sore chest, as hard as he’s able to.

He literally pulled one of the AB guys off his feet. The one with lowest rank, sure, but still an AB member. One of Tully’s people, one that doesn’t tolerate public humiliation like that. Juice suddenly laughs and it’s a creepy, hollow sound bouncing around the naked walls. They look far less threatening than they are, these blockers from fresh air and light. From human contact. No clock, no sign of the sky, nothing to keep track of time.

Juice starts counting. One, two, three… He’s counting his heartbeats and when he comes up to eleven, nothing happens and he starts again.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten… Nothing.

Tick-tack.

Tick-tack.

Tick-tack.

Chapter Text

Three days. Three fucking days with his boy in the hole and the only news being “he’s alright”. The guards, paid or not, can just suck Tully’s dick and stop rolling their fucking eyes. If anyone’s doing anything to his boy… Tully is careful not to let his worry show, not even to himself. In fact, some distance is probably good and Marty, who’s sporting a limp due to “an accident” that might’ve had him regret talking himself out of solitary, has gained a few braincells (and lost a couple of teeth) and stays far away from Tully.

In Stockton, this has nothing to do with Tully caring for his punk (which, for the record, he doesn’t!) but about making a thing or two about respect and rank clear. Ortiz might be the lowest but he belongs to a shot caller and that means he’s untouchable by lowlives such as Marty.

Tully lays alone in his bunk on evening number three, pretending to read because that’s the easiest way for him to keep people away. He doesn’t actually read though, just looking through the words and not at all wondering how Ortiz is doing. It’s easier to think of him by his last name when he’s not around and that’s actually irritating too.

A derailed punk sucks, because it takes time and effort to mold him into shape. Not that Tully ever considered any of his punks’ brain material, but it’s fucking exhausting and honestly a turn-off when the only thing their mouths are good for, is swallowing cum. For a coward and spic who’s pretty much given up on himself, Ortiz has at least some coherrant and amusing things to say every once in a while. But the boy doesn’t deal well with being alone and there’s a very possible work load coming with that once he’s back. Marty and the niggers should be put through the fucking mangle down the laundry.

Tully knows he’s been looking more grim than usual these three days and that’s just as well. It keeps people away, makes the beggers and junkies looking for favors and money a little less eager and it’s good for Tully’s reputation as well as the AB as a whole to make a thing or two clear, even if it’s just with a look or dismissive wave. He’s a vicious being by nature and people do good remembering that.

Three nights without his boy in bed has been a quite annoying experience, to be honest. It’s become something to look forward to in this bleak place, this soft warmth smelling from soap and toothpaste curled up against him at night… Oh, fuck this faggy shit! Tully curls his fists, he’s turning soft and that’s always a bad thing in here. Out there as well and that’s why he barely raises his gaze from the book when a guard comes with Ortiz fifteen minutes before light’s out.

He doesn’t answer the guard’s remark on making sure Ortiz doesn’t go around pacing all night, as if Tully is some goddamn spic punk babysitter and the spic punk in question just goes straight to the sink to wash up. Tully pretends to be busy with his book for a while, until the curious eyes and ears on the block have gotten bored at waiting for something to happen in the cell. A fight or a fuck. Or rather: a lesson taught by a shot caller to his punk. The men here are impatient though and have soon turned their interest to their own shit.

Ortiz is brushing his teeth now and he’s moving rather slowly, probably stiff after the three days and Tully is barely able to keep off a disapproving sound when the boy takes his shirt and tanktop off to throw in the laundry. There’s a huge bruising over the right ribs, going from the chest to the back. Marty must’ve gotten more hits in than Tully saw and his eyes are getting thinner as he approaches his injured punk.

The boy then twitches and curls into himself, fists not lashing out but bending into his chest and toothbrush still in his mouth with shoulders slumping and Tully realises he’s expecting another beating, or some form of punishment for going after an AB member. So Tully does what little he can before light’s out and puts a hand onto his boy’s shoulder, light, lip-syncing:

“It’s alright, boy. It’s alright.”

There’s a little less tension, enough for Ju… Ortiz to finish preparing for bed at least – Tully has already laid down – and when the cellblock goes dark he’s standing in front of the bunk, as if not knowing where to sleep. Tully quietly removes the blanket from his own mattress then, patting it and the boy doesn’t even hesitate, just grabs his pillow and moves to lay down on the offered spot next to him.

Chapter Text

Pride. It’s a strange concept, really, and for two nights and almost three whole days he’s been thinking about it, when he’s not been pacing, panicking and shaking on the floor. Or falling into one of many short lapses of restless sleep. Being alone with the thoughts about pride, where he lost it – if he ever had it to begin with – has only left Juice sinking deeper down into the self-loathing, the shame and destructive spirals his brain turns to when not stopped.

No one has come to kill, rape or even  beat him though and he’s decided to write it off as a sign of Tully’s power. That the shot caller probably wants to get the chance himself to teach his little bitch a lesson and while that thought almost kept Juice calm at moments the last three days, it’s certainly not now. Still, when the nazi opens his arms, Juice curls up into them, hating himself for seeking the comfort but he’s so touch-starved he wouldn’t be able to resist the offer if it made him puke.

“Relax, baby. I’m not angry. Not with you anyway…”

The voice that used to make his hairs raise in fear and disgust whispers words that work like a security blanket. They could be useless against the fear in reality but make him feel safer regardless. Three lonely days without human touch or clothes or even a mattress make Tully’s arms a little piece of heaven right now and Juice isn’t giving that up for the cold loneliness of a useless pride.

His cellmate is warm, he’s not smelling and he’s not even touching his ass right now. The darkness covers them, there are no cameras showing directly into the cell and Juice finds himself nuzzling the chest with the SS mark, the one saying half-breeds like him should be put to death but he doesn’t care. He really doesn’t give a shit as long as he’s treated like he’s alive and breathing.

Tully lets him. The arms form a cradle, rocking his body and the hands are stroking his back, not gripping and tugging. Realistically, he knows that could change in a second, but he doesn’t care. He’s longed for this ever since he was taken to the hole and he swallows.

“Sorry for… I’m sorry, papi…”

There’s a moment of stiffness in Tully’s body, only a second though and then there’s a sigh onto the stubble on his head.

“Shh, baby, I’m not angry with you… Glad you’re back, my pretty Puerto Rican… Papi missed you…”

Juice shivers, it’s a bit from worries but mostly he’s still cold and his muscles are so sore. He just called AB’s number three papi. After pulling another of them off his feet. And the nights in the hole have been ridden with nightmares, panic attacks and worst of all, the loneliness. Hearing Tully take the word in his mouth, acceptingly, feels like a trick.

“He’s been punished, baby. No one’s touching my boy without my permission, and I’ll never give permission for anyone to touch you…”

It’s difficult to keep a realistic and sober thought process going right now. Letting the voice angrily screaming of rape and nazis and what a pathetic little whore he is for finding solace in his rapist’s reassurements wont help. Not at the moment anyway, not if he wants any sleep. He’s barely slept two hours in a row without a nightmare or just restless stirrings for two nights now and his body is screaming for warmth, for relaxation. For human touch.

Tully is a monster, yet he’s so gentle now. A rapist who, for some reason Juice still can’t fathom, has stopped raping him at a point where he just got all but complete access to his ass. He sighs.

“Why aren’t you fucking me?”

He’s an idiot for bringing it up, for encouraging ideas that certainly don’t need encouragement.

“You want me to?”
“No.”

A thumb wandering up towards his face, stroking his cheek.

“You’re gonna be exhausted in the morning if you don’t sleep now, my pretty Puerto Rican. We both will, so stop talking now.”

The voice isn’t hard, the order not spiteful or even irritated. Juice swallows, fingers grasping carefully onto Tully’s undershirt.

“S-stay, p-please?”
“Where would I go, baby?”
“I mean… with me…”

He should combust from shame, but he’s out of reach for it now.

“I’m right here, baby. Papi’s right here…”

If there’s a thing a miracles, Juice would say that the raspy, usually so even voice sounded like it cared. But there are no miracles and in here, you grab what scraps of care you’re offered, even if they’re poisonous. And Juice buries the shame again, forgets about the pride and falls asleep, finally warming up.

Chapter Text

The darkness, the fairly silent and long night of Stockton, is often the hardest time for cons, especially if you have trouble sleeping. Tully doesn’t, not normally. He’s become used to the environment a very long time ago and the position he holds these days makes his sleep one of the most safe ones in here. As long as the celldoor is locked and there’s no guard plotting against him, of course. That risk, how ever, is minimal and Tully usually sleeps a lot better than society thinks he deserves.

The judge who decided to try him as an adult, who was newly appointed and wanted to set an example, chose an easy target for his little goldstar. A white trash kid with long hair and piercings who liked death metal didn’t make the jury sympathetic. He wasn’t innocent and while denying guilt in front of the judge and cons is a give, Tully knows what he’s done and hasn’t and none of it keeps him awake at night. It’s the world of the strong ones and he’s never had a death wish. If you’re to survive and be something else than a slave, you have to fight back and not being held back by something as crippling as a conscience.

Men not fighting back make him sick. They’re lesser beings and that’s why the white man rules naturally, since the niggers didn’t manage to rule over themselves, getting caught in their very own lands, like weak children. And they swam the prisons like rats, walking around all cocky with their shitty, pathetic gangsta style. Tully hates men showing off like that. It’s undignified and men without dignity are as good as animals.

Perhaps that’s why he missed the boy these last three days. For the sudden flash of resistance and pride showing the spic punk hasn’t lost his balls even if he’s a bitch. He’s weak for not fighting Tully, but that’s a given and something that makes things a lot easier. Not all fights are interesting challenges. In fact, most are just fucking annoying.

Ortiz makes a small sound and Tully automatically rubs his shoulder to soothe him. It’s not a conscious choice, really, it’s a reflex and one he’s not proud of but not particularly ashamed of either. No one’s looking, after all, and the boy does calm down again. Tully finds that part curious, strange really, because he can’t remember ever relaxing when Carl Green grabbed him in his sleep.

That psycho ass was so fucking heavy, Tully thinks as he strokes Ortiz’ tense back. When you’re tall but only have 140 pounds to it, there’s not much you can do with two times that weight, in muscles, pressing you down. Sometimes it was hard to breathe, vision even got blurry but he learned to handle it, eventually. The first time, of course, was the worst because he’d been completely unprepared for the pain and he’d cried too loud so Green choked him which was actually a blessing because at least Tully passed out.

It took several weeks before he learned how to zone out and not that he knows how he looked like or wants to imagine, but the way Ortiz stared out into nothing in the PC unit probably comes close to it. Other punks have cried, some have been into it, others fought back but no one has just given it up from the start. It should be a sign of weakness, but for some reason Tully can’t entirely see it like that. It’s not a display of surrender he’s seen before, not like this and that must be why he’s intrigued by it.

Papi… Tully doesn’t know if he should laugh or shake his head or punch the boy’s face for it, for using a spic word to address him but since no one heard and the punk just got out of solitary… Stronger cons than him have rambled pathetic shit after two nights there and Tully’s boy is not good on his own. Keeping him alive isn’t about being merciful to the punk, or even to piss off the MC because honestly, Tully couldn’t care less about either.

And he certainly isn’t going soft for the punk. It’s simply beneath him to use more force and scare than necessary to break someone. He’s a shot caller, the top of the food chain in here, and that gives a certain space for showing leniency with a punk. Carl Green never got that, or maybe he did but didn’t get anything out of it. He prefered making his punk shine his boots on the yard, having him nuzzle and lick them.

Letting his second braid a pink ribbon into the spared tail on the punk’s shaved head to the sound of the block cheering…

Looking good, sweetheart!

Better check her panties, Green. Bet she’s soaking wet.

Such a cock craving slut, baby… Come sit on daddy’s cock like a good girl… Yeah, come on, girl, don’t make daddy wait… Show daddy how to thank him for the ribbon... 

Gotta be gentle with your princess, boss. She’s crying already.

Aww, your'e adorable pouting like that, baby girl...

Tully breathes into the inked head cradled onto his chest. Juice sleeps far too calm for someone in his position. Literally and figuratively. He should be scared, should twitch and tense up from Tully’s hands, from his body pressed close.

On the other hand, the darkness reveals plenty that can’t be seen in the light. Things like that tiny piece of empathy, of humanity that a shot caller who once was the lowest punk of all, simply can’t afford to unveil.

Chapter Text

The looks this morning are different. You have to have been in the system for a while before being able to read the nuances, not that it’s a thing to be proud of. If you can’t read the surroundings you’re dead meat so it’s a necessity rather than an accomplishment. When Juice follows the shot caller out from the cell to breakfast, he’s prepared for the jokes and laughters that surprisingly didn’t come last night or even when the morning alarm went off.

Juice knows how he looks. Bruised and pale – though not the Aryan shade of pale – with even darker circles under his eyes than usual. As he glances around, seeing Marty, Juice honestly believes a Puerto Rican can get pale as an Aryan ass because holy shit, those missing teeth and black eyes aren’t exactly discrete.

Tully didn’t lie. Marty’s been punished, alright, and the only unusual sound as they walk to the cafeteria is the absence of laughter. Juice keeps as neutral an appearance he can. Not that he has any reputation to keep up, but the thought of someone coming after him again and risk another round in solitary, probably longer this time, is honestly more than he can handle right now.

But the looks are… different. They’re of, not respect really, but something that’s clearly not the usual contempt and Juice notices them simply because they’re different from last time he sat down. Nazis admiring a spic punk for kicking the ass of one of their own. Stockton truly is a fucked up world of it’s own. Juice stands last in the chow line as usual but when he arrives at the table, Tully curls his finger to a gesture that suggests Juice can sit with them and not alone at the bottom of the table. It’s not a good idea to dismiss the shot caller in public – or in private – so Juice simply moves up despite the fact that rubbing elbows with one of Tully’s low ranked goons doesn’t feel like an upgrade.

Sex and violence sure isn’t the only wordless communication in here and Juice doesn’t have to know exactly why Tully’s putting this on display, only the implications of it.

First, that touching his punk isn’t permitted, no matter how white your ass is. Secondly, breaking that rule means you’re gonna be punished, even if the punk in question is a Puerto Rican. Thirdly, the shot caller has the power to show this in public by having his spic punk move up and the actual AB member move down, albeit only figuratively. By making Marty sit at the same spot, rankwise, as Juice, Tully is punishing him and by having Juice move up instead of dismissing Marty to the end of the table, he’s showing that he’s not punishing his punk for the display in the yard.

While keeping his gaze firmly onto the small bowl of cereal with skim milk and the tastless white bread with margerine he wouldn’t have touched on the outside, Juice can shut the world around him off again. Not to a point where he looses wariness, but enough to numb himself from the looks and sounds.

He slept well last night. Like, really well and not only for being out of the hole and back in what in comparison was a comfy and nice bed with enough air and normal darkness to feel like having been received a gift from above. It contributed, sure, but the rest he’s actually feeling both bodily and mentally right now, came from being held. By his fucking rapist who’s a nazi. And now he’s upped whatever fucked up game he’s playing, by implying openly that Juice has some kind of status higher than a punk.

How the hell are his men okay with Tully bruising up one of their own and having him sit on a humiliating spot in public for kicking a spic punk’s ass while also moving said spic punk up? It’s a fucking mystery and one that Juice would like to see unraveled, but wouldn’t dare to start looking into himself. It’s not wise to look a gifted horse in the mouth in here, especially not if you’re a punk, and while Tully currently seems less interested in fucking him, that could change and turn ugly if Juice doesn’t show appreciation for the unusual and certainly not expected show of kindness.

He keeps his eyes on a level where he seems to be looking down but can still gaze onto the shot caller and when the man looks in his direction, Juice meets his gaze for a moment, giving a nod so small it’s barely noticable, but the shot caller sees it and tilts his head in what appears to be a move to stretch out a sore neck muscle, but Juice catches it. Reads it.

You’re welcome, baby.

Chapter Text

People who don’t understand how to balance brutality with leniency, punishment with reward, stability with surprise, don’t become good leaders. Forcing his men to be alert while still trusting him, is a thrill that makes even time in prison interesting. It’s annoying to have limitations, of course, but Tully has played this game for almost thirty years now and keeping yourself sane, creating a life while still not getting institutionalized is key, not only to respect and power, but to sanity. He’s managed to stay sane up until now and he intends it to stay that way.

He’s up for parole in six years and that’s a long ass time if you’re just gonna sit down and count the days down. Ortiz has three years before he’s up for parole unless he gets shanked or does something stupid and the chances for that to happen are pretty high, even if the Sons shouldn’t try anything which, considering all the heat their precious Jax Teller caused even without Ortiz’ assistance, isn’t a safe bet at the moment. Tully knows that the sheep shagger, Telford, isn’t pleased with Ortiz being alive, but the new Samcro pres seems to be a patient guy who wont jeopardize things at the moment. Besides, the poor bastard probably has got his hands full scraping up the left-overs of their late leader’s carnage.

Frankly, white, yellow, brown, black, Mayans and Sons alike are all dormant now on the gang war area. They have more urgent issues to handle at the moment, especially Samcro who’s had beefs with everyone on the colour scale in the past three years, even the Irish. And with not only Jax but the entire Teller Morrow clan apart from two kids below the age of ten wiped out, the Nords shattered, the chinks pretty much on life support and a few Charming cops six feet under, there’s no way Telford would risk any heat just to kill Ortiz. The sheep shagger’s got principles, he’s a loyal and professional one, Tully will give him that, and while a longer arrangement with Teller could’ve been profitable, too much heat aint good for business and the golden boy was all heat even if he tried not to show it.

Tully smiles to himself as he looks at the figure sitting beneath him on the bench on the yard. It doesn’t come off as him smiling for the punk, in fact, it’s Tully’s usual, predatory grin to the outsider, but since Ortiz doesn’t see it and gets scared, it doesn’t matter. Power matters. It’s the only thing that matters in here.

Power, not just over others, but yourself, your memories, your longings and nightmares. You don’t always need fists to fight back. Ortiz uses his apathy, Tully once used his then unintentional resting bitch face when tears clearly didn’t work and no one who knew about Carl Green’s use of his punk seemed to care one bit.

It became clear after a while, around the point when Tully no longer cried as much from the nightly visits, that at least two or three guards knew about and didn’t lift a finger to stop. That this was to be expected. Endured.

He did endure. It became a game to him, a sick form of exercise, almost, not giving Carl Green his tears. He had pretty much everything else, but the sick fucking bastard at least shouldn’t get that anymore. Carl Green was, to put it mildly, displeased with that.

That’s how Tully, while walking around with constant bruises, limps and a burning hole, learned how important appearance is, even for the lowest punk. That an unreadable face is power, no matter how bruised it is. How a seemingly neutral stare from the one no one sees as a threat, can make a whole room momentarily pause, simply because everyone expects fear, shame and submission and don’t know how to act when there is none to be seen.

They way the other cons looked at his punk and the little gesture from Tully this morning, is the same kind as those who looked at Tully sitting down without wincing twenty plus something years ago, calmly starting on his food when everyone expected a wince, a grimaze, any sign of discomfort at all. Sure, they all knew it was there, but in here that matters far, far less than whay you’re showing. Everyone feels pain and discomfort to some degree in here and those very few who actually don’t really feel anything aren’t being admired because they’re freaks and a danger to everyone. No, you need to know that there is actual pain before you can respect someone who’s doing a damn good job not showing it and whatever you can say about Ortiz, he’s nailing it.

Carl Green rewarded Tully with sheet cuffs to the bedend a swayback tattoo for his ability to keep his shit together in public and that particular memory makes Tully clench his teeth because being branded like fucking cattle was… No, he’s not gonna think more about that. He may not have been the one who shanked the asshole, but one of the guards, not part of the AB of course but an associate in secret, had a soft spot for Carl Green’s now temporarily unowned punk and for a blow job and a lap dance, he let Tully inside the prison morgue.

Tully had used a scalpel, also smuggled in from the guard, and the work was far from a professional one, but there’d be no open casket and soon everyone knew that Green’s corpse had been found with the dick cut off and shoved in his mouth – and a good amount of his facial skin carved off and discarded God knew where.

No one confronted Tully directly about it, but the looks, some impressed, others disgusted and a lot of them really worried, said a lot and the AB shot caller inside who’d permitted Green access to the new little punk, graciously allowed Tully to live and didn’t hand him over to the member next in line for a fucktoy. That was his first step up the ladder, not being fucked anymore. Ortiz’ steps are different.

Tully realises he’s staring at his punk and turns his eyes to the side, giving a humming nod to whatever shit his men are talking about. Pussy, most likely. Or money, which isn’t as interesting to discuss when there’s this new little hobby to indulge in. Juice Ortiz is nothing like Tully was. First of all, Ortiz is in his thirties and a gangbanger even he’s been ex-communicated. He’s not a seventeen-year-old boy who’s not yet learned how to be smart while breaking the law. He’s a rat, a coward and a punk who lost everything due to his own weakness. But he’s not stupid. Broken and humiliated, sure, but no idiot.

He’s pretty cocky in his own subtle little way and Tully kinda likes that. And not that anyone but the darkness will ever know, but there’s something more to this than the power, the game and the presence of another body at night. Tully can’t name it, which is unnerving, but the unfamiliar feeling is a nice one and in here, such things are rare. So he puts a hand on his punk’s shoulder, squeezing it gently.

Oddly, the boy doesn’t flinch and that’s worrying too, because while Tully rarely needs to be directly violent with his punks, he’s used to them reacting with tension from even the smallest of touch from his hands. This punk doesn’t challenge or tries to reject him, which is one thing, but the stillness isn’t a tense one. The muscle under Tully’s hand is relaxing from his hand and that’s just something Tully doesn’t know how to read.

It’s not trust, the boy might be desperate, weak and a coward but no, definitely no idiot. He doesn’t trust Tully and he doesn’t make a spectacle of himself by lowering more than necessary in public. No loyal dog, the shot caller thinks as he discretely rubs a thumb over the shoulder, but an alley cat who’s made a shitty job to stay on his feet but still somehow refuses to die. He kinda admires that. The way this rat, this little coward punk ass gives everything the finger, as if nothing can really get to him anymore. It might not be honorable in any way, but he's alive. He's choosing to be and that's a strenght too. Endurance.

Chapter Text

“…and that’s when I realised I had to stop, ya know. Before I ended up hurting someone, like for real this time.”

The man telling about his “epiphany”, Matt, is a tweaker who’s clearly told himself and others the same little revelation and sincere determination to turn his life around over and over since he was a teen and still had all his teeth in place. Sister Peter Marie, the nun who leads the group must’ve heard the same story enough times too to start doubting the God she’s serving, but nontheless, she’s encouraging Matt, praising him for sharing and reminding him as well as everyone else in this pitiful circle of lost cases that it’s never too late to try again.

“We might not take back everything lost on the way, but there’s always, always something worth saving no matter how old we are or how many times we’ve failed. We’re still humans and our value as such can never be deterred by our mistakes.”

It’s almost cute, the way she seems determined to have these pathetic pack feel pride, to see something else than the shittiness that lead them to this room. The state needs to save money, so instead of putting the junkies in their own addiction group, they’re all pitched together, crack heads, depressed and PTSD cases alike.

“Juan, you haven’t said anything yet. You have something to share with the group? Any thoughts about what Matt just said?”

Juice shrugs.

“Sorry, sister, I’ve never had an addiction.”
“Yeah, you’re one of those who has it under control, huh?”

Matt’s little snear makes the others chuckle and Sister Peter Marie has to shush them, which she’s good at, considering she’s about half the size of some of these men. She then looks at Juice.

“Can you elaborate that?”

Juice sighs. He doesn’t have any pride left to protect, so what’s the point in pretending? He leans back on the chair, folding his hands like he’s feeling comfortable, relaxed, which he doesn’t. He doesn’t feel shit.

“I’m here because there’s no money for specialized therapy groups in prison, so no, I’ve never been an addict and I’m here because it’s either this or the hole.”
“I thought ya were Tully’s hole…”

Matt’s comment makes the others, save for Sister Peter Marie, laugh and the idiot is probably trying to provoke Juice to make another scene like on the yard, but he’s not giving him that. No fucking way. He sits still on his place, smiling like he doesn’t give dick about this. Pretending like it doesn’t hurt at all, being nothing and no one, a cast out, a leper to those who used to be his family, a walking dead on borrowed time he doesn’t deserve and didn’t ask for. A hole on two legs.

And Sister Peter Marie, the poor woman who’s wasting her time trying to fix people too used to be broken to even want something else, reminds them of language, of the rules about not being hostile or dismissive when someone opens up. And she then looks at Juice again.

“Being open and honest, to yourself and others, is a step in the right direction.”

She now looks around the little circle.

“If you can’t be honest about your true intentions and feelings on a matter, then it’s gonna be much harder to make progress so even if you might not see this as an opportunity yet, Juan, being honest about our mistakes and feelings about defeat is necessary for all of us in order to turn our lives around, so thank you for sharing.”

Applause. Juice feels sick to the stomach and the rest of this depressing and pointless session he sits silent. He’s been a good little nutjob now, taking part.

A good boy.

Good dog.

He longs for the relative safety in his cell and Tully. He wants to puke.

Chapter Text

His boy is still on daily benzos but even with that taken into account, he looks off at dinner and doesn’t even pretend to eat. Usually, Tully would tell him to, but today it seems more like he’s literally incapable of eating and pushing him in a public place, considering the display on the yard, is a bad idea. Tully has also annoyed himself by thinking of books Ortiz might enjoy while doing his library shift and people need to know that punishing guards and cons alike for touching him, doesn’t mean Tully is going soft on him. (Because he fucking hasn’t.)

“Not hungry?”

He keeps his voice low enough not to reach beyond the table and maybe the boy actually doesn’t hear because he’s not moving and then Marty swats him back the head – seriously, they need to fucking rearrange the seats because this little idiot clearly has a death wish – and Tully is just about to interrupt the upcoming fight, but nothing happens.

The boy looks up, eyes pitch dark from the dilated pupils and Tully realises he’s far too exhausted and drugged to take the bait. One of Tully’s more trusted men has already finished his tray and since he’s the kind of guy who gets restless as soon as he’s staying still for more than ten minutes, Tully sends the order down the line and the man nods, gets up and takes both his own and the punk’s tray. Tully then nods at his boy, gesturing him to go with the AB member and he obeys, still completely blank to the face.

Leroy, his second nods at the boy.

“What’s wrong with the spic, boss?”
“Downers.”

He’s growling, really, to make it clear this isn’t a subject for discussion in public and Leroy is smart enough to not ask for more details. He just looks at the boy who’s being followed by Hugh, not too high ranked to escort a punk but trustworthy and practical enough to do it without taking offense or trying anything he shouldn’t. Then Leroy changes the subject back to their businesses and his gaze back to the dinner.

Once they return to the cell block, Tully dismisses his men after giving Marty a little word of advice that leaves the idiot more pale than usual. Het then goes into the cell, where Juice is laying curled up in fetus position on his bunk and the small area smells from pukes although the boy has cleaned any stains away. Tully lowers by his side, not touching yet.

“Hey, baby… What’s wrong?”

No answer, just that barely audible sniffling. The sound of a man who’s broken but knows  how to hide it. Tully pretends he’s keeping his own voice low and soft only because of discretion.

“C’mon, tell papi.”

It’s not a mockery, reminding his boy of the unintentional nickname, but it’s still funny, Tully thinks, that Ortiz has given him one, and in Spanish. Ironic doesn’t even begin to describe this. There’s another sniffle from the boy and this time Tully strokes his shoulder, prepared for the shiver that doesn’t come. His boy, at least, doesn’t fear his touch.

Once, that would’ve been a bad thing.

“Just tired…”

Exhausted is more like it, but at least he’s able to speak. Tully squeezes that shoulder a little now, gentle.

“Therapy group was rough today, huh?”
“D-didn’t say a-anything ‘bout…”
“Shh, keep it down, baby. I know you didn’t.”

To be honest, he doesn’t because he wasn’t there, but he’s about as convinced as could be on this. You don’t share how it feels to be someone’s bitch or being raped by guards in prison group therapy. You simply don’t.  In here, you have to find other ways to comfort yourself. None of them too good, but considerably less risky than opening up.

It feels very strange to even care about this. About how his punk might or might not feel.  Tully looks at his watch. It’s not lights out for a while yet and he lifts the wet face up, looking at it, knowing how Ortiz is scared of him, of this cell, of the guards, of everything. A kicked alley cat, too weakened and hurt to barely hiss. More dead than alive, waiting for someone to show mercy. It’s still unclear to Tully in what way.

So he smiles at his boy, not the predatory or amused kind, but as gentle as he can muster and it feels rusty, stiff from lack of use but the crying boy doesn’t seem more scared from it. Tully strokes a thumb over one of the wet cheeks.

“Let me read to you, baby. Would you like a cookie?”

Chapter Text

Drugs are a good excuse for lots of shit you wouldn’t do while sober, or even drunk. Benzos make the world so slow but oddly they also take some of the numbness away, which is why he’s been crying. Juice isn’t sure if it’s better than the coke Tully gave him back in PC but it serves the same purpose. To make things bearable for a little while. He’s still not sure for whom though and it’s not like it matters anyway.

Tully reads with his raspy voice and it’s soothing, this comfort from a source that should be unthinkable but that’s what benzos and suger are for. To not think. Or feel.

He does though. Feel. The rapist who hasn’t raped him since the PC unit and still visited without always aiming for his ass. And the counting… Juice hasn’t thought about it for a while, but the way Tully fucked him last time, in here, was different from the PC unit, which by the way should be called punk custody. Protection. In here? What a joke. Tully counted, he always did except for that first time when he was more rough, seemed almost angry, not with Juice but like the fucking was an annoying task to get over with and not the sweet relief he’d expected.

It didn’t hurt, not physically. Tully has never hurt him like the chinks or the guard did and it’s difficult even while sober to know if he’s being gentle because he doesn’t like to hear his toy whine or to keep his punk out of the sick ward or simply to minimize the wear and tear. He could do all that without this gentleness, though. This, for lack of a better word, intimacy.

“Love is like the wild rose-briar; Friendship like the holly-tree. The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms, but which will bloom most constantly?”

Love. Friendship. Juice can’t help but huffing and Tully stops.

“You amused?”
“My rapist reads me love poems. You really don’t see the joke in that?”
“Do you hear me laughing, baby?”

There’s something a lot more scary with the nazi when he keeps his voice this even. Like it’s an echo of a voice, not really alive and Juice regrets being rude, regrets it so badly and starts curling up, tensing. Tully puts the book down and then sighs.

“I’m not gonna hurt you, boy, so you can stop rolling up like a damn hedgehog all the time. If I get annoyed for real, I will tell you. And you’ll notice too.”

That doesn’t help but the arm pulling him close does, which is fucking sick, but Juice doesn’t feel it, just knows it. It’s not the first time his feelings aren’t synced up with what he knows.

“That… I didn’t mean that as a threat, baby.”

Tully’s whisper is soft. He’s lying, of course. He must be, either it is to Juice or himself or both. But Juice deserves that, doesn’t he? A lying coward shouldn’t expect any honesty from others. He’s forfeited that right a long time ago.

“I’ll leave you be if you want me to.”

Yeah, right. Tully will leave him be if he chooses to care about what Juice wants and the worst thing about that, is that he really doesn’t know what he wants.

“Would you prefer if I didn’t touch you unless I was fucking you, Ortiz?”
“Oh, so now I have a choice?”
“We always have a choice, baby. Now, do you want me to leave you alone or not?”

He can blame it on the downers. On the loneliness, the self-loathing, the fear. On the fact that Tully has chosen not to rape him for a while now. On this strange feeling that maybe the nazi doesn’t actually get off on hurting him.

He doesn’t want to be alone. He never has. And yet, despite the downers, he’s not numb enough to mask fear. Only to beg for mercy.

“Just… tell me if you’re going to…”

He swallows.

“Benzos make me… I’ll be too loud.”

He hates the fact that it comes out like he’s gonna be loud as in moaning, but Tully doesn’t laugh or even smile. Like he knows. He just looks right into Juice’s eyes, impassive as always, that feral gaze almost human for a moment.

A hint of something very close to empathy.

“I’ll leave you be, Juice.”

For now, is the unspoken part of it, but beggars can’t be choosers and so Juice takes that hint, this sliver of whatever humanity the shot caller is capable of and leans into him for the comfort he wishes he didn’t crave.

The cookie tastes good too.

Chapter Text

My rapist reads me love poems. You really don’t see the joke in that?

No. No, he doesn’t. The level of denial about what he’s doing to the boy would make Tully laugh had he been aware of it. Thing is, when you’ve managed to put sixteen months of close to nightly rapes and humiliation in a locked box of memories not to be touched or even acknowledged for more than two decades, you’re pretty much bound to some kind of distortion.

In a way, the small drops of kindness he’s given his punks during his stints, have always been more than Carl Green ever gave. And no one’s been given more of those than Juice, who’s lost his surname in Tully’s mind. This stupid moniker, Juice, is what comes up instead now, which decreases the detachment that’s so important to keep. That’s how you survive in here, after all. By keeping others and yourself detached from the things you do and those being done to you.

He reads his rape victim love poems because he’s just as fucked up as the punk. Because he has a twisted sence of humor that doesn’t include love poems or cookies. In all honesty, kept safely to himself of course, Tully just wants to… well, not have the boy cry so much.

He’s had willing punks too. Those who didn’t resist at all, but didn’t go numb either. Those have always been the easiest, most preferable. They don’t cry, don’t lay stiff like dolls and even show a need themselves. There’s no need to hurt them to keep up appearance, but there’s not many of them and usually they fall victim for a shiv sooner rather than later. Cons fight over them and if it’s bad, no one wins.

Tully can’t see the joke in reading the boy poems because there is none. For once, he has no actual plan behind it, other than dragging him out of the misery for a while, because that shit’s contagious and the mere thought of having the boy cry from pain under him is turning Tully’s stomach. It was difficult, more so than he wants to admit, to fuck him in PC, knowing how the guards would start talking no matter what they’d been paid, had he not kept up performance. Giving the boy blow in advance helped, as did using lots of lube, but it doesn’t shut all of Tully’s consciene down, which is another level of fucked up for someone who never had much of that shit to begin with.

He’s only fucked him once in this cell though and it was good, better than Tully’s used to in here. It was softer, almost gentle and the boy was the one instigating it. Not that it has to mean anything, though. Tully very reluctantly remembers plenty of times when he’d been broken enough to aim for the least painful alternative to the humiliation and did whatever he could to keep the pain down as much as possible.

With Carl Green, unfortunately, it rarely worked. On the other hand, he always saw the joke in things. A funny guy, really. The idea of mirrorring him in any way, suddenly means something and in here, a conscience is no asset. It’s a weakness.

Crying is too, but in the darkness considered a lesser one. For a punk it’s expected and had Tully been Carl Green, he would’ve left his bunk to punch Juice in the stomach and threaten with something worse if he kept whining like a bitch and ruined his sleep. The nights when Green was high on actually good speed were the worst. He could take Tully several times then, up to the point where the con in the cells closest started to complain.

We can’t sleep, Carl. You gotta keep your shit down.

Aint my fault she’s a loud slut. Someone’s soft for the little princess, huh?

He’s just a kid,man, and we all know he’s yours. Is it really fucking necessary to make’im cry and puke all the time? Jesus, use more vaseline!

You think I’m wasting that shit on his ass?

You… you’re doing him dry?! Are you fucking serious, Carl?

You better start minding your own ass, Billy…

The threat wasn’t about Billy being fucked dry, but shanked in the future and Green’s man didn’t say anything else and by dawn Tully had lost count on how many times his cellmate had thrashed his hole. He’d passed out by then, finally, and not even being dragged out of bed and down onto the floor in the morning had made him come to his senses.

He stayed at the infirmary for two weeks. Two weeks of blissful numbness from painkillers and downers, not knowing or feeling much of anything, at least not for long moments. The doc and nurses mentioned the number of stitches but he didn’t listen. Didn’t want to know and the information was useless anyway, even as a joke.

Unlike Carl Green, Tully’s never laughed at that one. Not once.

He only learned not to cry, to count his hearbeats and remember he was still alive.

Chapter Text

“Like a soft, air above a sea, tossed by the tempest's stir; A thaw-wind, melting quietly, the snow-drift on some wintry lea. No: what sweet thing resembles thee, my thoughtful Comforter?”

Comforter… Papi. How bizarre. It fucks with his head, what’s left of it. A few bits and pieces, scattered out for Tully or anyone else to pick up and slize up some more. To mold into something else, something pliable and useful. How the hell is he of any use listening to these poems in the dark?

Maybe the nazi just wants to make him cry. An easy enough wish to fulfill, with or without old poems. The old words read in that soft, almost dreamy drawl have become routine now, yet they still stirr something inside Juice, despite the fact that he should be dead in there. It’s a lot more difficult to remain in that slow death when someone insists on treating you like a living thing.

“And yet a little longer speak, calm this resentful mood; And while the savage heart grows meek, for other token do not seek, but let the tear upon my cheek evince my gratitude…”

Meek and resentful. Is that what he is now? Grateful for the comfort he never asked for. Too calmed by it to feel any disgust. He doesn’t want his rapist to stop reading to him or stop holding him. The shot caller is the first one who knows about his betrayal and cowardice without turning his back on him, but opening his arms, even if it’s only for his own sick pleasure. Still, it counts.

It’s so beyond fucked up it doesn’t bear thinking of.

The way he not just accepts Tully’s embrace but leans into it freely is about the same level of insanity so maybe they’re on equal terms on that matter. Tully doesn’t keep his free hand to himself as he reads but he doesn’t slide it over Juice’s body either. He holds his hand. It’s been a very long time since anyone did that and the touch seems almost unconscious. The kind of touch you do with someone you’re comfortable with, autmatically, not even noticing it. Juice should know, because his own hand responds by folding into the shot caller’s. His comforter.

“Hey, baby… Shh, don’t cry, sweetheart…”

These arms filled with nazi ink aren’t made for comfort. They’ve hurt him, pinned him down. Not that Juice put up a fight of any kind. The hands became less harsh almost immediately, he remembers that. How the aggressive pumping seemed mechanical, angry, but not spiteful or even for relief as with the chinks. How Tully spent more time reading poems or just talking than fucking him.

His thoughtful rapist. Juice has no idea what kind of thoughts the shot caller has. He has only the man’s actions, rank and gang to go by. His hands that haven’t touched him in any sexual way without consent since the PC unit. The nazi has two holes for free to use as he pleases, everyone even expects him to, but for some reason, Tully prefers poems and cuddles to fucking most of the time. It’s both a relief and a worry. That it’s offered so freely and that Juice accepts it, just as easily. He’s losing his mind for sure, but who cares. It wasn’t much to have to begin with.

The nazi has stopped reading, it’s lights out and the hand still holds his own, pressed between them as Juice cries into the chest marked with symbols screaming out that whatever he might do, no matter if he’d never been a coward or rat, he’s still a lesser being to this monster.

“You should’ve killed me… Why don’t you just…”

He shouldn’t even ask. Tully doesn’t need anymore weakness to drool over but it’s night, it’s dark and the darkness in Stockton is the only cover for all those human emotions everyone pretends don’t exist in daylight. The sorrow, the longing, the hurt. The guilt, maybe even remorse. The crushing loneliness.

And somewhere Juice knows, even without asking, the answer to his unfinished question.

“Because I don’t do jobs for cowards, baby.”

Because even a nazi shot caller can feel lonely at night too. Tully is mostly a sick mystery to him, but behind the covering words Juice knows the actual answer, can feel it from the way these hands don’t grope, tug or pin him down. By the gentleness, almost protectiveness in the embrace, the gentle whisper.

Sometimes curling up around your pillow and for the thousand night pretend it’s a warm, living body longing for yours, just isn’t enough. It never is. And by seeing Jax as a coward for going out on his bike and the club for weak softies for letting him end it on his own terms when he never offered anyone else the same chance, Tully can allow himself to give the late Samcro pres as the whole remaining club the finger. Jax offing himself in blazing glory was never part of the deal and Juice knows the AB no longer have any business with Samcro so by keeping the ex-commuted coward alive, the shot caller is pretty much giving the club the finger.

There’s only one problem with that twisted logic.

“You telling me you’ve never offed a coward either?”
“Plenty, baby.”

A sigh. A kiss on his head that still feels just too affectionate, too fucking human to fit in any of this sick man’s thoughts.

“Had I been your golden boy leader, I would’ve carried out the green light myself. I know about his mother and wife, baby. I know a lot more about your precious little biker crew than you or Teller ever knew.  That’s the problem with trying to mix blood family and a sworn brotherhood. Sooner or later, you have to choose and the golden boy wanted it all.”

There’s a chuckle, incredulous and Juice can almost see the inner head shake. The hand stroking his cheek now doesn’t feel as condescending as it should, the hazel eyes no longer predatory and watchful.

“You didn’t betray me, sweetheart. And I know you’ve waited for me to shank you or make someone else do it, but you’ve not tried to get out of it.”

A thumb onto his earlobe, petting it.

“I’ve had worse cellmates, baby, and as far as I’m concerned, you’ve not done anything that justifies me to off you.”
“Lucky me you’re a guy of such high moral standards.”

He’s disrespectful but Tully just keeps looking at him and it’s unnerving but not in the usual way. The shot caller’s eyes have a way of shifting constantly and too fast to make any sense of when they’re in the relative privacy of late evening and night. It’s almost easier when they’re lifeless, which they are most of the time during the day. It’s the usual way you keep yourself hidden here. The indifferent eyes become a part of the uniform after a while, Juice have them too, but Tully’s eyes aren’t indifferent now. Nor predatory, angry or even amused.

“You could’ve been worse off, Juice.”

It’s the sixth time he’s calling him by his nickname and as always, there’s a slight pause right after the last syllable, as if Tully’s not realising what he’s doing. Like he’s catching himself doing something he shouldn’t, but is too surprised by it to take it back.

He’s probably referring to his other punks, there must’ve been plenty of them. A shot caller is never alone inside unless he chooses to, especially not one as powerful as Tully. But it doesn’t sound like a warning or even a reminder of whoever other high up con Jax could’ve given him to, that would’ve been far more rough than Tully.

“You shouldn’t talk so much, baby. Go to sleep before you get your head spinning. You need to rest.”

There it is. The dangerous calm. A predator hiding an infested wound from his prey.

I’m nice to you now, but if you start poking into this, you will regret it.

Juice swallows. He’s scared now. Not of violence though, but the thought of being rejected, pushed away from these arms and deprived of the only comfort he’s offered in here. So he reminds himself that he has no pride left to protect.

“I’m sorry, papi.”

The tension that’s been creeping up on him is easing down as the nazi pulls him close to his chest. Forgiveness, maybe, in Tully’s own way.

Juice needs that. He’s needed it ever since he got dragged into Roosevelt’s and Potter’s little room with the spiderweb map over the club and didn’t go straight to Chibs to tell him everything afterwards. He didn’t trust the club enough, didn’t trust Chibs enough and perhaps that’s what hurts the most. That he never realised just how little trust he had in those he loved the most, before it was too late.

Now Tully can have what ever is left of it. The way his presence keeps the nightmares and loneliness on some distance, is worth it. At least for now.  

Chapter Text

The night is a time for all the thoughts and feelings you shouldn’t have and deifnitely shouldn’t show in the daylight. It’s the only privacy you’re offered in here unless you’re in PC or the hole. If it’s loneliness you want, those are the main options and during his many stints, Tully has made use of both every once in a while. Whatever reasons were, he’s used both the hole and the PC to cry in solitude.

The hole was the best option the first year, since Carl Green had friends among the guards and the PC only meant the asshole could make more use of his fucktoy without having to worry about screams. The hole, on the other hand, was too far away from the cell block and the guards down there weren’t on Green’s payroll. They were also pretty much deaf to any noises from the cells unless there were screams or some kind of commotion.

It was stinking and either too cold or too hot, the air thick and still and sleeping naked on the floor sucked but the guards weren’t interested in fucking or even beating his ass. One of them, Underwood or something, even used to come inside to actually check on him at night.

You alright, Tully? Haven’t touched your food today either, kid. That’s not good, you know. You gotta eat a little, you’re already thin as a twig.

He’d still refused to touch the food and one night, Underwood entered with a paper bag.

It’s cinnamon rolls, my wife makes’em. I told her about you and she sent you these. Gotta eat’em before the day shift starts, though, or there’ll be problems for both of us.

He’d emtied the bag, couldn’t leave paper in there, and left. Three cinnamon rolls with pearl sugar on top, still a little warm and he’d thought there must be a trick. A punishment waiting no matter what he decided to do. Maybe there were laxatives or something in the dough. Or poison. Something designed to hurt, in either way.

But they smelled nice, felt nice to the touch and so he devoured them to the last bit of sprinkled sugar, letting the taste of cinnamon, sugar and butter fill him up and then he waited. For his stomach to turn or his mind to black out.

Nothing happened though, apart from the feeling of a less rumbling tummy and the lingering taste of sweetness. The unusual sensation of a kindness no one had any reason to give him, least of all a guard. And in the humid cell Tully had waited for the payment to be collected. A blow job, most likely. Even the worst of the guards stayed away from the ass of a shot caller’s bitch. The mouth, for some reason, wasn’t counted the same. Less risk of catching the clap or the chlam maybe, Tully really didn’t know. Didn’t care.

When he was released from the hole, Underwood was on duty and when giving his clothes back, there’d been another roll hidden in one of the pant pockets.

Try an’ behave now, kid. Can’t get yourself sent down here everytime you get a problem, you know. Gotta find a way to deal with it an’ spending your remaining, what was it… eight months in solitary wont do you any good. You’ll only end up in the looney bin an’ believe me, tha’s not a good option.

As opposed to being Green’s punk? Tully had almost thrown the cinnamon roll in his face because five days in solitary wasn’t even close to make his ass recover and the traces of blood in the shit bucket were the evidence of that. And this Mother Teresa wannabe thought some fucking pastries would make what was waiting any easier to stomach.

He’d been taken back, the last cinnamon roll crammed to a lump in his pocket and Green had been in a vicious mood, pent-up from a few nights of abstinence and since one of the guards on his payroll was on duty, the asshole had taken to fuck Tully before lights out, pressing his frame onto the bars for the rest to see. Tully hadn’t cried though, he’d been prepared for something like it and managed to zone out, becoming numb and absent against the bars.

It was like he wasn’t there at all and Tully vaguely remembers how, when Green was done, he’d still leaned onto the bars, not moving, not noticing his surroundings at all, just sinking down enough to pull his pants back up before sinking onto the floor, fucking sitting down on his sore ass as if it was nothing. As if the pain was nothing.

Maybe it wasn’t. He no longer remembers that part. It happened so many years ago, after all. And he’s not been thinking much about it in recent years. Not until Ortiz became part of the deal with Teller and that deal might be dead, but Ortiz isn’t, just as the memory of Carl Green unfortunately didn’t die with him. Tully has never been good at dealing with the living without a set prize tag, an end goal to focus on.

Jui… Ortiz may wish he was dead but in Tully’s arms, so oddly relaxed even while still awake, he feels very alive. That’s the only thing Tully is sure of about this man. That he prefers him alive and warm, even if it can only be felt in the darkness. There are more things than wounds you must hide in here.

Chapter Text

It’s not even a nightmare this time. Tully is sound asleep, the way his body curls around his own is comforting enough, but no barrier to the corridor and the guard who’s one of the less nice ones. Not evil, just bored, annoyed and underpaid.

“Hey, keep it down, chica, or you can sleep in the hole. Jesus… fucking baby girl. You shut up or I’ll wake up your cellmate.”

The whisper is malicious, eyes looking through the bars are too and Juice turns around despite the warning because the light is sharp and his face wet. Tully doesn’t wake up, the only movement being his calm, steady breaths and then the flashlight moves away, the steps too.

“Juice?”

Shit. The shot caller is awake and Juice stiffens, his whole body just locking up because he just ruined the nazi’s sleep and he’s gonna…

“You wan’ me to hold you, baby?”

Does he?

A wet nod is all he can manage and the man shifts over him, making him move into the wall to pull him close, arms cradling him again like he’s done so often since the PC. Now he’s protected from the view of the guard.

“Bad dreams, huh?”
“Y-yeah… Sorry…”
“It’s okay. Everyone has bad dreams sometimes, baby.”
“Woke you up… Didn’t mean to.”
“Shh, don’t get all worked up, boy.”

Where does it come from? This ability to be so gentle, as if he’s actually caring? Tully is a terrifying puzzle where there’s no way to predict the finishing motive before you’re done. And the more pieces he’s showing, the more difficult it seems to put them together, not to mention catching even a hint of the whole picture. The guard is not a part of it though.

It’s easier than it should be, to let go in the nazi’s arms. To cry onto the swastika on the chest and only feel the warmth of another human being. Has it been so long since he had anyone he really wanted to be with on the outside? Is he really this touch starved?

Why even ask?

“Papi’s got you, baby…”

The whisper against his neck. Is it teasing? Malicious? Predatory? It doesn’t feel like it is. It’s warm and cuddly, gentle and protective. No hands slipping down to tug at his pants or move his own hand to an erect cock. Tullly hasn’t done anything sexual to him for a long time. Nothing he’s not liked either.

It’s all so terribly confusing, so fucked up there’s no way out of Juice’s tangled thoughts. They just braid into nightmares and fear and the wrong conclusions, sending his mind away on suicide missions one way or the other. Tully was right. Things could be worse. So much worse.

Why this white supremacist, this rapist shot caller wants him close like this, is beyond Juice. What could it possibly give this monster to comfort a spic punk in this way? Shouldn’t he be disgusted and annoyed? Or at least indifferent. Literally looking down on his brown bitch, telling him to be a good dog and shut the fuck up or else. Making good use of his holes and pretend it’s some white chick.

“You’re shaking, baby. You cold?”

He’s having an ague, clearly, and he doesn’t know why but he doesn’t want the man to let go of him and when Tully starts taking both their tank tops off, Juice doesn’t struggle or protest because he needs this, needs the warmth of the shot caller’s skin to calm his chattering teeth, the goosebumps on his body.

Tully tucks him in against his chest, pulling the blanket up all the way to Juice’s neck, rubbing large hands over his back to bring back some warmth.

“You can wake me up, you know. If you need me.”
“What’s that suppose to mean?”
“Shh. Don’t ask stupid questions. Go to sleep my pretty Puerto Rican.”

Tully calls the shots so what else can Juice do, but obey. The ague lets go before sleep comes and Juice’s only thought before he drifts off, is how good it is to feel warm and safe again. He’s not conscious enough to see the irony in it.

Chapter Text

The rest of the night goes on without incident and Tully finds himself even more reluctant than usual to leave the bunk for head count. Juice has been tucked on his chest ever since the ague easened and now he’s warm and soft to the touch, not as stiff as usual when crawling up, seemingly not too eager to leave Tully’s arms.

Warmth is warmth, after all, and it’s weirdly nice to just bask in it, no fucking needed and Tully is still too muddled with sleep himself to notice how his boy’s surname no longer is what he goes by in his thoughts. He resists dropping a kiss on the inked head and goes for a light brush instead.

“Time to get up, s…sweetheart.”

Sunshine was what he had in mind but changes it when remembering the boy didn’t like that one. Not that it matters what a punk wants, but Tully doesn’t really need to start the day with that kind of teasing about the club and the ink that can’t be shown. Juice knows what he is without any extra names and should he forget, Tully can bring it up again. It’s not part of a shot caller’s job to take every moment to remind a punk of his status – or lack there of. Being the one who makes him sleep better is power too.

Juice curls into a roll and first, Tully thinks he’s about to cry again – which he really doesn’t have any patience for right now – but then the boy stretches out as much as the narrow bunk allows and yawns like a kitten before rounding his back again, almost pushing Tully off and Tully just smirks and leaves the bed then, chuckling as Juice grabs the blanket and snuggles into the pillow.

The boy can sleep in until Tully is done with the toilet and he washes up, changes into the uniform, brushes his teeth and then goes back to the Puerto Rican, rubbing his shoulder.

“Come on, boy. Breakfast’s in ten.”

He’s an early riser, it came with age and, most likely, getting a little too used to the routine inside. It becomes one with your body after a while and it’s always taken longer and longer time to shake it off once he’s out from a stint. Well, that’s a problem he doesn’t need to worry about for some years, but his sleepy boy still needs to get up and Tully takes to grab his hand and more or less dragging him from the pillow.

“Aint got all day, Juice. Get your ass up.”
“Coming…”

The sleepy answer isn’t loud but of course Marty hears it and gives a wolf whistle.

“Bet someone came in your ass, spic.”

That, of course, elicits some laughters but not the whole round of them. Tully’s men know by now what their shot caller thinks of calling his punk the wrong kind of name and Tully smiles to himself when Hugh, Marty’s cellmate, lets his terrible morning temper out over the little fucker and promptly twists his arm, muttering something about shutting the fuck up for once in his fucking piss ant life. There are no more comments about his boy after that and they can finish dressing in peace.

Juice, as usual, washes up pretty thoroughly and then pulls a longsleeved undershirt on before grabbing the shortsleeved prison shirt. Perhaps he’s cold, or maybe he just wants to hide his ink. Sooner or later they’ll have to deal with that too. That is, if Tully wants to keep him alive, of course. Nothing is ever certain in here but Juice probably prefer not having anyone seeing the thing he’s no longer a part of and isn’t allowed to have.

Tully has seen ex-communicated men before. Some handle it better than others, but the grief is almost a guarantee, whether they regret the betrayal or not. Come thinking of it, there was a guy who left the AB inside while Green was still alive. Tully doesn’t remember his name now but he recalls feeling good about the way the man screamed when Green shredded the ink, of course bringing his punk to watch. He felt good because the guy biting a cloth to keep the screams down had been the one who helped to mark Tully’s swayback with good girl. By that time, Tully had learned to grab his victories in whatever form they were offered.

Juice, on the other hand, seems completely uninterested in that. Small victories. Or anything else, for that matter. In daylight, he’s not really present, shut down in a way that’s not unusual per se in here, but this is more than keeping up appearance. The boy looks exhausted, not from lack of sleep, but from living.

It’s unnerving, this kind of shutting down, and Tully glances around quickly before putting an arm around his boy and pressing him onto his frame. The stainless steel mirror shows two pair of eyes. One of them cold and watchful, the other distant and, for those who’re really good at reading others, increadibly sad.

Had Tully been a decent person, he should kill this wreck of a man gently in his sleep. A shitload of downers and a shiv, slitting the wrists, it’s easy enough and no one would be surprised or even suspicious of Tully. The only reason Juice isn’t on suicide watch is due to budget cuts and if one inmate dies, there’s always a new idiot to take his place. They’re all disposable in here, just numbers and pay checks in human form. Holes to fuck. To the state as well as to each other.

Chapter Text

He’s not a Son anymore. He hasn’t been for a long time, the parting happened way before the actual ex-communication which still feels somewhat unreal since he still had his kutte when riding off here, under the false premise that if he did this for Jax, there was a chance they’d let him keep the Reaper. Being the easily manipulated moron he’s always been, Juice believed him, as if taking a chink out and taking nazi cock up the ass would change anything for the better. The most painful thing, oddly, is how Chibs turned his back on him, how the man couldn’t bear looking at the stain of shit the man he’d once sponsored had become.

Breakfast this morning is as usual, staring down the tray and eating enough of the crap to please the nazi. When they’s about to leave for their yard time though, one of the guards approaches the AB table and gestures for Juice to come with him.

“Ortiz. The warden wants a word.”

Asshole. Juice reckognizes him. He wasn’t one of those raping him, but he was nearby and most likely knew about it. Of course he likes the idea of putting a punk on display like this, alerting the other inmates about the possibility that the biker snitch might snitch again.

Whatever. It’s not very likely that he’ll last longer than, at most, a couple of months in gen pop anyway. Juice raises, takes his tray and follows quietly, as if it’s nothing, but he makes sure he looks indifferent. That look annoys this guard for real and even if there’s no pride to protect, that doesn’t mean Juice will show any fear if he can stop it. This slightly cocky, blank look is one he’s cultivated since his early teens and works well enough with stupid little guards who think their broad steps and tazers have anything on a former Son.

He can almost feel Tully’s gaze physically on his back as he walks out with the guard and it’s not even a very alarming feeling. Maybe he’s finally become numb for real.

The warden’s office is weirdly homey with book shelves and comfy chairs and the guard stays outside. Perhaps the warden just tries to surround himself with things that don’t remind him so much of the actual world he’s trying to rule over and Juice just feels tired when Bernhards, the unit manager, comes in too and joins Mr. Fitzgerald on a chair closer to the desk than the one Juice might be allowed to sit on. Bernhards gestures towards it, like a fucking godfather graciously allowing a low threat enemy to get comfortable before serving the threats. It’s fucking laughable that they think this will intimidate him.

“So, Ortiz… How are you doing?”

Is he serious? Does this shit really works. Juice has to force himself not to laugh and then he looks straight at the warden, calm but not cocky.

“I’m fine, sir.”
“How’s your cellmate treating you?”
“I’m not complaining, sir.”

Literally. He’s literally not complaining, that’s all they’re gonna get. The subject of Tully is fucked up and terrifying enough in his own head. It doesn’t need any input from prison staff, or anyone else for that matter.

The warden just hums and folds his hands onto his knee, leaning back a little in his chair.

“I understand your club…”
“Former.”
“Sorry?”
“Former club, sir. I’m no longer a part of the Sons.”

Which Bernards obviously knows, but he’s probably using whatever leverage he might think he has, pretending to know more than he does. Juice already fell for that once, he’s not repeating that mistake again.

“People have noticed you’re still wearing the ink.”

Of course. A threat, poorly disguised as concern. Bernards doesn’t give a fuck about what the ink means in terms of being carried by a rat, thinking he can intimidate Juice and why shouldn’t he. Juice hasn’t given any indication save for the incident in the yard that he has any willpower left and certainly no connections. Juice looks straight at the warden, for once easily detecting a lie.

“No, they haven’t. I’m always wearing long sleeves, sir.”
“That may be the case, but how long do you think Filip Telford will leave you be?”

Chibs. For some reason it feels like an insult just hearing this shithead uttering his name. Chibs has turned his back on Juice for good fucking reasons and while no one might expect it, certainly not Chibs himself, there’s no way Juice is gonna stab him or the club in the back a second time. That’s the only honor a rat might have left and these fuckers in their uniforms and their big desks and pathetic shields really don’t understand that Juice has been welcoming death for so long now, there’s nothing they can tempt him with that would make him repeat the sins that originally brought him in here on this uncomfortable chair.

Juice sighs, glancing towards the window.

“May I have what’s left of yard time, sir?”
“You have nothing to tell me, then?”
“Nothing at all, sir.”

Chapter Text

The discrete little head shake from the guard bringing Juice back confirms what Tully already was pretty sure of. His boy isn’t talking to the warden, although by the way he’s tense like a fucking violin it’s obvious he doesn’t know that Tully knows that. It’s expensive to keep guards in your pocket, but it’s worth it and Tully is pleased to know his boy didn’t take the bait this time, neither about Tully nor the MC.

There’s obviously still some sense of loyalty left in him, even if it’s weirdly balanced between the club who kicked him out and the predator that took him in. If there’s a part of himself in it too, is difficult to tell.

Yard time is almost over and Juice has barely moved an inch on the bench since coming out, slumped down on the ground a few feet away from Tully. His eyes are distant, not really looking at anything, lost in that maze of thoughts that seems to be his normal whenever he’s not occupied. Most guys get depressed inside at least on occasion, but this is more than that. A kind of numbness that Tully refuses to reckognize, because it reminds far too much of a past he buried a long time ago. He’s not that man anymore.

“Tully?”

He looks up, irritated for being interrupted in his thoughts, but it’s not Marty, it’s a Son. Not from Redwood but the Fresno charter and to his credit, Juice doesn’t show a hint of fear or anything else. Tully nods at the Fresno man to approach.

“Cooper, right?”

The biker nods. He’s buff and old, obviously not one of the heated ones, which is good. Tully hates the kind of men who can’t be patient and he folds his hands.

“What can the AB assist the Sons with this time?”

It’s only partly meant as a gibe and Cooper has been in the game long enough to understand why people are suspicious about the Sons these days. He nods at Juice who’s staring out into nothing.

“Real estate business.”
“Ah. Telford sent you?”
“Nah, sickward reports.”

Tully nods, now resting his hands on top of his boy’s head.

“So, you’ve not reached out to Redwood, then?”
“Wanted to talk to you first. Common courtesy, Tully.”
“It’s appreciated.”

Tully tilts his head, letting his deceitfully amiable smile show.

“Tell Mr. Telford I’ll be expecting his call. Until then…”

He makes a deliberate pause, widening his smile as if discussing actual pleasantries.

“… we’re not doing any major adjustments. Simply discretion should be enough for now, right?”

Cooper just nods, not looking pleased but not displeased either.

“Of course, Tully. I trust you to handle it.”

Tully throws his hands out with a mocking smile.

“Mutual respect is all we can ask for. We’re civilized men, after all. Not animals.”

The bell sounds, yard time is up and Juice still hasn’t moved or made a sound that suggests he’s even heard the conversation about him. Like he’s an object, blind, deaf and mute. Tully touches his shoulder lightly.

“Come on, boy.”

He speaks gently, low enough to not give him the impression he’s treating him like a dog. Appearance is everything, after all, and it’s always good to keep people wondering exactly where Tully’s mind is. It may look like he’s just bossing his bitch around, but unlike many other top predators in here, Tully doesn’t need to show him off.

In a place like this, very few people are wealthy and powerful enough to afford open mercy, not even all shot callers. It’s all about how you do it and while Teller knew the importance of appearance, he was always too concerned about looking like an actual decent person to ever make real use of it. Being a master manipulator himself, Tully had no difficulties reading the golden boy and the more he did, the less he liked what he saw.

Reading his boy is a lot easier. Juice is so tense while walking back to the cell, it looks like he could implode from the smallest of touches. Tully walks behind him now, keeping an eye on the cramped shoulders and still almost serene steps. Tully could use this extra advantage. Could give the boy his cold stare and predatory smile that’s known to make even the most badass muscles in here public shivers.

But the boy doesn’t need that to keep in line, nor does he deserve it. He didn’t rat after all, and no matter the reason why he didn’t, Tully must admit it’s pretty fucking admirable and something no one would expect from a punk as lost as Juice.

Chapter Text

What’s that old song again?

The games people play now. Every night and every day now. Never meanin' what they say now. Never sayin' what they mean. La, da, da da, da-da da; La, da, da da, da-da de... talkin' 'bout you-n-me and the games people play…

The games he didn’t understand and never should’ve tried playing. Roosevelt, Potter, Jax, Gemma. Clay… They all knew the game and still only one of them, as far as Juice knows, is still alive. Maybe Potter eventually got trapped in one of his own little webbs and met his end, or maybe he’s making another webb somewhere else, tricking another gullible idiot to believe that whiteboard and sharpie were mightier than brotherhood and had the power to erase and redraw a life with some swift moves.

Roosevelt wasn’t as good a player at that game either and got himself tangled up in the web long before realising he was just as trapped as Juice. It’s almost comical to finally know the game and see the picture of human stupidity and blindness, Potter’s fixed idea that people not only could be moved like pawns, but would remain still on the spots he left them once he was done playing. The arrogance of the law enforcement is more than often just as big a part of a successful crime as the brains behind the actual law-breaking.

So of course Bernhards thinks Juice will rat, eventually. In his eyes, knowing what he knows from the files, Juice will eventually turn. Since he did it while he was still in the club, why wouldn’t he do it now, when he’s been ex-communicated. At the first look, it seems like a pretty reasonable thinking. Juice can’t really fault the warden for thinking that. What’s more pathetic, is the way he tried to seem concerned with him. Caring.

It’s an insult, or would be if he still cared. (Which he doesn’t. He’s dead inside, end of fucking story.)

Tully cares though. He’s a shot caller who’s punk just left the warden’s office and his gaze is terrifying. Or at least it was outside. Now, as they’re entering their cell, it changes again, the reptile stare shifting to neutrality, both equally difficult to read. He’s mostly been extremely gentle with his punk, especially since they became cellmates, but Juice is tired.

He’s so fucking tired of the games, the road blocks and blind alleys, the holes in the road and the way his heart has become so fucking mechanic, the beats nothing but a ticking noise, a clock just going on and on with no goal and no function.

The cell doors lock and Juice goes to the sink, washing his hands, scrubbing them really because while he’s welcoming the end it’s actually horrifying not to know how exactly the shot caller will carry out the green light. If it will be humiliating. (Probably.) Painful? (Maybe.) Lonely? Most definitely.

For some reason that bothers Juice the most. The thought of being left on the floor somewhere alone, perhaps conscious for a while, counting his heartbeats until his body gives up and just feel the loneliness still filling him up where the blood seeps out.

It’s not on the scale of ordinary or even extraordinary fucked up that when the green light is carried out, he wants to face it in Tully’s arms. A final embrace from the animal that seems to be the only one to see him as something akin to a human.

Chapter Text

“Lets skip lunch, baby.”

No answer, not that Tully expected one. Juice looks both shattered and weirdly peaceful as he so obviously prepares to die. It’s a beautiful sight in a way, one that Tully honestly hasn’t seen before. He’s seen men facing the green light with dignity, of course, although not nearly as often as the brotherhood or clubs like the MC would like it to be. Most men will avoid it, run from it, protest and negotiate when realising there’s nowhere to run and no point in fighting.

Juice has done that too. He’s been a rat and a coward, but he’s long since stopped running and hiding and Tully admires the fact that the boy doesn’t even try to explain what did or didn’t happen in the warden’s office. That he knows what he is and has the decency to take the consequences, not insulting Tully’s intelligence or giving up his own last piece of dignity by pretending Tully has any reason to trust him.

His boy washes his hands very thoroughly, as if taking part in an odd little ritual. He then washes his face, hangs the towel back on the hook afterwards and just… waits. The scrawny fingers are holding onto the sink, but not hard. It’s like they’re merely resting there, as if preparing to no longer hold or grasp for anything.

There is time. The cameras are off, the guards aint here because they have families to support, house mortgages to pay and hopes and dreams long hours and a pretty lousy pay check wont cover no matter how many extra hours they cram in. Money silence people just as often as they make them talk.

A shiv and some running water is all it will take. It will look like a suicide and the guards will swear the block was empty when they left, pretending the had no idea why the cameras were off. The warden will curse and yell but believe it, because of the budget cuts, the far too many inmates on far too few guards and wasn’t Ortiz suicidal anyway?

“Tully…”

His boy sounds so tired, so hopelessly sad by the sink and Tully walks up behind him, putting an arm around the chest where there are still heartbeats. The boy sighs, leaning back onto him, head tilted heavily to the side.

“I didn’t say anything.”
“I know, baby.”
“Thank you.”

Tully is puzzled.

“For what, Juice?”
“Trusting me. You have no reason to.”

Another sigh, a search for the hand on his chest. A small squeeze.

“For this too… I appreciate it, papi.”

The closeness, the touches. The respect in the form of a shiv in privacy. Almost no pain, no drawn out misery, no hateful eyes as the last thing stuck behind closed eyelids. A courtesy usually not offered a rat and Tully wont offer it now either.

Simply because there is no shiv in his hand. Not this time.

Chapter Text

From the outside, it probably looks like just another breakdown. For all the efforts to keep yourself together in here, the sudden snaps aren’t always violent and especially not from a punk. And even the meanest of bastards in here can cry without shame if, for instance, a loved one dies, especially if it’s a wife or kid or mother. A punk doesn’t need those reasons, which is one of few free passes you get when you’re nothing but someone’s asshole.

The problem with only feeling dead, is that you can be raised from it. Or dragged, more likely. Juice is barely aware of how he keeps hitting his rapist/protector/papi/comforter/mindfucking nazi bastard in the chest, because the shock of the absence of cuts and blood is just too much. He was ready, he didn’t rat, didn’t beg but he does now.

“Please, you promised… You… fucking asshole! F-fucking nazi fag!”

Insults usually is a short cut to get yourself killed or at least severely injured in here and Juice tries everyone he can think of which, right now, isn’t nearly enough of what he actually knows and Tully doesn’t get the least provoked anyway. His voice is even but not cold against Juice’s neck.

“I never promised to off you, baby.”
“Chibs will retaliate!”
“Telford is a professional, sweetheart. He aint gonna let any personal shit get in the way for business and going after me for keeping you alive would be really fucking bad for business.”
“Please, Tully. Please!”

Whatever pride he had saved for the moment to go out with a slice of dignity, is gone now, as if it was never there and he’s resorting to threats.

“I-I’m gonna tell the warden.”
“Tell him what, baby?”
“That you rape m-me.”
“And what do you think he’ll do about that? PC unit? There’s no proof, baby, and even if there was, do you really think he cares?”
“You’re a fucking psychopath.”

A chuckle. Incredulous, almost.

“You think that’s why I’m keeping you alive, sweetheart? To torture you until you give up or something?”
“Isn’t that exactly what you’re doing? Playing fucking games with people’s heads so you can feel like a supreme badass.”
“That’s right, and wrong, and either way, it doesn’t apply to everything I do.”
“You must feel really good now, Tully. What a fucking success for you, keeping me as your little fucktoy. That’s some real fucking white supremacy. Hitler should be proud.”

Yes, it’s a long shot. A truly desperate one and Tully, of course, doesn’t take the bait. He just moves Juice towards the bunk and makes them both lie down, being spooned by him. It’s a lot more gentle than it appears from the bars.

“You might find this surprising, but dead Germans with megolmania usually aren’t my first choice of heroes, sweetheart. And if you want to make me kill you due to insults, you really need to work on them.”

It’s as if something breaks inside him. Something he wasn’t aware was still whole and even could be shattered. He’s been running away from Mr. Mayhem for what seems like an eternity and when he finally accepts Him and slows down, admitting he’s too tired to run anymore and accepts the consequences, Mr. Mayhem no longer wants him, but hands him over to the mercy of Tully, whatever that is. Apparantly not a shiv in privacy.

He doesn’t care how it looks, if someone’s even watching or hearing. Juice cries in this deceitful man’s shockingly soft arms and there are no scornful words, no harshness, none of the joyless, distant chuckles.

For all the things Tully should be hated for, all the shit he’s been doing, he’s still the only one who’s offered any actual comfort, who’s fucking listened and not turned his back on him since Chibs held him in the bathroom after finding out his dad was black, in what seems like another life and far too many deaths and heartbreaks ago. In this journey through the dark, Tully is the light, only not the green one and Juice keeps banging his pathetic fists, keeps begging into the chest of this heartless man who answers, not with a shiv, but with slow pets and the small mercy of staying with him.

Perhaps that’s more than he deserves. If even Mr. Mayhem rejects him, what’s really left of his pathetic being anyway?

Chapter Text

Tully can’t remember last time he felt guilt. Maybe when he was sentenced and left his dogs in the care of a friend. Three Boston terriers, not German shephards. Teller had such a poor imagination. But about the guilt thing… It was hard to leave them, not just because he knew he’d miss them, but because they looked so sad when he left and he couldn’t explain why. He wasn’t lying to Teller: he truly misses his dogs and right now, Ortiz reminds a lot of a sad puppy.

Not a kicked one, that’s a whole other thing. He’s not cowering or anything like it, he’s just heartbroken, utterly miserable and not that Tully is sparing his life out of kindness – truth be told, he doesn’t really know the reason – but there’s something about these tears that tugs on the little spot of empathy that up until now has been reserved almost entirely for his three terriers and the most bizarre thing about this, is probably the fact that Tully generally has a great deal more empathy and respect for dogs than humans.

Ortiz’s broken sobs, the way his body is slumped like a pile against him, reminds somewhat of how the dogs looked at him when he said goodbye. How he could feel their eyes in his back every step out to the car. He’s never gonna see them again, most likely. At least it’s best not to build up false hopes, even if he’s not been sentenced to life. It’s a very strange thing to realise Ortiz has actually clung on to the hope of being offed and is just shattered by the idea of staying alive.

As with so many other unnerving thoughts, Tully files away the one about feeling just a little bit insulted for being a fate far worse than death even when he’s at his most humane behavior. What does that say about him? Or perhaps it’s not about him at all. In here, you get so used at only thinking about yourself and the rest of the men as pawns in the game of survival. Tully isn’t a shot caller, or even a nazi due to any actual beliefs in white supremacy. He’s simply surviving in here and the best way of doing it, is to remain at some kind of top position. Ideology and actual, deep-rooted racism is for idiots who haven’t learned that the colour of money never changes.

Another thought he’s not cared to think much about since his youth, is if the lack of women in his wet dreams is a result of being too molded into the prison system at too young a age, or if he’s in fact a Röhm. The trannies in here are coveted, especially if they’ve had a lot of work done, but they’ve never interested Tully, nor have the youngest kids sent in here. The sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds who either end up drugged zombies or angry little dogs with a loud bark and less sharp teeth. They rarely last long without strong protection, preferably a gang. And either way, they’re just too much of kids to suit him.

The older, willing punks how ever… Perhaps Emile is the one Tully recalls best now. He must’ve been in his early thirties during that stint, sentence to only two years for some drug related shit and Emile around twentfive, buff and blonde with those kind of blue eyes Tully usually lets the women in his imagination bear, was about as queer as they come, in for manslaughter and reckless endangerment.

No forcement was ever necessary, or persuation. Emile knew the game and played it almost as well as Tully, using his faggy hand gestures and hip swaying as an advantage and to be fair, they were. Fucking him was awesome and he gave amazing head. Talked way too much though, chattering on like a gossiping old lady in a beauty salon and eventually he pissed off the wrong guy and ended up raped and beaten to death in the gym.

That time, Tully hadn’t retaliated, since Emile’s mouth had long since annoyed enough people to make his ending inevitable and to go after his killer would’ve been a sign of weakness. He had missed him though, and been unexpectedly pissed off about the rape. After that incident, he became more protective about his punks whenever he served a stint. Kept a closer eye on them, so to say.

People rarely understand that remaining on top requires a lot more work once you’ve got there, than it takes to climb up. The power and by that the rewards and possibilities are greater, yes, but so are the risks. The number of shivs sharpened for your back, the eyes picking you apart to find weaknesses are magnified and no one can suspect how much of human you still are, because unlike rumors and images, they’re quite easy to kill. Guilt is both a luxuary you can’t afford and a road block you don’t have time or energy to break through. Picturing his crying boy as a sad puppy, makes it easier to… well, not kick him again.

Instead, Tully bends the wet face upwards, carefully yet firm, and kisses the soft mouth.

Chapter Text

Should he laugh? Scream? Cry some more? Take a bite, make him bleed? Rip that warm, soft tongue out so it can never drip its poison ever again. He does neither and he can’t think or move or even make a sound.

He’s not kissed anyone, nor been kissed for so long just the physical sensation itself is enough to almost shock him. To make his otherwise railing mind just stop, not freeze, just go still as his mouth responds, not by biting or spitting or even shutting down, but going lax, just enough to let it happen, allowing the nazi to do this unthinkable act.

You don’t kiss a punk. Never ever. If you’re powerful enough, you may sprinkle a little peck on his head, just to add to the confirmation of how owned he is. But Tully kisses, not just pecks, but fucking kisses his mouth and it’s more than bending or even breaking the unspoken rules. It’s like they never existed and God, oh fuck, Jesus fucking Christ it should make him vomit but instead, it’s sweet and good and just… what he needs.

He expected a shiv and got a kiss. Judas kiss?

No, Tully isn’t a traitor, that’s Juice’s label. Tully is… a nazi. A shot caller, a rapist, probably a murderer and also a comforter who kisses, not like it’s a goodbye or treachery, but... like any human kissing someone he wants to kiss. A search for closeness, warm and unexpectedly sweet. Nothing predatory about it at all and Juice melts into it, still crying but not in protest of this.

The kiss goes on for long, and it’s just another tool of manipulation, of course it is, but when they finally break – they, because it comes naturally, reciprocally, like they were lovers  – Tully’s face is not as impassive as usual. It’s pale and veiled, difficult to read, and that’s when it hits Juice: his comforter and rapist, doesn’t appear inhumanly composed and motionless right now. He’s not in complete control, there’s an actual human being beneath the shot caller mask, the one who counted down in the PC, who reads poems and sings songs quietly in the dark.

Juice doesn’t want to want to kiss him. He truly doesn’t, but it was so sweet, so calming despite the dangerous waters it carries them both onto.

Knowing what to do now, after this, with those weirdly questioning eyes looking back at him in silence, is not a situation anything Juice could think of would’ve prepared him for. He doesn’t speak because he has no fucking idea what to say or if he’s even capable of speakng at all, so he goes for the thing he knows, that at least up until now has been safe with the shot caller, and curls into his chest. Not kissing him back but not turning away either.

Because he doesn’t want to.

Maybe it’s the way Tully’s eyes are different when they’re alone, or how he’s been holding him at night since they started sharing the cell. Maybe Juice is just a sad, desperate idiot who can’t handle being alone just as he’s never been able to handle any kind of relationship, romantic, sexual, brotherlike or otherwise, without either running away or being kicked out. Sometimes both.

Rejection. Perhaps that has always been his biggest downfall. He just can’t handle it. There’s something about the thought of being left alone in the dark that has always sent his mind screaming in terror, running blindly into the woods and hitting into the roadblocks of trees or tying a noose for himself – sometimes literally.

He shouldn’t want these opened arms, but he’s long since lost track of all the should:s and shouldn’t:s  that so often just don’t make any sense. Right now, all Juice wants, is to give in to that longing for human touch, the desperate need for loving arms even if they’re just faking it, the internal scream from the hole he dug for himself never could leave.

So, he doesn’t laugh, scream or bite. He kisses Tully back.

He kisses the man who, with Jax’s blessing raped him. He kisses him for the sake of the shitty family, the shattered life and lost future. And because it, for reasons he’s not ready to even peek at, feels so good.

Chapter Text

His boy is crying. Silently, as always, but he’s not pulling away, not in the least. If Tully didn’t know better, he’d say the boy is enthusiastic, but there’s only so much self-deceit he’s capable of and the years have taught him not to spill that over onto other people, especially punks.

This is a cat and mouse – or rather cat and rat, predator and prey – game and it’s the part of Tully that always chases another challenge, another uncharted sea to keep the boredom at bay, who’s in charge right now. And it’s chasing the boy’s mouth, the tongue that both unexpectedly and not, seems so willing to be caught. People loose so many boundaries when they’re prepared to let go, Tully thinks, and he pulls the boy closer because he’s not letting this one go. Not yet. It’s such a strange feeling to even want this at all.

Loneliness and frustration, stress and boredom. Those are the mains reasons one uses to make these kind of connections – he refuses to call them relationships – on the inside. You can’t live of letters and phone calls, occasional visits, porn magazines and your hand alone. But you don’t kiss. Only the queers do, those who’re out and proud and take a weird form of strenght from being faggy like some fucking rainbow and those of them who do get away with it are probably, in some ways, even more powerful than shot callers.

As Tully knows so well: you gotta be rich beyond mesure to afford weakness. He’s got assets, more than most in here, sure, but not that amount. The prize tag on that, for a shot caller, is the wrong kind of green.

No, in here you don’t kiss, but Juice does. Tully does too. The boy tastes like toothpaste and salt, tears still wettening his face and Tully can’t help but moving his palms up, stroking the cheeks, because for some reason he neither can nor want to look at, he doesn’t want his punk to be sad. And they soon have to stop, it’s getting closer to lockdown for the night and there’s time to kill between that and lights out. This is for the darkness.

Tully throws a glance at the clock on his wall and then allows himself another diving down his boy’s amazingly willing mouth before pulling away, slightly panting. Juice’s lips look kiss crushed – how long did they do this?! – and he’s so clearly on the border of excitement and fear he’s likely to have some kind of panic attack if Tully can’t do what he never does with his punks: reassure him.

So, he parts with some soft pecks on his boy’s lips, thinning it out rather that cutting off, hoping the way he’s petting those tense shoulder can ease the worry some, even with the way Tully’s erection is pressing onto him. Juice’s heartbeats are so fucking loud Tully can’t focus on any other sound.

“Easy now, baby… It’s alright…”

Little whispers, nibbles to the ear. Soothing touches you don’t give in here unless you’re the kind of guy using queerness as a shield and Tully sure as hell aint. He pulls the boy into his chest again, rocking him slowly.

“Dinner’s over soon, sweetheart. Gonna have company…”
“C-company?”

The way the boy tenses, makes Tully wanna kick himself. (No, he doesn’t care about him, he just cares about privacy, dammit!) So he pets Juice’s chest, hushing him.

“Shh, not in here, baby. Aint sharing you with anyone in any way. Need to be quiet now, though, they’re back soon.”

He wants to fuck him, or to have that mouth sucking him off, but there’s not time for that and the boy isn’t in the right state of mind for that.

Tully doesn’t think about if Juice wants it or not. Consent in the normal sense is a foreign language in here, one Tully’s not even aware if he can still speak or understand, it’s been years since he had any connection with anyone, man or woman, who didn’t start non-consensual. It’s become the norm, being taken or take and nothing in between. Gentleness a gift never to count on. Actually, it’s best to forget about it.

So he no longer remembers how it felt not to be either a predator or a prey. It’s been so long ago, it’s another life, one he’s not had for more than twenty years, where sex meant real smiles, kisses, two pair of eager hands and tight, wet pussy. He doesn’t miss the last part at all and he’s not gonna contemplate the possible meaning of it. The old lie as long as it’s a hole it doesn’t matter whom it’s on is good enough even for a shot caller and at least his boy doesn’t cry anymore.

Let him curse my name, on these blood-stained pages of misery.

The boy should do that, curse Tully and the club who sold him out. Just because Tully had the choice to decline, it doesn’t make the offer itself any less despicable. Tully has carried out the green light for traitors too, but never, not once, did he sell out any of them to another club like Teller did.

Let him call me a tyrant so cruel, let him curse my name but remember the truth.

The complete indifference from Teller is just as much a part of the truth as Ortiz’ treason and Tully’s using of his boy’s hole.

Well, he could do with a little lovin’…

There’s no love in a place like this, though, but the boy still gives in to whatever lie it is he’s telling himself to remain in Tully’s arms. His breaths even out and when Tully parts with him, he’s not curling up to a roll to protect himself, he’s just laying still, face to wall and with the first sound of entering to the block, Juice’s own whimpers are cut off and Tully turns to the mirror to erase any potential sign of consent from his own face.

He ignores the fact that he once again has given in to something else than his cock, not because it worries him, but because that too is a foreign language and mimicking it, doesn’t mean he knows what he’s actually saying.

Chapter Text

Double deck Pinochle is a good enough way to keep you occupied. Only he’s not allowed to play. Or he’s just overlooked. It’s Leroy’s deck and he’s not even acknowledging Juice’s presence. Tully, of course, doesn’t either. It would look bad if he suddenly wanted to engage a punk in this, since it’s not his cards and his second ignores the punk as well.

It’s been such a fucked up day – admittedly, most days are just by the fact that he’s still alive – and Juice finds himself laying on his bunk, not curled up facing the wall as usual, but looking out through the not yet locked door, to keep his mind from going up in flames. He got harder than he can remember having been since before the branch snapped underneath his weight in the noose and it wasn’t just because his body reacted on it’s own from the seriously abnormal turn of what he for sure thought would be his last moment.

Now he’s watching his rapist playing cards and he’s sitting wide with his knees, not needing to hide anything and neither does Juice. Nothing visible, at least, his cock is limp and calm once again. The inside is another matter and the amped up anxiety is just as much about that he doesn’t know where the shot caller’s mind as, as it is about the whole sick absurdity of this situation.

When was the last time he kissed anyone at all, apart from pecks? This was… holy shit, it was a fucking make-out session if ever he’s had one and it should turn his stomach, should make him wanna vomit, crawl out of his skin and just hide away in shattering shame and disgust. Even if, even fucking if Tully wasn’t who he is: a rapist, a nazi and a fucking psychopath who gets off on holding power over an ex-communicated little half-breed rat, it would still be sick.

Juice is writhing his hands, he’d like to wash them, not necessarily to get the smell of the shot caller off, but to have something to do with them. But he doesn’t want to stand up, to walk the few steps towards the sink with the stainless steel that will show him a reflection of himself as well as the men in blue uniforms playing their game. Cards and the one of power. It’s just him and his railing mind, contradictory feelings, the sickening shame and far too loud heartbeats right now and the only thing left to do to deal with it, unless he’s gonna start hurting himself and end up dragged to the infirmary which he just can’t handle, is to try and work it off.

Push-ups first. He’s got the tiny space all to himself now and he makes the most of it, feeling the strain that tells him he’s been slacking and why wouldn’t he? Dead men aren’t in need of muscles after all, but he’s not dying, not to day at least, unless Tully once again changes his mind and the easiness of it, how it’s literally nothing to the nazi to hand out or refuse the green light and then just go on playing fucking cards like the life and death of Juice was some kind of candy bar dangled before a little kid as a reward for good behavior, only to be put on top of the shelf.

You tricked me, he wants to scream. Not just to Tully, but to Roosevelt, to Potter, to Gemma and Jax because apparantly that’s his legacy. How easily manipulated he’s been, ready to believe any bullshit coming from anyone with either enough authority or pleading. Why, by the way, was his betrayal the worst? He knows the ending, how Jax shot his own mother and how the club sent him off to meet Mr. Mayhem like it was a noble act. Chibs cried, Juice doesn’t need to have been there to know, because Chibs always loved Jax more than anyone else.

He can see their faces. How they must’ve taken a forcefully composed yet emotional farewell, allowing their precious pres a glorious end and a proper burial afterwards. No lonely prison grave like Clay, no equally lonely resting place like Unser that no one but Gemma would’ve visited, had she not been dead too. She’s probably resting next to her son and the man and she was part in murdering, as well as the daughter-in-law she actually did murder, because there’s no way the club will make that betrayal official.

He’s working up a sweat now, switching to squats and the questioning anger or whatever it is that he’s not been feeling for so long it almost seems foreign, comes creeping up.

Why? Why were Jax and Gemma allowed that masquerade of dignity? Was it for Abel and Thomas? Juice can understand that to some extent, he really can, but with Gemma’s betrayal, she fucking murdered Jax’s wife and his old man, trying to cover both of them up, putting all the blame on Clay and Juice, not just the amount they deserved.

His knees are shaking some now and he turns to do pull-ups from the bedend, keeping his calves crossed behind his thighs and it’s fury that’s driving him. Fury over how easily Jax could’ve had him killed instead of sending him on a mission to Stockton with the false promise of a chance to atonement Juice, of course, was stupid and naïve enough to actually grasp for. Were they laughing in the chapel, from the reports Tully must’ve given Jax? Did the nazi give any details of what he used the little rat for in between the preparations for yet another killing?

I’ll make sure it’s quick.

Had he cared, had the golden fucking prince of Samcro ever given even half the shit he apparantly gave about other members snitching, he would’ve allowed Juice an actual quick end. But no, he had to use him as fucking merchendise because if anyone was to be used as a bait, as a means to an end, it would be the one having nothing to loose but the club and also insecure and gullible enough to believe either the worst or the best, unable to make fucking sense of his own thoughts and too scared to appear weak to talk about it.

It’s not that Tully isn’t lying too, only his lies don’t hurt as much, because Juice doesn’t trust him and knows he shouldn’t. The shot caller is a constant, the first one he’s had since Potter and Roosevelt started their little game and isn’t that the irony of a lifetime? That a black guy made sure Juice’s black dad mean something, while the nazi Jax handed him over to, doesn’t seem to care.

Chapter Text

Appearences. Sometimes they’re tiresome to hold up. Or maybe Tully is just getting old and a bit tired of the routine in general. Threaten, fuck, diminish, reward and threat again. Rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat until the punk is finally molded into something useful who’s forgotten his own will, stopped thinking and no longer feels anything his master hasn’t instigated or at least permitted.

The game keeps going but Tully’s only partly there. Enough to seem present but his mind is wandering off in different directions at the same time. One thought is reaching out to the boy working out to put a stop on the jitters the other men don’t notice for what it is. The uncertainty about life and death and the occasional annoyed glances toward the boy from Tully’s men are understandable, but only because they so obviously have no clue about what Juice has been expecting and perhaps still is.

Another thought is nudging on the admiration he’s not able to show openly, but can’t hide from or disguise into something else to himself. His boy is showing a composure and dignity that few men would be capable of when they somehow know, or at least are utterly convinced they’re about to die before seeing another sunrise, only to have that notion ripped away without explanation or any hints on where this suddenly not closed road is leading.

“You’re distracted tonight, Tully.”

Hugh lays the winning hand with a smirk and Tully just puts his cards down with an annoyed look. Marty huffs, displeased as he’s been allowed on the same team as the boss and now is loosing thanks to Tully being distracted.

“Should tell your bitch to be quiet, boss. Hey, shut the fuck up, baby girl!”

The others are laughing at first, but quickly stop when Tully isn’t. Soon there’s dead silence on the block and the men around the table don’t know where to look, other than at Marty, who made them laugh at their boss’ punk.

Juice has stopped his manic exercise too and Tully can almost feel the boy’s anxiety like a too heated breath onto his back, despite the distance. He nods at his second.

“Leroy. Aint that Amber chick car show starting now?”

It isn’t for another twenty minutes, but Leroy takes the not too subtle hint and raises from the table.

“Grab a chair, boys.”

It’s a weekly thing, watching Boys Toys on AWE since Leroy’s the only one on the block who pays for cable tv and it’s not often he allows anyone else access. Tully doesn’t care much for telly and only watches occasionally, if there’s a movie that’s more interesting than his books. Usually there isn’t and he wouldn’t watch the Amber chick if he got paid.

The guys follow Leroy with their chairs, as always arguing a bit on how to place them so they can get a fair view of the small telly and as usual, they end up sitting exactly like they use to – in ranking order – before they keep nagging on what to watch until the show starts. Right now their easy distraction is much welcome.

Tully raises now too, walking slowly into his cell where Juice may have stopped his workout, but instead is sitting with his back to the wall by the sink, about as hidden as the cell allows, and his breath is still speeding up, the sweat coming from more than the rigorous exercise and Tully squats down in front of him.

“I have Phenargan, boy.”

He rarely needs it himself and it’s difficult to keep in the cell with the random searches, but it’s a legal drug and effective. Judging by his boy’s not at all surprised look, he knows what it’s for, but he doesn’t nod nor shake his head. He’s staring into something Tully can’t see and that’s just as well, because whatever it is, it’s breaking what little that’s left of this cracked shell of a human.

Tully takes his hand then, squeezing it a bit to get some kind of reaction but the boy just gets more tense, the still fit but thinned out body preparing for something it wont have, at least not from Tully, and then there’s a nod, almost invisible, but it’s there and not that Tully needs his boy’s consent or anything, but it’s not worth the trouble to force pills into an unwilling mouth. Not to mention, risky for the fingers.

“Close your eyes, baby. Aint showing you.”

The stash, that is. Juice obeys, the good boy he is, and Tully raises to get a cup a water and the little white pills of wonder, all the time keeping an eye at the punk to make sure those wrecked eyes stay shut.

“Here you go, sweetheart.”

He resist the urge to pop the pills between his boy’s lips and lets him grab them with eager but unsteady hands, devouring them along with a mouthful of water, spilling most of the cup’s content on his shirt. Tully smiles at him.

“Good boy. Lets undress and wash off some, huh. Don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

The various ways of interpreting that sentence come clear immediately, as Juice gives a sigh and then just starts crying and Tully realises the boy thinks he’s refering to not being uncomfortable while dying. He’s still not understanding that’s not gonna happen. Tully can’t help but feeling annoyed by it and he pulls the boy to his chest quite roughly, leaning down to his ear.

“If we were alone, I would’ve spanked your sweet ass for not listening to your papi, baby. When I said I wasn’t gonna kill you, I fucking meant it, so stop acting like I wasn’t. Now get undressed and wash your face and then…”

He can’t help but giving a small kiss as he knows no one’s watching.

“… then papi’s gonna take good care of you, sweetheart.”

Chapter Text

Simple instructions. Orders, really. Logic and reason, fucked up as it sounds. They’re not alone, not enough for Tully to make use of the spanking threat, not that Juice thinks he would even if they were. The shot caller has way more subtle ways of humiliating and owning someone than mere physical pain and it’s his voice, this surprisingly stern yet not angry or cold one, that makes Juice obey. The downers play a part in it too, of course, but it’s Tully who’s orchestrating the whole thing. As always.

Juice takes his shirt off first, repeating the washing routine from before. Tully silently hands him a clean tanktop, which is odd in it’s own way, since a shot caller normally doesn’t serve punks at all. Only Tully isn’t normal by anybody’s standards, even the fucked up ones.

“Pants and shorts too, baby.”

Whatever. There’s something weirdly protective about the way Tully stands between him and the already narrow view from the bars. Juice takes the wash cloth he thought he’d already used for the last time and makes a half-hearted rinse, just to get the sweat off before drying with the still moist towel from before. Getting dressed is unsteady business and Juice almost falls against the bunk while working the pajama pants on.

“Steady on, boy.”

The grip on his shoulder is tight but not rough. The downers have already cut off both his anger and a good amount of his balance. He’s so tired, only not sleepy and he’s notciting that Tully isn’t really staring at him at all, giving him some privacy as if it mattered.

Papi’s gonna take good care of you, sweetheart.

It was probably meant as a threat, or at least a humiliation. But the hand holding his shoulder isn’t wandering, neither are the impassive eyes and Juice gets the pajamas on without falling into the bed frame or concrete wall. If that’s part of being taken good cared of by the shot caller, is honestly hard to tell. Apparantly, being killed isn’t and there was just something with the way Tully said it that makes Juice think it’s not a lie.

Perhaps he’s deciding he wants to start fucking his punk for real and just wants him clean before light’s out. One of the things on the very short list of things to appreciate with the nazi, is his care for personal hygiene. That, and the fact that he doesn’t seem to have a taste for humiliating Juice in public or hitting him. He’s only done that once and the crazy son of a bitch even appologized for it. Right now it’s only due to the Phenargans that Juice is keeping any shit together what so ever.

“You’re done, baby?”

He just nods and Tully leads him to bed, helping him to lie down and then strokes his cheek.

“Gonna get undressed too and then I’ll read to you, okay? Still have some time before light’s out.”

Juice doesn’t answer and it seems like the shot caller doesn’t expect it either. He moves to the sink himself and starts with his thorough evening routine, removing his shirt and goes on scrubbing his face. There are some talking across the cells of course, chit chat really, and it’s more of a background buzz to Juice’s ears than anything. Tully isn’t too talkative at night, not with his men, at least. He answers occasionally and soon the talk directed towards their cell is dying off.

The shot caller takes off his tanktop and Juice catches something in the clinical light of the block. Right across the swayback there’s a tattoo but the ink isn’t what draws his gaze, but the barely visible cuts it’s covering.

That’s a peculiar way of getting rid of ink that’s not club related and Juice has never heard of a club with swayback tattoos. That’s for chicks or queers, right? Not nazi shot callers. It seems like Tully has blacked it out first and then cut it too, which makes no sense.

It’s impossible to see the original design. Whoever helped the nazi erasing it, did a good job. The placement of it makes the messy parts hidden and Juice finds some weird sense of solace in the fact that Tully too has things he’s not allowed or wants on his body anymore. You don’t erase ink like that if the motive doesn’t mean anything. The scars look pretty nasty too and Juice closes his eyes before the shot caller can catch him peeking.

The almost soft sound of Tully’s bare feet approaching the bed doesn’t scare Juice anymore and he’s not really sure why. The man is an animal, a predator with a patience Jax could only dream of and there’s most likely no limits to all the sick shit he could come up with to keep a punk in place, but one the few things Juice is more or less sure of, is that Tully isn’t a sadist when it comes to physical pain.

One of the large hands grabs the poetry book on it’s shelf and the other strokes the moist, black hair back. Juice doesn’t see it, he only hears and knows. He rolls closer into the wall to give room for his now mandatory bedmate but not to get away. He can’t, for starters, but he’s not sure he wants to either. If Tully wont let him die, then at the very least he’s not gonna get away with spreading out all over Juice’s bunk.

“Scoot over, baby.”

Juice gets annoyed and he purposefully wiggles outwards, grabbing the blanket.

“S’my damn bunk, Tully. Either push me off or hold me.”

Judging by the moment of silence, he can be surprising as well.

Chapter Text

Daddy’s gonna spoil his princess tonight, yes he will. Polishing my boots so well, such a good girl… I have a surprise for you, my little honey-boo… We’re having a date night! Oh, don’t give me that pout, baby girl. Frances is gonna make you so pretty for daddy, yes she is. Who’s a good girl, who’s daddy’s spoiled little princess…?

He hated the “date nights” even more than being fucked dry. Carl Green loved humiliating him even more than fucking him and used trannies or other punks to dress Tully up in some awful cut off tank top that showed the swayback ink. The guards shook their heads, pretending they didn’t know how it had gotten there.

Well, he knew and once Green was shanked, Tully had patiently started to work on the list of sinners who’d not yet attoned for the blind eyes the turned against the youngest kid on the cell block. He’d survived and was slowly raising from the mud because he was observant, patient and overlooked. Never a direct confrontation at first. He’d learned he wasn’t a threat to many people physically, so he’d used his mind and mouth.

Not by sucking anyone off, those who’d tried to take Carl Green’s place had quickly realised what a mistake that was once they felt a razor blade against their cocks, hidden in Tully’s mouth. You don’t have a lot as a con and if there’s anything you want to keep, it’s your dick. It felt good to stay alive and not being fucked anymore, mostly out of sheer spite. The only thing Green had given him to be grateful for, was the shut down of emotions and for reasons Tully decided never to look closer into, the Aryans accepted him after Green’s death, seeing the surprising payback from the little punk with a razor in his mouth as a strenght worthy of the skin he’d been born with.

Not to mention, he turned out to be one hell of an assassin and twice as good at manipulating the guards and law enforcement. The AB shot caller at the time, Andrew Cutler, had been impressed not just by that, but by how Tully had managed to cut off Green’s dick and face in the morgue and make sure the suspicion fell on the coons and spics, creating a little war between brown and black while the AB needed time to regroup.

He’d learned to be ruthless, to use his mind and not his feelings, to be calm and calculated and in the process Tully had discovered that it didn’t matter what he thought about colour or heritage. He was already marked in a way the removal of ink couldn’t change. At least, he thought, the spics and coons who used to wolf whistle behind his back, wouldn’t get a bite.

Holding Juice in the dark is nothing like the chokehold Green would lock Tully in. Usually, the psycho even cuffed his hands to the bed at night, not to stop his punk from doing anything but to keep him from thrashing during nightmares. And because it was fun.

It wasn’t.

Tully breathes slowly into his boy’s neck. The skin there is so soft and warm, making it easier to pretend it’s a woman and by that acceptable, even if he honestly doesn’t know if he’d want one if he could.

Not craving sex, at least not primarly, is so new it’s actually a bit scary but the darkness is a good helper and the rule in prison is that what’s not seen by others doesn’t count. Hence the fucking cameras in PC and the now properly punished guard who’d decided to rat Tully out if he didn’t do what he paid for.

Raping the rat.

The idiot pig thought it was funny, how Tully messed with the Puerto Rican with the poetry shit and of course Tully had just given his usual impassive look, pretending not to feel the annoying tug in the chest that said Brontë wasn’t a tool for messing with the punk, but actully a damn good writer but what would a pathetic pig know about poetry?

Juice is so calm in his arms and Tully is pretty amused by the little display earlier. Hold me or push me off.  His boy had sounded annoyed, almost bossy, and that was a welcome albeit strange turn from earlier. The Puerto Rican has obviously been railed by pretty much the whole register of emotions today and Tully finds this response to the stress quite sweet. He presses a little kiss onto the nape of the warm neck and the boy immediately starts squirming.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

No answer, just some more moving and turning and then Juice is facing him. The huge, brown eyes are unfocused and insecure, as so often, but mostly they’re tired and right now clearly scared. Tully strokes his cheek.

“I guess it makes no sense to you, baby. That I’m not letting you meet that precious Mr. Mayhem or whatever shit it is your club calls the green light.”
“S’not my club.”
“You’ve sacrificed a great deal for them, sweetheart. Yes, I know about your transgressions too, but you’ve done the penance asked of you, every part of it.”

There’s a quiet, joyless laugh.

“Sure I have, Tully. Every fucking part except the one about not breathing. There are tons of little aryan boys you could have in here, but you’re so fucked up you had to take a brown rat greenlighted by Samcro. You sure I’m the only one with a death wish in this bunk?”

Had it been anyone else, Tully would’ve punished him severely. He’s rarely been outwardly cruel to his punks, but he’s always punished transgressions and rudeness, mostly with a beating or rough fuck, proportioned to fit both the crime and the size and level of brokenness of the punk. But he can’t threaten this boy like that, because Juice isn’t afraid of dying, he’s afraid of living and if Tully turns his face down to fuck him, he’s not gonna fight back, just drift off and try and surf the pain until it’s over.

He doesn’t want to cause Juice pain. At least not unwarranted. It doesn’t become Tully, to take pride in grinding down someone who’s already buried in regret but still insists on breathing and not offing himself like a coward. Maybe that’s why Tully likes him a lot more than he should. The sad, hopeless smile and painfully opened eyes. A clear mind, somehow, in the midst of a chaos he shouldn’t have survived in the first place.

Yet, here it is, here he lies in Tully’s arms, not freely but in here the lines between force, need, necessity and willingness are so muddled many cons eventually forget about them and draw new ones, each time a little further away from what’s considered decent. And one of the reasons Tully doesn’t want to off Juice, is because the boy’s lines seem so different. In a way they seem non-existing and in another, they’re showing by the lack of violence and fearful submission.

There’s something that keeps Juice from actually provoking Tully or anyone else, to kill him, perhaps the same thing that makes him search for physical contact instead of tensing. The same thing that prevents him from committing suicide or ratting out the club again. Whatever it is, it’s intriguing and holding him like this in the dark, close and warm, relaxed even if it’s mostly from benzos, and almost cuddly, has become the highlight of Tully’s day.

Especially since Juice not only accepts it, but wants it too. And just like Tully, he’ll pretend otherwise, because you’re not gonna survive in here, if you insist on telling yourself or others the truth. Tully strokes the inked head.

“Yet we’re both breathing, baby.”
“Fuck me.”
“Always so rude…”
“No, I mean it. You should fuck me, Tully.”

Chapter Text

Says whom? The punk? What a joke. Someone should punch the lights out of him – and the nazi too. The insanity of their, for lack of a better word, union in this narrow bunk is enough as it is and it’s not as Tully needs encouragement. He’s already fucked Juice plenty.

Raped. He’s raped him, why’s it so difficult using the right name for it? There was no active no, sure, but definitely no consent either. Juice still remembers how the weight of the nazi pressed him down in PC, not hard enough to make it difficult to breathe, but still in no way consensual. And yet, it’s the lack of emotions in it that makes it possible to stand the memory. The fact that Tully, no matter what poisoned words he speaks out, couldn’t hide his own distaste for the act.

At first, it was easy to dismiss it as a nazi being disgusted about a brown guy but still wanting to get off to something else than his own hand – and take the chance to punish the little rat some more. Reading him poems afterwards as a sick framing of his power. A mockery imitation of lovers’ act. It didn’t matter, nothing fucking mattered back then and shouldn’t now either.

The nazi has turned Juice so they’re facing each other. He’s looking at him in the dark, eyes glimmering like those of a cat, but they’re not predatory or amused. He’s so difficult to read, he could give Jax and even Gemma a good run for the money and that says something. It’s easy to see why he’s the shot caller, just not quite as easy to see why he’s a nazi. The only constant Juice can see in this animal, is the way he’s never showing actual weakness or lack of control. Everything Tully does, seems well-considered, calculated and it’s almost bizarre to see him momentarily rocked by a simple suggestion.

“You want me to fuck you, baby?”

Even a week ago, Juice wouldn’t have been able to catch that there’s an actual question hidden beneath the lifeless layers. He takes a chance, forcing himself to look straight at the nazi.

“Does hurting me get you off?”

Tully is a smart man, too smart but sometimes it’s useful, because it means there’s no need for elaboration. And there’s a difference between wanting to fuck and wanting to hurt. At least they’re not mutually inclusive to the nazi.

“If it did, you would’ve noticed.”

Just like he’s noticed all the ways Tully could’ve hurt him, but hasn’t. Not for the lack of imagination or resources, that’s clear, but while it’s a relief that the psycho isn’t an actual sadist, it’s also exhausting to not know what he is instead. His eyes and voice are so emotionless it’s sometimes like being looked at and talked to by an AI product. It doesn’t rhyme with his gentle hands or soft kisses at all.

He’s so close now, Juice can feel his breath on his face. Mint and a lingering scent of smoke. The hands aren’t wandering, just petting his upper back and Juice sighs.

“You do realise how fucked up this is, whatever it fucking is, right?”
“Compared to what, baby? Outside?”

Tully sounds almost amused, as if the mere thought that what happens outside these walls have any bearing on what goes on in here. He strokes a finger over Juice’s cheek.

“Outside is outside. And inside is inside.”

Nothing new about that, Juice knows the drill. How you separate the things you do in here into one of them boxes of shit you have to live with without being attacked by. Some men are better at filing that shit away, some even manage to deny it for real. Juice’s mind is too loud, too messy for that kind of cutting of entire chunks of his life and pretend they don’t exist, or at least don’t effect you. Inside or outside, this is still fucked up.

“You never answered my question, Juice.”

Right.

“Since when do you care about asking?”
“I care about plenty, sweetheart.”
“Yeah. Like feeling powerful and getting your dick wet. Even if you don’t like it.”

It’s stupid, but the anxiety is getting jacked up now and he can’t help himself.

“You counted down… In the PC unit.”

His chest is getting too tight now, he’s on dangerous turf and he hates that while he’s the one trying to point out the nazi’s weakness, he’s the one feeling weak. As always.

But he knows what he felt. The distance, the quickness of it, the way Tully used lube, more than he needed and even prepped him. While the cameras and mics were off, the counting before the hands turned rough, the moves quicker… He swallows.

“You wanted to get over with it, didn’t you…? Papi?”
“Not as much as you, baby.”
“I didn’t want shit.”

He was numb then. All but dead and now he’s kept alive by Tully. The nazi is his respirator instead of execiutioner. Juice finds it too hard to breathe in this chaos.

“Fuck me or kill me, Tully.”
“Forgot marry, sweetheart.”

They both smile and aint that a new level of fucked up? Juice can’t stand this much longer. He’s not numb enough, not after having felt the man turning from a nightmare to, not a dream, not by a long shot, but to something… calming.

Juice wants to ask about the man, because of course it’s a man, who did whatever it was to the nazi, turning him at least more vile than he was before. But asking would slip that terrifying mask on again, the one that makes the blood freeze and turn the hands now slowly petting him, to sharp claws.

He can’t handle that now. Not for the fear of physical pain, but for being rejected, pushed aside, alone once again.

Tully’s hand keeps petting his face, his neck, the fuzz on his head. Juice can feel his boner as the nazi must feel his. Why isn’t any of them disgusted by this? Rubbing dicks, or close to it, is something else entirely than flipping someone down to shove it up the ass or pushing him down on his knees for a blowjob. Juice closes his eyes.

“I’m half black, you know that right?”
“Not according to the papers. And not to the eye.”
“You’re shit at being nazi, papi.”
“No, it’s you who’re shit at lying, sweetheart. And I know you think I’m a monster, but if you thought I had you removed to my cell to rape you and have you thrown to the wolves, you’re even worse at reading people than I thought.”

Juice glares at him. The darkness doesn’t even hide it.

“You talk too much, Tully. And I don’t give a fuck about what you think you are, fucking manipulating nazi shit.”
“You’re shit at provocation too, baby.”

A smile, not predatory, just amused.

“But you’re a good kisser.”

Chapter Text

It’s been a very long time since anyone kissed him out of something close to actual want. The boy’s mouth and hands are greedy and he’s given what, if it counted in here, would be some form of consent. That’s a lie, of course, as every other thing in here. A show, a masquerade, a diversion but from what? Does it even matter?

No one is better at leading Ron Tully astray and pull the right curtain down than himself. He’s played the usual game with several punks throughout his stints, but never like this. Never with someone who’s responding the way Juice Ortiz does.

The contrast between the lifeless, desperate words and these heated kisses is twisted in a way Tully’s not sure he could’ve managed himself. Certainly not in Juice’s situation, and that makes it all so much more interesting. The darkness isn’t only for hiding the things that hurt and as long as that truth is kept in the safety of their cell, there’s a chance to indulge.

He’s never really felt the urge to kiss any of his punks before. They’ve been too small, too afraid, too much of damaged goods to put a face on. Sucking cock and sucking up. Following with too wide eyes like puppies after their daddy, prepared to be kicked yet still always ready to ask for a pet. Tully would give it often enough once they were broken in and had learned manners, but Juice doesn’t care. There’s a freedom in that, one that Tully doesn’t know of because he was younger, weaker than the biker boy when he got marked and had Carl Green ever come close to try and kiss him, he would’ve been driven between wanting to puke and biting his tongue of.

Juice isn’t a 17-year-old Ron Tully, that’s for sure. And this is probably the closest one can get to consent in here, so why not take it? It’s new and Tully’s always liked a challenge. This one both smells and tastes nice too.

The lube is hidden under the mattress and Tully snakes a hand down to grab it. Juice is panting, albeit quietly, when they separate their mouths and he’s hard, no less than Tully is, for what it’s worth. Does it matter if the punk likes this and not just if he gets hurt or not?

Maybe it does. If so, that’s a truth for another night.

There’s no real need for preparation, certainly not expected but you don’t become a shot caller by being predictable and Tully coats two fingers in the lube and slips down under his boy’s pajama pants. Juice gives a strained sigh at first, maybe bracing for a rough impact, but he’s not clenching, he’s giving access and the sound he’s clearly choking, isn’t one of pain. Tully nibbles his ear.

“Shh, keep quiet, baby. Don’t wanna get an audience…”

It’s not a threat, just a very real thing to be cautious about and Juice doesn’t tense, he’s still lax and keeps still and spreaded. Eager, not afraid. Tully pushes in slower than he needs to, not out of fear to hurt his boy or of too much noise, but for his own sake. His boy wants this, he’s tight as hell, slick and needy in a way Tully has only experienced with women. Come thinking about it, he’s never been with a women without complete consent, only men.

Tully buries his teeth in the lean shoulder before him, not hard, just to choke his own groan threatening to become loud and Juice is searching for something to grab hold on, the restless hands moving across the sheet.

“Come here, sweetheart…”

Tully presses them onto the boy’s chest, cradling him like he shouldn’t, mustn’t do because there’s no way this Ron Tully needs anything or anyone to cling onto. The boy suddenly hisses and Tully stops in his movement.

“You’re hurt, baby?”
“N-no, just… don’t lock my hands… please?”

It’s a question, no a plea. Once again, the contrasts of this boy, this situation, hit Tully. The fact that he’s never ever done something like this with a punk before. That he can’t help but wanting Juice to like this, to feel… better? So, instead of doing what Carl Green would’ve done and harden his grip to put the punk in place, Tully looses his hands and just interwines fingers with the boy.

“Better, baby?”
“Yes, papi…”

They’ve been still for a few moments now and Tully feels his dick throbbing inside the boy from the nickname. He needs to move, needs to get on with it before they accidently alert anyone. He starts grinding, a slow movement one usually can’t indulge in the cell, not even it’s one of the rare cases of complete consent, but Juice is so tight around him, so hot and slick, so fucking relaxed and present time wont be an issue.

Juice is panting quitly, little moans and whines into the bend of Tully’s arm, that tight hole squeezing like a smoothe glove around his cock. It’s so good, his mind already forgetting how he even asked if the boy hurt, a question he’s not supposed to ask at all. Something has turned the available, pliant hole into a human, to something wild and living, not kicking and screaming but breathing and moving along with him, instead of being moved. And so, once again, Tully can’t help but doing what no shot caller should ever do for a punk, loosening one of his hands and blindly reaching down.

Chapter Text

Nothing hurts. The initial burn was over so quickly it’s as if it was never there and Tully’s cock and hands and fucking mouth are just drowning him in sweetness now. It’s more than the novelty of wanting and even doing this out of his own free will. The physical part of it is so good, the alternation between quick thrusts and the slow, deep grind that feels all the way to his lungs. If he didn’t know any better and had the ability to form any coherent thoughts right now, Juice might’ve called it love making, not fucking.

It’s a really good thing his mind isn’t able to do that now.

Tully’s cock is hitting his prostrate with every move, the rhythm never lost, just changing, maybe on purpose, maybe uncontrolled. The body thrusting into him doesn’t feel distant, lifeless or monstrous anymore, maybe it hasn’t in a while, but soft and steady. The breaths onto his neck aren’t those of a spiteful creature just wanting to show who’s at the top of the food chain. They’re unstrained, almost on the loose from the absolute control that never cracks, at least not outside this cell.

Juice is arching his back, mindlessly trying to get more of the nazi inside him and he’s so wet from lube and precum, his own and Tully’s, there’s no resistance left but the one causing pleasure. The friction is so fucking good, the hips movement filling him while also pushing him forward, into the slick hand, milking him from both ends.

He can feel the mouth slipping down to nibble his ear again.

“Shh, baby boy. Be quiet, or papi might have to spank you…”

Asshole. Juice doesn’t actually want the nazi to spank him, but the playful threat by the raspy voice and the images it puts in his already too vivid imagination, just increases the pleasure and Tully of course knows that.

It’s mindblowing how there’s no pain, only this dull ache coming from the need for release, the way he's clenching around Tully’s cock, not to stop it, but to feel it more, to press the nerve ends closer, closer… He’s getting closer now, the amount of leaking almost obscene but there’s no one here to judge, least of all Juice’s mind that’s frozen in this spot of pleasure, the pressure building up in his groin, cock so hard while sliding in and out of the tight fist it’s like he’s been in an involuntary celibacy for too long and his body is just running wild.

“Yeah, that’s right, baby… Just… ah… just let go... Papi’s got you, baby… Feeling so good, you’re making me all crazy for you… Ah, fuck…”

He’s clenching, can’t help it, it’s just his body reacting and he can feel the man come hard inside him, almost choking himself quiet by biting into Juice’s shoulder and the hand around his cock quickens the pace again, increasing the pressure just enough on the downstroke and that’s it.

He’d shout out loud if he could, if Tully wasn’t pressing the bend of his arm onto his mouth, letting him sink his teeth into the pale flesh. The orgasm takes over, not quick as he’s used to, but more drawn-out, radiating from not just his cock but his throbbing hole as well. It’s clenching and releasing fast, out of his control, as if it’s trying to squeeze out more of whatever magic Tully’s cock worked out in him.

He knew it could be good, just not this good. He’s not counting heartbeats, doesn’t have to, because right now, he feels completely alive and it’s as sweet as it shouldn’t be. He’s not feeling any disgust what so ever when the nazi shoots his load up his ass, hissing while biting down, loosing control too for a moment and there’s a sound akin to an all but mute whimper, weak and human, no trace of a shot caller, a monster or even the nazi and con. Just a man lost in pleasure, pulling him close instead of pressing him down, cock still moving in and out, chasing the last of the sweetness, of a drawnout orgasm that wasn’t expected by either.

When Tully stills, he remains inside of him, his hand still stroking Juice’s softening cock only not on the now overly sensitive tip, just lazily roaming over the base. Juice’s ass is still throbbing and it’s not until Tully softens that he’s slipping out, cum leaking out over the sheet and he’s sighing into Juice’s neck, kissing it, his hand now moving up to twine their fingers together and Juice just tilts his head back for more, basking not only in the afterglow of an orgasm he didn’t think was possible, but from the fact that he was right about one thing:

The man breathing heavily, giving him goosebumps from little nibbles he’s probably not aware of giving, doesn’t get off on causing pain. Not one bit.

Chapter Text

Thank God, thank whatever fucking deity existing if there is any, that the boy is so good at keeping quiet. And that the bunk isn’t one of the most squeaky ones and that the closest cell neighbors know when to act deaf. The sounds Tully and his boy have made for the past fortyfive minutes or so, have been just low enough for people further away to keep sleeping and, if waking up, possibly mistake for something else than consensual sex.

Tully holds the boy in his arms, back against the bars as always, listening to the breaths slowing down. The way they’re cradled together, is meant to give more privacy, to kind of keep his boy hidden from any potential eyes through the bars. No one can see that he’s relaxed and held and the blanket along with Tully’s broad back is a good cover.

From the bars it looks like the shot caller is just keeping his punk in line, like Juice is yielding and maybe shivering in forced submission, giving up an unwilling ass once again to the leader of a nasty pack. They can’t see the arm under the punk’s head, or the one around his chest. No ears hear the sound of small kisses, soft hums and the occasional word of affection slipping from Tully’s mouth against a soft neck.

Juice. It’s such a stupid nickname, rolling too easily, too light and sunny on the tongue. It doesn’t suit the damaged man in his arms. On the other hand, neither does Juan Carlos.

Ron’s given name isn’t Ronald, but Ronnie which sounds gay as hell but at least it’s better than the burger clown name. Not that anyone dares to call him anything but Tully or, in some cases, Ron. Juan Carlos isn’t much better and he’s probably named after his spic granddad. Or Puerto Rican, not that it matters. Tully’s never really cared about race, only appearance, and it’s both an amusing and slightly irritating thought that had he been scooped up with the Bible fags during his first stint, he might’ve become one of them instead.  

The boy with the ridiculous nickname, unfortunate heritage and pathetic tattoos isn’t pulling away or tensing. Tully can read people better than most but there’s always been a small uncertainty with the Puerto Rican. But now he’s sure. The way the boy pushed back, practically offering his ass, clenching and moaning like a little slut, spoke more loudly than one could ever dare to hope. It’s a very strange feeling, but not at all unpleasant, having the power to make someone give in to this too.

This was sex, not a fuck. (Rape. He wont call it that.) At least not… well, not like before.

Time gets so different inside, Tully thinks as he pets the now almost sleeping boy in his arms. He never slept when Carl Green held him. Choked him, kept close and confined, is a more accurate description, actually. Maybe Tully remembers it wrong, but when slipping back in memory, it seems like almost every touch from Green hurt. Like they were designed for that purpose and gradually perfected from years of practise on various subjects. Tully obviously wasn’t Green’s first punk.

Pressing him down, literally, was one of the asshole’s favourites. Getting Tully naked before light’s out, parading him by the bars to show off his toy and then, with a snap of his fingers, ordering him to lay down on his belly in the bunk, waiting like a cowering bitch for daddy’s next order. Once the lights went out, the cuffs would come out too and if he was in a particularly creative mood, a couple of handkerchiefs to tie up Tully’s ancles the same way.

Spread eagle, unable to move, hands and feet getting cold from the shut off blood flow and then it began…

The purposefully rough break-in with just some spit. The taste of blood, the halfway breaths, the tears and snot running down his face in the first months before he’d learned to control that. And the pain. The sharp pain that only got familiar but never easier, sometimes making him vomit. Green loved the pain, his bitch’s helpless limbs stiffening, pulling against the restraints every time as if they would give in. He loved the tears and begging, the shivers and nightmares, fed off it like it was his bread and butter.

It was never, not once, even close to consual and the guards, every single one of them, turned a blind eye…

“Mm… Papi…?”

Juice has fallen a bit away from Tully’s chest and the small whine makes Tully pull him closer, soothing the restless, still bony form, who writhers in his sleep.

“Shh, baby boy… I’m here, go back to sleep, sweetheart…”  
“Night… mares… Don’t leave me alone, Papi…”

The hilariously wrong nickname has been too easy to get used to. So has the softness in the boy’s voice when he’s not controlling it. The need no one inside will admit out loud unless they’re really, really forced to. Many would rather die than saying the words:

I feel so alone, please hold me.

Does Juice really want Tully to off him? Or was it just so expected for so long, it stuck? Tully lets his thumb stroke over the boy’s hand.

“I wont, baby. I’m not leaving…”

And being as it is, Tully isn’t sure of what he wants anymore. Right now, he’ll settle for some sleep. In here, that’s a blessing as well any, especielly when it comes in the form of a warm body curled up in your arms and not turned away in disgust. When you, for some fucked up reason isn’t the nightmare anymore, but the comforter.

Chapter Text

No nightmare but he still wakes up too early. Tully is spooning him, holding him close really and not in a way that feels uncomfortable. The nazi’s scarred, inked hand is heavy but doesn’t grab or press. It just rests there, which someohow feels weird too, because in Juice’s mind there’s still this picture of a monster who never really rests, has no nightmares anymore and absolutely don’t need comfort from anyone.

Problem is, it doesn’t seem right. Nothing syncs up with the nazi, it’s like he’s got two different personalities he can choose between: the shot caller and the papi. A caregiver, almost, which is so fucking absurd but actions speak louder than words, at least they’re more reliable and Juice can only thank his guardian angel if he’s not weared that one out a long time ago, that he’s managed to keep silent about the things he’s discovered in the one of the most powerful and feared shot callers in Stockton.

Last night wasn’t like being someone’s asshole and maybe Tully just played with him, using whatever he could to keep his punk calm after refusing to off him. Juice looks at the hands that so efficiently stopped him from thinking of death, at least last night.

It’s a lot more difficult to remain in that slow death when someone insists on treating you like a living thing.

It’s been a long, long time since anyone but Tully did that. Treated him like something more than a fuck-up, a coward, a traitor and a punk. A dead man. The memory of Chibs turning away is still one of the worst, because if there ever was a Son who didn’t do things to protect himself before the club, it was Chibs. Had he been pres instead of Jax, or Clay… Well, no ifs matter now, there are way too many of them and too many graves that wont give an answer, only grief.

Did Chibs know how Jax sold Juice out? If so, did he agree? It’s difficult to guess, because of all the guys Chibs always seemed like the one who, had he been in Stockton that time Juice got stabbed, would’ve refused to let him act bait. Despite being ex-communicated, a dead man in his former family’s eyes and a cause of actual grief to the man who sponsored him, Juice still can’t find it in him to hate any of them and especially not Chibs.

He would like to think that the Scot didn’t know about the chinks or Tully. That Jax didn’t bring any details of the arrangement to the table because maybe, even with the things Juice did, just maybe Chibs and also Bobby would’ve vetoed that idea. Not out of any concern for Juice, but out of respect for themselves and the club. Of all the shit Samcro caused, rape was never among it. Not inside, not outside. They had standards and maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but Juice would like to believe that his former brothers are better than that.

Well, save for Jax.

These thoughts should make Juice anxious, as well as the too silent cell block and the dawn that hasn’t yet started to show morning light. He was never a good sleeper and waking up early and alone was always a thing he hated outside. At least he doesn’t have one of those problems now. He’s literally never alone.

It has it’s perks, not only the nightly company to prevent nightmares. It’s easier to study Tully in here, without all the other impressions in forms of other cons, guards, sounds and movements. Safer, in a way, a very real way actually, but also strangely relaxing. Yes, the nazi is very difficult to read, but he’s not a closed and locked dugout. And whatever the reasons truly are or how reliable his actions are, he’s showing a lot of very weird and unusual, if not unacceptable, affection towards his punk when they’re alone.

How’s it that this nazi has two fuck modes? One when it’s like he’s not even in his body and one when he’s… caring? He’s never, not once, seemed to wanna cause actual pain, no matter where they’ve been or if there’s been cameras or cons that could be alerted on the block. And he’s kissing him, holding him, rubbing his back to get him warm. He fucked him without even wanting it, in the PC despite being a shot caller, a real top of the food chain who can take whatever he wants.

Why?

Who the hell is this manipulative riddle, this breathing form who appears monstrous but secretly acts like a human?

And who made the now blacked out swayback ink? Who hurt him and what was he before? How much of an actual human being is left and what is just a show?

Chapter Text

It’s their shower and laundry day and Tully must admit the laundry part he usually hates is welcome and not just due to the cum stained sheet. The only thing he doesn’t like about sharing the bunk with his boy, is the crying and the nightmares and this dawn, way before the alarm will sound, both Juice’s and his own pillowcase are wet from tears that still haven’t stopped falling.

His boy is a silent cryer though, doesn’t alert anyone and he’s obviously trying his best not to disturb Tully. It should remind of himself in that other life he’s remembering too much of these days, but the barely grown Ron Tully never relaxed next to his cellmate. He certainly didn’t press closer.

It’s too early to even think of getting up, even if age has left Tully with a lesser need of sleep than in his youth. He could read, of course. That’s what he usually does whenever sleep escapes him, but that means he has to leave the bunk to get both a book and the small reading lamp on batteries and with the way Juice is curled up in his arms, lost in whatever shitty memory that makes him weep like there’s no tomorrow, trying to move is a bad idea.

Juice suddenly shudders a little and Tully’s body reacts on instinct, pulling him closer, rubbing a hand over the back.

“Hey, Juicy… What’s going on, baby?”

Thank God the boy is awake enough not to get spooked. He is a skittish one, no wonder, and maybe it’s still enough of night and darkness that he feels okay with giving in to the closeness. Tully keeps petting him, just his back and shoulders, not slipping any further down.

“S-sorry…”
“For what, baby?”
“Waking you up.”

I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to, I swear… I’ll go up, okay?

“Don’t apologize, sweetheart. Nightmares suck.”

You stay where you are, doll. Since you’re wide awake, why don’t you stop whining like a bitch and put that mouth to good use instead…

Tully finds himself resting his mouth onto the shaved head pressed to his chest. He’s never felt the need to comfort anyone in here, or to be comforted.

Well, maybe in the beginning, before he learned his lesson. He’s petted and been soft with his punks in the past, sure, but he’s never let them share his bunk at night. Juice is the first one to do it and it’s a regular thing now. They don’t really sleep separately anymore and as with so many other things, it’s easier to admit that it feels good with the presence of Juice close at night, when you do it silently in the darkness.

When your thoughts aren’t completely visible even to yourself and the memories you’ve become an expert at hiding, have found a small escape hole to the now. Green would’ve smashed his teeth out had Tully dared to snuggle up or even approach without being ordered to. Tully’s own punks over the years have been pretty affectionate in the “usual” way in here, trying to read him well enough to feel safe and do what’s expected, using meekness to earn kindness.

But no one has ever used him to cry onto before. Like he’s someone who both can and will give comfort. There’s no standard procedure to this. Maybe that’s why Tully does what he’s never done with a punk before.

Asking.

“Did I hurt you last night?”

What the hell is happening to him? Since when does a shot caller, an Aryan shot caller, ask a fucking spic punk about what he feels about the natural order of things in here?

“No.”

Of course the boy would say that. What else?

“No, papi… Not at all.”

The nickname again. It sounds so soft coming with his boy’s low, gentle voice in the dark. Natural, as if he means it. Tully can’t afford to give too much thought into that. He still gives pets, shallow ones, almost innocent and Juice sighs, snuggling even closer.

“Wasn’t a nightmare, papi. I just… can’t stop crying. You want me t-to get up, s-so you can sleep?”

Stutters. Really? The boy doesn’t seem to want to get up, or get away from Tully right now even if he sounds scared, and honestly Tully doesn’t want that either. Narrow as the bunk is, it’s an almost exotic kind of sweetness in having a cellmate you can actually cuddle with.

In here, you fuck and fight, maybe give some bro hugs but that’s it. That’s the physical contact you can expect, but if you want closeness and comfort, you better have a girl on the outside who wants to come and see you on a regular basis. It’s easier to accept the lack of touch if you fall in line and say cuddles are for fags.

Tully doesn’t give a shit as long as no one’s watching and they can have, if not more sleep, so at least some comfortable rest.

“Lift your head, baby.”

Juice complies and Tully gets an arm under his head, pulling him into an embrace onto his chest. He lets his mouth brush over the fuzzy scalp.

“Better?”
“Yeah…”

A sigh, sniffling, but the crying is not increasing. The boy oddly enough really seems to… calm down from this. Fast.

Strange as it is, it’s also pretty good, not having to make him scared to remain in place. Juice is actually nuzzling the crook of his neck now, you don’t do that with someone you can’t stand, not like this. Right?

“You… it helps when you… hold me, papi.”

Tully ignores the small lump in his chest, no bigger than a hazelnut, hard to the core and itching if touched, stuck somewhere between his ribs and not getting loose. It shouldn’t, hasn’t in more years than he can remember.

There’s a soft, sleepish little mewl buzzing his neck, keen and warm like a kitten. Sounds and touches not belonging in here, the shape and form, tone of voice and colour of skin all wrong, should disgust him, but how do you resist something you never thought you’d want in the first place? Does Juice know why he wants Tully to hold him?

“I’ll hold you, baby. Shall we try and get some more sleep?”
“Yeah…”

In a matter of seconds, his boy is drifting off again but Tully remains awake, trying to tell himself the hazelnut isn’t itching and that the closeness of this broken man is enough to scratch it – not that it needs to be scratched.

It’s just so nice to not go back to sleep alone. Nothing more.  

Chapter Text

Frank Evans, his old cellie, has left him alone ever since one or several of Tully’s minions convinced him to and in the laundry room this morning, Juice is realising that goes for the other cons as well. He’s adding the cheap laundry powder in the machine where both his own and Tully’s clothes and sheets are. What’s even the point in doing them separately, it’s not as if you have to worry about ruining colors?

The other ones having laundry all avoid him and Juice isn’t stupid enough to think it comes from some kind of respect or fear of him. Disgust, more likely. He’s just a punk, owned by one of, if not the most powerful shot caller in here and bad things happen to people stupid enough to mess with Ron Tully’s property.

Property. Juice closes the machine, starting the program. He’s property in here, that’s what punks are. Not whores, because whores can, at least to some extent, choose their clients and get paid for it, and that’s not how things work on the inside. Being left alone, able to even lower your guard a bit in the common areas is one of the perks of being claimed by a shot caller. Oh, and the fact that you don’t have to worry about having your laundry thrown out, teared or the laundry time simply stolen by some bigger and meaner.

Juice watches the prison fabrics inside the machine. Sheets, towels, shirts, underwears and pants. Many cons hate this and the punks even more, since they’re taking double load, but Juice likes it. It’s easy, it’s predictable and keeps his mind occupied. That’s why he went complete OCD on Wendy’s apartment in that other life he once had and doesn’t even know when or where it ended.

He’s supposed to be dead and while it used to make each day a living hell, a waiting room for the end that never had a set time and always got postponed, a good part of that emptiness has been filled by Tully now, bodily but most importantly, mentally. The nazi doesn’t leave him alone long enough for the usual circle of bad thoughts to run as fast as before. More often than not, they get interrupted by a touch, a word or just a look. Sometimes a smile.

“Hey, bitch, move your ass.”

Or a con with bad morning temper and bad breath. Juice just moves, no need to start shit with anyone and this one really does have a foul temper before breakfast, ready to snap at everyone, friends and fows alike. Juice can’t recall his name but he’s Jamaican or half Jamaican according to the Aryans. Not that they’re a reliable source when it comes to sort out the different shades of brown. Or any other color for that matter.

The blear-eyed Jamaican chooses the machine next to Juice and looks up with a loud yawn, showing bad teeth and a couple of fillings. His long dreads are well-groomed though and he’s obviously one of those cons still caring for his physics. He strolls almost casually, not in the least worried that the little Puerto Rican bitch could pose a threat, and throws in his laundry, putting the machine on without adding laundry powder.

“What are you looking at, nazi cum dumpster?”

It’s so predictable, so dumb and the only thing that feels even the slightest insulting, is the fact that this lowlife scumbag thinks he was clever coming up with that name. Juice shrugs.

“The jump-up who doesn’t know how to use a washing machine.”
“The fuck did you call me, bitch?”

Juice doesn’t feel threatened. This idiot has no gang connections, at least none that would be a threat towards Tully and Juice can’t help his mouth right now.

“You’d rather be a nazi cum dumpster? Okay, then… jump-up.”

He’s a lot weaker than when he went inside, but he’s no punching bag, not by far, and Juice laughs, actually fucking laughs when the Jamaican launches at him. It’s a cackling, completely insane laughter because who the hell does this son of a bitch think he is? He thinks he can make Juice shit himself after what he’s gone through in here – and out there? That some fuckhead gangbanger with greasy hair can take anything from him, the one who should be dead?

The punch hits him on the shoulder and he just keeps laughing, ducking almost too easily from the next and he jumps up on the machine, standing there cracking up like a loon, looking down at the Jamaican who’s name he can’t even remember.

“Come on, jump-up! Jump up!”
“You’re fucked up, bitch.”
“Yeah?”

Juice jumps down, landing too close to the Jamaican and they’re about the same height, enough for Juice to puff his chest up and look him dead in the eye, showing his teeth in that too wide a grin that’s not a sunshine one.

Son. Shine.

Oh, he’s no son. Not even of a bitch.

“Ortiz!”

He didn’t even hear Hugh, the AB muscle, entering the laundry room and when Juice looks up, he realises there are several cons staring at the scene from outside the acrylic glass walls. Hugh is moving closer, gesturing to the Jamaican.

“Mobay.”
“Wallace.”

Mobay, as the Jamaican’s name appears to be, has a sly smile and tilts his head mockingly, but Hugh doesn’t take the bait, just walking smoothly between Juice and the other man.

“You know, Mobay, Tully doesn’t take kindly to people messing with what’s his.”
“You can tell your boss that Mobay aint into some white boy’s sloppy leftovers, Wallace.”

Wallace? What kind of surname is that and why the hell is Juice even thinking about that right now, when he’s two seconds from getting his ass kicked, either by Mobay or Hugh? Hugh isn’t easily provoked though.

“Oh, I’ll tell him, Mobay. And in the meantime, I suggest you stay on a proper distance from the Puerto Rican.”
“Yeah? You tell your boss to keep his pet in a shorter leash then.”

Hugh nods at Juice.

“You done here for now?”
“Sure.”
“Then get the fuck back to the boss like a good dog, fucking spic punk.”

Fucking with the Jamaican is one thing, but Juice isn’t too keen on finding out what Hugh would do to him if he stepped too much out of line, so he just grabs the laundry powder and leaves. There’ll be some payment for this, of course, but right now he doesn’t care. 

Chapter Text

The boy isn’t smart. Well, actually, he’s not stupid, just more than a little fucked up in the head and at least he’s showing some balls. It’s not exactly convenient for Tully though, getting into some shit with the jump-ups. Juice is Tully’s punk and that means Tully will have problems unless he lets Mobay dole out a punishment – or does it himself.

He didn’t see what happened in the laundry but he’s not letting his boy completely out of sight without protection and Tully eats his dry toast and scrambled eggs in the kind of silence that suggests the rest of the table keeps a very low profile. There wasn’t time to drag Juice away for a chat before breakfast and so the entire AB is looking with more than a little annoyment at the boy, who keeps his inked head over the poorly cooked food, as usual not saying a word.

Over at the jump-ups’ table, Mobay and the others are keeping their cool too. Tully isn’t keen on defending them, but he gotta admit – in silence – that they’re at least smart enough not to start more shit out in the open. He’s gonna talk to Omario, Mobay’s boss, and sort it out. If Juice needs to get punished in order for Tully and the AB to keep their faces, Tully will do it himself. Mobay’s temper is well-known and he’s kicked out more teeth than he’s lost. The idea of Juice without that white stripe of nice teeth isn’t appealing at all. Nor is the fact that he still seems to have a death wish.

Juice is kept next to him this morning, not for rank but for protection. It’s not unusual for the powerful in here to keep their pets close, either for protection or show-off. It doesn’t imply any change in rank, definitely not a sign of respect or improved status, but with the boy close, Tully can read him more easily and it also sends a message to the other cons that you don’t try any shit with his punk.

As usual, Tully and the others ignore Juice out here, not talking to him, but it feels different when the boy is sitting so close, picking at his food. It’s difficult to read him right now, not because he’s good at hiding his feelings, but because they’re all over him. The boy doesn’t really know what he’s thinking or feeling himself, so what’s on display is messy and that’s why Tully wont accept any punishment out in the open. Usually he’s good at telling how people will react, but he can’t read his boy properly right now.

“Boss?”
“Hm?”
“Omario wants a word in the yard later.”
“Bench number three.”
“Got it.”

Leroy is good at keeping people calm, one of the reasons he’s Tully’s second. And skin colour aside, Omario hasn’t given Tully any reason not to respect him, as one shot caller to another. He’s keeping Mobay in line, who’s only throwing dirty looks at Juice whenever he can, but nothing beyond that. The brown fucker is known for his shitty morning temper, way worse than Marty’s, and to take any bait from him is just fucking stupid.

Tully presses his thin lips together behind the coffee mug. His boy has looked up, looked at him for a moment but almost immediately lowered his head again, eyes slightly widening in a fear that’s well-hidden for others, but clear as day to Tully. Right now, what angers him most, is that he can’t tell the reason why his boy did what he did. If it’s the death wish talking or if he’s simply going complete ape shit crazy.

It’s hard to tell which one of those things that feels worse. It shouldn’t be, but it is, so who’s really the crazy one of them?

Chapter Text

Sitting still is agony but he can’t move. Not without making shit worse. He’s kept between Hugh and Marty on the bench. Not at the top of the picnic table, of course. They’re sitting on top with him, the punk, between their legs on the seat. Beneath them and trapped, but also protected. It’s not for his sake, but for Tully’s and at least Marty wants to kick Juice’s ass. He keeps pinching his neck and shoulder whenever he can, hard and bruising but Tully doesn’t see it, so he’s not stopped until Hugh notices.

“Stop that shit, Marty.”
“Why?”
“Did Tully give you permission?”
“No, but…”
“Then keep your hands off his stuff, idiot.”

Stuff.

It’s not that it isn’t true. That’s what being a punk means, for God’s sake. You’re property and Juice knows it better than most, so why does it hurt hearing it?

He should be used to this by now. Tully and his men aren’t even the first ones talking about him as a tool, a thing, something to use for something or against someone.

Snitch over there, finds you very appealing. Gotta get him out of PC for the family.
Buys us protection…
Get him out how?
Bom-bobo-bom-bom!

They were his friends.

Relax, nothing’s gonna happen to you.

Except for a literal stab in the back ending up in the E.R. They couldn’t use the prettiest among them, the golden boy, but they could use the pretty brown boy with shit for brains. He should’ve refused, but they didn’t even ask him, they just made that decision for him, for the club, for the good of the family. It didn’t matter if the little Puerto Rican with stupid tattoos and slow brain got a rep for taking it up the ass.

They mentioned it so casually, like it was nothing, like there was nothing to discuss at all. Just a small favour that would benefit them all and the risk of something actually happening was… well, worth the risk with the lowest in rank.

They were his family, his brothers.

He was the bait, the juicy meat bone thrown to the wild dog that needed to be taken out. His reputation didn’t fucking matter. He wasn’t the golden boy, he could afford being marked as a punk if things went south and maybe that’s when things started to go bad at first. That trust he had in them to make himself a target for something that had the potential of ending with him actually taking it up the ass. Juice doesn’t even realise how he’s tensing worse than a violin string.

Tully is sitting down with Omario, Mobay’s boss, and Mobay himself is working out with the rest of the jump-ups. It’s impossible to hear or see what’s being said. The nazi shot caller’s face is as impassive as ever, but still polite since he’s not gonna offend Omario unless he has to. Tully is too smart for that and Omario isn’t exactly young. Like most other shot callers, he wants to keep things professional, especially in the open.

It’s almost impossible to keep still, Juice wants to get up and run, not away because that’s not an option, but the old anxious energy he thought he’d left on the outside, is creeping up and he takes to scratch his hands.

“Stop that shit, shithead.”
“Can’t. Sorry.”

He really can’t, not unless someone literally holds his hands and he couldn’t care less about the bruising pinches Marty hands out to his nape as a punishment.

“Hey, what did I say about the boss’ stuff?”
“He’s being an idiot, man. Stop it, bitch.”
“I… fucking can’t. I have fucking OCD, man, I’d stop if I could.”
“Drop it, Marty.”
“But…”
“I said drop it. Boss will handle him later and we don’t need more shit in public, got that?”
“I aint doing shit.”
“Exactly. Keep not doing shit.”

They bicker, as always, since Marty can’t keep his mouth shut if he got paid for it.

“Boss’ gonna kick your ass, punk. I’ll help him if he asks.”
“He wont, so keep dreaming, Marty.”

Hugh is calm, not quite like Tully because that’s on a different level, but he’s definitely keeping his and Marty’s and at least physically, Juice’s shit together, or at least under surveilence right now. Juice looks over at Tully, who’s now having his smug smile back, eyes predatory and fixed, just as Omario. The shot callers’ world has it’s own set of rules too and with a nod that’s almost invisible for someone who doesn’t know this game, Tully and Omario suddenly separate and walk to their respective crew.

Tully approaches Hugh without even a look at Juice, talking too low for anyone else to hear and then Hugh nods.

“Got it, boss. Lets go, punk.”

Tully is sitting down now and Juice looks at him for, if not support so at least some answers, but the shot caller is completely blank, not even a sliver of reckognition or care in his eyes. He just gives a wave and Hugh grabs Juice’s shoulder.

“Follow me.”

Chapter Text

If he hadn’t spent so much time with the boy, this would come off as cowering. But Tully knows this feeling and it’s terror. Absolute terror within someone who can’t for his life find out what’s going to happen. It’s puzzling, because that kind of behavior isn’t common among a gang banger, especially not someone who’s had an actual rank.

“Juice?”

The boy doesn’t even whimper, just stands wide-eyed with his back pressed to the wall in the basement and the shirt already off, probably by Hugh. Sweat is pouring down his face and neck, his gaze is the one of a haunted animal, a wild thing trapped with a predator and Tully realises that’s quite literally how it is.

“Hey, Juice!”

Wrong approach. Definitely fucking wrong, because the boy slumps down, stiff as a plank, just shivering and crouching, bending his head down to his knees and swirling his arms around them. Buying the old storage room wasn’t cheap but money is a small prize to pay for reputation and Tully has the means and connections for that. To fuck or punish a punk in perfect privacy. Reputation is everything in here and power is always costly.

“J-just s-send’em in…”

Send them in? For a second, Tully is truly confused and then it hits him: Juice expects Tully to let the jump-ups in to give him a beating, or worse.

As if. As fucking if he’d allow anyone to touch his punk and Tully angrily grabs his boy’s chin, pulling it upwards.

“The fuck do you think of me, Juice? That I’d let some jump-ups have their way with what’s mine?”

He takes a breath.

“You fucked up, boy. Allowed yourself to get provoked into unnessecary shit and that’s gonna cost us. Me, my men and you. And trust me, baby, I didn’t wanna do this, but it was either that or them. You got it?”

No, he doesn’t. He’s too scared, too lost in that fucked up head of his to understand much of anything right now and Tully lets his hands slide down to the tense shoulders.

“Aint gonna ruin anything permanently, sweetheart, and you’re gonna walk out of here with all your teeth left, but you brought this upon yourself, boy, so you ought to be grateful that it’s just you and me right now. Get up.”

He’s like a ragdoll in strings, but he does stand up and Tully grits his teeth before landing a hard punch right across Juice’s left cheekbone. The boy doesn’t scream, or cry or even protect himself,  just trying to keep his balance, accepting the punishment with a dead look in his eyes and the only sounds escaping him are very small groans when Tully gets loose on his face, chest and stomach. After a particularly nasty swing to his right cheek, the boy can’t stand upright anymore and sinks down with Tully’s hand still gripping his undershirt.

“Get up.”

No, he can’t, not even out of fear of something worse. Juice has literally no strenght left in his legs and the knees hit the concrete floor too fast and hard, yet he’s keeping silent, only breathing hard and fast, blood dripping down his face and throat.

“I never meant to betray the club…”

It’s a whisper, a repeated one and Tully just stares at the boy, bleeading on his knees while staring right out into nothing, mumbling.

“I’m sorry, brother… I’m sorry… I never meant to betray the club, I never meant to… Chibs, please, I never…”
“Juice?”
“I never meant to betray the club…”

Fuck. He’s not there. Juice isn’t present anymore, he’s back with someone from the club he lost, Chibs Telford it seems, and he’s not seeing Tully, but the Scot.

“I never meant to betray the club…”
“Juice, hey, it’s Tully.”
“I’m so sorry, Chibs, please don’t… I love you, I never meant to…”
“Juice, stop! He’s not here, you’re not there anymore! It’s me, papi. Look at papi, baby.”

There’s a twitch in the blooded face and the eyes look far too white in the red mess, but the switch seems to be back on, flicked right again and the Scot or whoever the boy saw is gone. It’s hard to tell if the boy’s face, when seeing Tully again, is one of relief or immense sorrow. And then the tears come.

It’s like turning on a tap, not red this time, and it’s somehow completely different from the nightmares or even the time the boy expected to be offed. Tully has never seen a grown man, certainly not a gang banger, break down like this after a beating or anything else for that matter.

Tully doesn’t feel regret just because a punk he likes cries from a well-earned punishment, truth be told he rarely feels regret for anything, but the state Juice is in right now is more or less stretching the few heart strings Tully’s got to the limit. He’s not used to hurt someone when he doesn’t want to and Juice’s crying isn’t about some punches, it’s something else entirely, some bad memory taking over and that shit could become dangerous in several ways.

He puts a hand on Juice’s knee, lowering down himself in front of the bleeding, weeping punk and takes his own shirt off to not get it bloody.

“Look at me, boy. This is it, nothing more, okay? No more punishment for this, but I had to do something, baby. It was either me or Mobay or even Omario, you get that? Trust me, I’m sorry, but you were an idiot for letting the nigger get to you. Gotta be smarter than that, sweetheart, or even I can’t keep the wolves at bay.”
“C-cause you’re the best… of s-several… shitty options, r-right?”

Something akin to a smile, more of grimaze of pain.

“Called me nazi cum dumpster, papi. S-so I called him a jump-up who d-didn’t know h-how to use a washing m-machine. And then I… jumped up on it.”

For a second, it looks as if he will cry more, but then that crazy bright smile suddenly appears and the boy laughs, as does Tully. It’s impossible not to, for some reason, it’s too contagious and the pun is so bad Tully simply can’t help himself. He’s not been laughing like this for a long time and he shakes his head, rubbing Juice’s knee a little.

“You get terribly disappointed if I ban you from doing stand-up in the annual prison talent show, baby?”

They boy just keeps laughing, the bloodied face almost looking happy despite the pain and that long, gargantual grief and guilt lurking underneath. And Tully vey gently lowers the injured head to his shoulder, to keep those big, brown eyes from seeing things Tully might or might not show.

There’s blood, snot and tears rubbing off on him and he sighs, just holding the boy as softly as you just don’t do in here. Ever.

“Please, leave the public fuck-ups to Marty, baby. Hate to break your beautiful face, even if it’s for appearance.”
“What about Marty?”
“Oh, any change to that ugly mug would be an improvement.”

The way Juice laughs at that, how it makes Tully wanna hold him close, should ring every alarm bell, but the sound of the laughter drowns that concern too and the hand that hurt is now soothing. Because he can and because the boy wants it.

Because Tully wants it too.

Chapter Text

The shot caller always has things under control so Juice isn’t even surprised when Tully brings a bag of ice that’s only just starting to melt a little, some toilet paper, a compress and tape. It hurts like a bitch but the man is gentle now, the coldness from before gone completely and Juice looks at the concentrated face when he’s being wrapped up.

Chibs smiled, patted the back of his head. Weirdly enough, that memory doesn’t provoke another nose-dive into the past, not when Tully finishes the mending by kissing his forehead instead.

“There we go, baby. Wrapped and ready.”
“Thank you.”

The ice bag feels pretty good against his temple, Tully has one horribly effective right hook and the all too familiar pain is gonna last for a while. He tries to tilt his head but it hurts too much and the hand is back, supporting it as if it’s suddenly something fragile that could break.

“Easy, sweetheart. Steady on… Lean back slowly, okay.”

Tully has seated himself behind Juice, legs widened to make space for him, not to have him sucking him off, but to be held and that’s not new by now, but in this particular situation, it kinda is. The broad chest is familiar, something steady that will support him and he can’t see or hear Chibs anymore. There’s just this fucking nazi who feels and smells like comfort and kindness now.

Ice. It’s the second time this luxuary is brought to him, the useless punk. The first time for the heat in PC, now for the hurt. The small things cons wouldn’t bother to go through the trouble of getting even for themselves, and certainly not a punk who deserved a beat down.

“You okay, baby?”

Is that true concern or just an act? Juice still can’t tell, Tully is too good with his voice and words, to make them sound the way he wants, like a puppet master controlling not just everyone on the scene, but himself most of all. It’s more reliable to read his body language and actions of comfort that, no matter the actual intent, still work. Juice leans back, bending his head just a little into Tully’s neck and the man places the bag of ice to the outer side of his bruised face.

“Yes, papi.”

He’s not sure why he feel the need to call the nazi that right now, it just comes naturally and Tully kisses his head on an uninjured spot.

“We have some time alone now, baby. No mics, no cameras.”

Juice swallows and then he starts to cry again.

“Hey, what’s wrong, Juice?”

Well, Tully just fucking smashed his face, for one. Juice winces at the pain when he leans closer.

“P-please, I can’t… N-not right now, I’m too sore, papi. G-gonna make it up to…”
“Jesus, Juice… You think I planned to fuck you now?”

The nazi sounds incredulous, almost insulted and Juice curls into himself, tensing because he can’t read this man at all, not right now and all he wants is forgiveness and not having anymore pain today.

Tully sighs, rubbing Juice’s back.

“I know I’m not exactly humane, baby, but I’m not some complete monster either. Don’t tense up like this, please... If I’d wanted to fuck you as punishment, I could’ve done that in our cell.”
“I… I don’t understand you, papi.”

Juice hates how small and pathetic his voice sounds, that he’s showing himself so weak in every sense to this man who he’s not thought of as a monster for a long time. At least not without thinking actively. The way he’s treating Juice simply isn’t monstrous.

“Well, you’re not alone in that regard, sweetheart. I’m not angry with you for the laundry incident, you know. But you know the drill, Juice… We all have a reputation to keep up.”
“Not me.”
“No? Then what the hell was that little display with Mobay about, huh?”
“He came at me.”
“If you had no reputation to care about, then why didn’t you just let it slide, hm?”

Because… Honestly, Juice doesn’t know and he stays silent on Tully’s chest. The man nuzzles his head.

“Hm… That’s what I thought, baby.”
“What?”
“You may think you’re already dead, you certainly try your best to look it, but you have a heart, after all, baby.”
“What do you know about having a heart?”

He shouldn’t insult his punisher/comforter/rapist/defender/whatever right now. Not when he’s done hurting him and gives the kind of closeness that must be kept in the dark – or a bought room. But Tully just adjusts their position, very gently again, and puts Juice’s ear onto his chest.

“Listen for yourself.”
“It’s just a fucking muscle, Tully.”
“If you say so, sweetheart.”

The undershirt is a barrier between Juice’s skin and the swastika, one he no longer wants and when you’re taking comfort from a nazi who once raped and now fucks you, who beat you to protect his property from other, more malicious hands and who actually has punished guards for hurting you, there’s no use in trying to hold on to old rules and boundaries.

“You want me to read to you, baby? Brought Brontë.”
“No… But…”
“Yeah?”
“Could you just… take of your tanktop?”
“Sure, but I have to say I’m a little curious to why.”

Juice closes his eyes.

“Cause you’re warm, papi. I like being warm…”

Because he’d wanted Chibs to do that and never had the courage to ask. And because this nazi shot caller doesn’t ridicule or question him and never, not once, has rejected him in disgust, hatred or disappointment.

Because these hands go a step further than merely mending and, when they’re done wrapping the injuries up, they do put the icebag away, remove the old tanktop without a word, without hesitation, and then pulls Juice back to nestle down.

The skin contact makes it so much better, almost good, and Tully wraps his arms around him again, hands not wandering off at all. And when he finally brings up the poetry book and starts reading, Juice is drifting off, the pain slowly being soothed by the hands that can be so gentle it’s almost a mirror of love. A mockery one, sure, but it’s enough.

Chapter Text

Showering separately would’ve been nice too right now, but you can’t have everything you want, even if you’re a shot caller. Or his punk. As always, the guards being paid pretend not to see Juice’s face and Tully in turn acts as if nothing’s happened earlier. Motionless and aloof, his usual predatory gaze is roaming over what’s his and the cons who steal glances at what’s not theirs.

The boy is composed enough and Tully breaks the unwritten rule about not looking below the face of another con since Juice is his and he needs to check out the state of him. The face looks worse than it is and the swelling willl go down soon. Otherwise, he’s still a bit too skinny and pale, the bruises aside. He’s not ugly, not at all. Lean with still defined muscles, sinew arms where the veins are prominent and the club ink covered with some bandaids. And that ass...

It’s not a good time to stare at that. Laying pressed to it at night has left little to imagination for a while now and Tully turns to his schampoo, working up some lather instead of adding more fuel to the fantasy he can’t live out right now. The boy isn’t too slow in his movements, washing off rather quickly yet not like he’s trying to run away. That’s good, Tully thinks as he’s rinsing his hair. It didn’t take as long as he’d anticipated for Juice to calm down after the punishment and he should be rewarded for that. In secret, obviously, and no, not with a fuck.

Juice is moving away from the water, wrapping his towel around his waist. Tully looks over.

“You done?”
“Yeah.”

All clean and dry now,sweet cheeks?
Yes, sir.
Good girl. Now, lets get to that reward…

The way the boy looks perplexed tells Tully he’s been caught in his own memories again and he quickly throws a smile, not a particularly nice one, but it’s all he can manage now and Juice, to his credit, doesn’t startle. Tully nods.

“Take care of that stubble, baby.”

Juice just nods and takes out his shaving stuff from the toiletry bag, turning to the mirror over the sinks and gets started. Tully turns around fully again, determined to savor the hot water for the few seconds he’s got left.

He’s never been particularly frozen and Juice feels like a furnace at night, yet he still nestles into Tully like a kitten seeking warmth.

Cause you’re warm, papi. I like being warm…

Tully would’ve chosen a slow death in snow before asking Carl Green to keep him warm. Having him close was like being trapped in every way possible and it wasn’t the crying that was hard to control, but the anxiety.

Omario is passing by the showers, giving a nod that Tully’s long ass neck makes it possible to see and he makes the same small movement back. They’re good, the punishment has been doled out and they have no beef. Good. Unnecessary tension is never good in here, especially not between shot callers. Not everyone is a man of mayhem just for the sake of it.

The water shuts off and Tully squeezes his hair before draping the towel around him. He steps over to the mirrors himself and digs for the cheap razor and shaving foam in his toiletry bag. He hates this part, having the damn razor near his head, but not for some fear of being slized up, no way. Tully isn’t the least scared of death or blood, you don’t become a shot caller and certainly not for long, if you are. But the razor tends to remind too much about Green and the day he shaved Tully’s long hair off.

It took time and Green’s friends were all too happy holding Tully down. A blunt scissor at first, cutting off chunks of his hair and he’d been crying because he was fucking seventeen and scared and humiliated. The razor had been sharper and at least Green had tried to avoid too much blood but that was no comfort.

Getting inked was even worse, of course. Hair grew out after all, but although Green had been generous enough to give his punk downers and moonshine in preparation, prison ink hurt like a bitch and there was no chance in hell that any of the cons would be oblivious to is, not even if they never actually saw it.

“Hey, boss, you lost somewhere?”

It’s Leroy who brings him back to the now and Tully raises his eyebrows.

“You in a hurry, Leroy?”
“Nah, just…”

His second just shrugs, adding a telling look that Tully understands perfectly well. It doesn’t look good with a shot caller who stares out into nothing in the showers. He collects his stuff, wraps the towel tight around his hips and takes to the mirrors like everyone else with the cheap razor and can of foam. He’ll shave his junk later.

It’s not a good fucking thing that he keeps thinking about the past. In here you shouldn’t think about the future too much, but the past is just as much of a bitch and in a way far worse because there’s nothing you can do to alter it, except in your imagination.

Chapter Text

They’re on their respective bunk after dinner, not talking and the silence is way worse than the physical pain. Bernhards, the warden, was alerted only because one of the few guards with some sense of caring for the animals they’re set to watch ran his mouth about Juice being bruised at dinner. Juice said nothing, of course, and it’s not that Tully seems suspicious, because he doesn’t.

Having a shower was nice, despite the showing off and the bruises. Not that Tully’s nazi gang would tease if their Führer didn’t like it, even Marty kept his pie hole shut for once and the only thing touching Juice in there were a few glances from the shot caller who didn’t look like he disliked the view. Sex works differently in here, after all, and having those impassive eyes roam over him doesn’t make Juice uncomfortable anymore. He’s seen them shift enough times to spot the man behind the monster and at least it’s a look that doesn’t speak of violence.

Not even hearing Tully breathe now is not good. Juice can’t see him and he has to make an effort to catch any sounds from him. It’s too quiet and that is a recipe for anxiety.His muscles start tighten, the old numbness creeping back like he’s preparing for an assault again. The guards, or Tully in the beginning before he became something more than a tool for punishment. The other cons are chattering about across the cells, Tully occasionally throwing in a word or two now as it creeps closer to lights out. Nothing important, nothing needed to be kept hidden or dressed in code.

I’m not exactly humane, baby, but I’m not some complete monster either.

Who’s making the definitions, really? No, Juice doesn’t think of Tully as a monster. A fucking nazi scumbag. A creep, a rapist, a psycho, but monster? No. There are just too many traits of empathy there. The fact that the only time Tully has actually hurt him since the PC unit, was this day, isn’t a tell tale sign of a sadist.

“Get ready for bed.”

When the incredulous man finally speaks, his voice is cold, lifeless and Juice has been on edge ever since the display at the laundry. He’s sore, tense like fucking violin string and for once it’s too long until light’s out, he’s feeling like he’s gonna combust or something.

His stomach protests and Juice practically throws himself to the toilet, earning some mean comments from Marty at first but then, Tully is there, lowering, whispering.

“Juice, I’m sorry… I really am, baby…”

The weird thing is that he both sounds and feels sincere, the coldness gone. Like it mattered beyond their little private time and it makes Juice cry. He can’t stop it, once his insides are still again, he’s leaning into the other man, uncaring about what can and can’t be seen or heard. He just needs closeness now, needs to feel someone living.

“Shh, please, hold it in just a little while longer, boy. Can I hold you?”

As if there was a choice and it is. Right now, concerning that particular thing, there is. He can turn away if he wants, Juice feels it with every fiber but now as he knows he has that choice, he’s only snuggling in closer, incapable of keeping the tears back, but it’s easier to cry silently now, into the soft fabrics of Tully’s washed out clothes.

“I know papi was hard on you before, but please, keep it down, my sweet.”

My sweet?

Sweetheart and baby both were mockings at first, but never before has Tully called him my sweet. No one can hear them, Tully’s whisper is barely audible, his hands not tugging or wandering. In a gesture that’s almost protective, the nazi’s arms are coming around Juice’s head, very gentle, like he’s trying to simply embrace it without putting any pressure on the bruised face.

The arms he should wanna get out of, are loose around him, not demanding or uncaring and while crying against Tully’s chest, it’salmost as if there’s no nazi or rapist or even face punching shot caller and his cowering punk anymore. As if they’re just two humans, one who wants the others comfort and one who wants to give it.

Chapter Text

He shouldn’t care. No, really, he shouldn’t give a rats ass, but he does and for someone who’s used to have things under control, Tully finds it difficult to tell exactly when that happened. Why Juice’s breakdown and weakness doesn’t disgust him at all, or even evoked feelings of contempt or superiority. Why, instead of the given unconcearn for a punk’s wellbeing and the natural sense of power over a lowlife spic who, above all other faults, is a coward rat and literal bitch, there’s this… fucked up care.

Tully had expected the boy to not want any closeness, especially not tonight, and it’s really confusing that Juice not only seems to want it, but doesn’t even try to balance it up by offering the mouth and ass that, by the unwritten laws of shot callers and their punks, are already Tully’s. Turning around or going down would’ve been Tully’s response in that other life he’s all but forgotten about until Juice showed up.

There’s no room for this, no real clause covering what to do when you start caring more about your punk’s crying than your own cock. The thought of even rubbing up against Juice right now, is downright off-putting. Tully isn’t a good person, no, but he’s not Carl Green either. Not in that way.

Juice is curled up to a ball, facing the wall and almost pushing Tully off, but Tully suspects it’s more of a self-comfort thing than a way of creating distance. He did place a punch in the boy’s guts too, after all, because the punishment must be visible enough. A punishment Tully, when being honest to himself, really didn’t want do dole out. There was no sense of balance or restoring the order, not even reprimanding, in the beating, because had Tully gotten away with not getting Juice punished at all, he would’ve went down that road instead.

A few weeks ago, that would’ve been impossible to even imagine.

His boy is crying again, of course. It’s happening a lot more than one would expect from a gangbanger in his thirties, especially a former Son from the Redwood charter, but loosing your family and becoming a shot caller’s punk, while living with guilt and shame from a betrayal that seems to have come more out of stupidity and distrust rather than personal gain in the chain of power, could probably break down far more stable men than Juice and Tully’s boy is anything but stable.

Yes, there are plenty of reasons why Tully shouldn’t waste any efforts what so ever on the punk, but reality rarely mirrors ideas – or ideology. He strokes his boy’s bruised stomach, leaning into his ear.

“I’ll get you something for this tomorrow, baby.” 

Some good painkillers, downers too. And if the food is crappier than usual, perhaps something from the commissary… Fuck, Tully is starting to get soft for his punk, for real, and that’s not good. The thought is followed immediately by the impulse to create distance between them, but when Tully moves, the boy’s whimpers increases and for the sake of not alerting the rest of the block, he stops the movement and starts petting the tightly wound up spine instead.

“Shh, Juicy, shh…”
“D-don’t let go…”
“I wont.  I’m right here, baby… Papi’s right here…”

He cuddles his boy, there’s just nothing else to do, right? It’s been such a long time since Tully experienced something like this, a shared comfort that may look like a means to keep the boy quiet, but if that was the only goal, there’d be plenty of other options.

Threats. A simple gag made of a pillow case or an undershirt. There’s a whole goddamn choir in Tully’s mind, singing out how fucking faggy and weak and unnecessary this is, but you don’t get to the position of a shot caller if you’re not good at keeping those thoughts bound and gagged as well.

Juice is starting to relax a little, nuzzling into Tully’s chest although it must hurt and Tully gentles his grip again.

“Shh, easy on your pretty face, sweetheart. Don’t wanna break more of it by accident.”
“I’m s-s-sorry, papi. P-please, don’t…”
“Don’t what, baby?”
“I’ll b-behave, papi, please, don’t g-give me over to… Know I’m just a bitch, but…”
“Hey… No… No-no-no, Juice… Aint never doing that, baby. Not to the coons, not the guards, not the Sons, not to anyone, you hear me?”

He’s making promises. Actual promises to a fucking punk and Tully doesn’t even have the ability to feel ashamed about it. He buries his nose carefully into the stubbled head where the ridiculous tattoos aren’t as visible anymore.

“You’re mine, Juicy. Mine, and I don’t share.”

A double-edged sword if ever there was one, but at least it’s true. And as Tully keeps soothing his boy, he’s still blissfully oblivious to just how much of this “necessity to keep things controlled” and preventing Juice from “falling into more shit that could effect Tully and the AB”, isn’t as much a hidden fall from grace, as a gradual falling for another man, by the top predator who stumbles for nothing or noone.

Chapter Text

Once again, he can’t stop crying. He’s not loud, probably barely audible, but he’s disturbing Tully and that’s not good. The shot caller only has so much patience, right?

“S’gonna feel better tomorrow, baby…”

It’s wrong taking comfort from the hands hurting you, but there’s not much else Juice can do now if he wants any sleep. He’s pretty certain the shot caller doesn’t want to fuck him, it would be impractical for a number of reasons but Tully needs his sleep, especially considering how many nights Juice has already ruined with his crying and nightmares.

“I’m s-sorry, Tully… I… I’ll stop, y-you can move up if you wanna…”
“You want to sleep alone, Juice?”

It’s a question, a real one and the shot caller’s voice is soft. His hands aren’t wandering, or rough. Juice knows the chance of getting any real rest lays in those hands, the ones that hurt but also comfort. It’s so terribly confusing and wrong and fucked up but Juice shakes his head slowly. He really doesn’t want to sleep alone and Tully isn’t even the least awful option right now.

How low can you sink? Apparantly Juice has a knack for breaking records because he’s still sinking and everytime he thinks he’s about to feel rock bottom under his feet, there are only more depths. Tully strokes his hair softly, the eyes once again loosing the predatory gaze and Juice wills himself to calm down.

“St-stay…?”
“You sure?”

It’s almost as if the shot caller asks for permission and it’s ridiculous and fucked up but what else is new? Juice carefully wipes his face with his hand.

“Yeah… C-can’t sleep alone, papi… Just…”
“What, baby?”
“I-if you wanna… M’not gonna be able to… k-keep quiet…”
“Jesus…”

Tully lets out an exasperated sigh.

“We both have reputations to keep up, baby, and that means we have to do shit we don’t always want. But… Can we just make this thing clear, boy: I don’t enjoy hurting you. You understand that? Fucking you would hurt you more now so no, I’m not gonna do that and I didn’t enjoy beating you either. I just… fuck, what can I do to make you stop crying right now, baby?”

He sounds lost, as if he’s genuinly wondering and a part of Juice would like to just tell him to go fuck himself, or give Juice a mercyful death in sleep or something but he knows Tully wouldn’t do either. There are limitations to Juice’s wishes.

“Sing that song again… The curse song…”

Tully smiles, not a predatory one, but the kind that makes him seem like an actual human being and he kisses Juice’s forehead.

“Okay, baby. Lift your head.”

Usually, Tully’s chest is his pillow but the real one is probably better for his face now and the nazi places it onto his arm for Juice to lay down. It still smells like him though and the scent is very soothing, just as it shouldn’t. The blanket is pulled up over his shoulders, he’s tucked in, his face leaning onto severly scarred skin telling a story in a language the nazi wont translate.

The markings are old, all bleached down from time and lack of sun and they’re not the kind you do yourself, they’re too precise, too controlled and too shallow. They’re not meant to move pain or wipe out ink but to… yes, mark.

“Please, stop thinking so loud, boy… You’re like an ADD crackhead on fucking redbull when you start thinking…”

Juice laughs. Or sniffles and smiles, half a giggle, but it’s actually genuine and that’s as rare as not feeling dead these days. He searches for Tully’s free hand and smiles at the incredulous little resistance when he entangles their fingers together.

“I’ll try. Sweet dreams, papi…”
“Sweet… dreams, baby…”

Chapter Text

Tully stares into the darkness, like a wide awake cat just before the hunting starts. He doesn’t need to hunt though, his prey is already sleeping in his arms and being the predator, Tully can simply take what he wants. Only problem is, for the first time in years, Tully doesn’t know what he wants.

Well, he wants to sleep, sure, and it is fucking annoying to hear someone cry and sniffle all night so this is a lot better. It wasn’t a lie, that he didn’t like hurting his boy, because he really didn’t. There was no satisfaction in it what so ever apart from the assurance that Juice, along with Tully’s reputation, of course, is protected.

Yes, he wants to sleep but he can’t and that makes Tully painfully aware of how he doesn’t want to fuck Juice right now, but does want to comfort him. It’s not that the boy lowers himself to beg for it, not like Carl Green tried to make Tully beg. He didn’t succeed, one of few victories Tully could harvest during that time.

The memories are haunting him at night again, in a way they haven’t in many years. It’s not nightmares, really, just shitty gravel in the machinery that makes Tully’s usually smooth ride through the prison routine bumpy. It’s a very different thing to have a punk who neither hangs on for dear life to try and survive, nor takes the easy way out or even fights back. Tully did all three and if someone had asked him at the time why he insisted on staying alive, he’d probably not have an answer.

Maybe he’d say it was out of spite. To show not just Carl Green but the guards who turned away, the family and friends who never visited, the prison medic who didn’t give enough painkillers or the warden who refused to move him to another cell. No one expected him to last long and now he’s the one literally no one fucks with – or fucks – anymore. Those who did are all dead and when the lowlives in here need a favor, he’s the one they carefully approach, all of them far too sure they have something to offer that he couldn’t get elsewhere. Cons and guards, cops and gangbangers all have that in common: they’re usually shit at guessing what a man would want if it’s not money, a parole, power or a pliant hole.

Knowing how to make a man stop crying is a skill too, probably, and one that Tully hasn’t practised much, for obvious reasons. He never cared before, not like this, but he just can’t stand the sound of all this goddamn sadness. His boy isn’t crying because he’s weak or scared, he’s grieving and that’s a whole other thing. You can’t threaten grief into silence. The only thing Tully knows of that soothes his boy’s grief, momentarily at least, is physical comfort.

Juice is snoozing, snugly like a kitten craving warmth. Tully could be the mother, or owner, or just a blanket. It’s not a situation that makes his cock stirr in any way. Fucking his boy now would just feel wrong and it’s not an unpleasant thing to have a something living to cuddle with.

During the nights when Carl Green held him, Tully wouldn’t sleep until sheer exhaustion took over. About every third night would give real rest, when he was so exhausted he could sleep even with cock still up his ass. Those were the best nights and he’s never repeated the chokehold sleeping position with his own punks when they shared his cell. None of them would’ve dared, or wanted, to cuddle like Juice does.

There’s something increadibly depressing, being the absolutely last source for comfort for a desperate man, the bottom scrap of leftover kindness even a dog would turn away. Tully can’t remember the last time he felt this… filthy and the only right thing to do, would be to either refuse the boy the closeness or punish and scorn him for it. Only the lowest of species, the weakest and least fit for survival woud seek comfort from it’s predator, but the man who holds onto Tully like something of worth, isn’t revolting in the slightest and when he makes a little whine in his sleep, it stops all but instantly with a kiss on his head, a little rubbing on his arm.

Yes, knowing how to comfort a man could be as much of a power as hurting him, but it’s a skill Tully didn’t know he had and therefor has no plan for. He’s never been out of a plan before and while he wont admit it above the unconscious knowledge, it’s scary as hell to be treated as a human being.

Chapter Text

“How did this happen, Ortiz?”
“Got hit by a door, sir.”
“And was that door, by any chance, decorated with swastikas?”
“I didn’t look that closely, sir.”

Bernhards hates him. Or at the very least, he’s really sick of him. Juice can understand that. Being the underpaid baby sitter for inmates in an overcrowded prison sounds like a punishment in itself and how anyone would want to work here freely, even with good pay and the possibility to feel powerful, is beyond Juice.

“I could move you, you know.”

The warden could mean well, but it’s more likely he just wants to avoid a situation that could put the cell block in the kind of spotlight that would shine badly on himself. Dead prisoners mean paper work and it doesn’t take a genius to find out that a half black Puerto Rican getting killed by his nazi cellmate would look really bad for Stockton State Prison. Juice looks straight at him.

“That’s not necessary, sir.”

Bernhards shakes his head.

“You gangbangers… You do know that everyone knows he’s using you, right? That you’re essentially his prison bitch? Nothing is confirmed of course, you’d have to tell me if…”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, sir.”
“Uh-huh. Just as you had no idea who assaulted you and then Wilson suddenly got mutilated on the road.”

Juice shrugs.

“It’s a bad idea to pull over for strangers late at night, sir. Who knows what kind of creeps are walking around out there… Can’t lock up all of them here.”
“I’ve been trying to help you, Ortiz…”

Now Juice just laughs because this is honestly fucking hilarious.

“Yeah, I’ve noticed that. What was it? Oh yeah, rat on the club or I’ll put you with the Aryan Brotherhood’s shot caller. Thanks for the concern, warden, but I think I can manage without your help.”

The warden snorts and Juice wont show him an inch of his real worry: that he’ll put him in PC again or worse, the hole. There’s no way Bernhards can know that the only thing keeping the intern deaths down a number, is due to the fact that Juice shares a cell with Tully. No one can know about the counting down, of the steady heartbeats and the gentle hands. Everyone in here – and out there – must see a lost case who is fine with being a bitch and doesn’t give a shit anymore. Someone you can’t use because there’s nothing he can be bought with. Not this time.

“You don’t gain anything by letting him control you, Ortiz. You’re not in for life, you’ve got two years and without the club, you may even have a chance to turn your life around, if you could just give a damn.”

Juice laughs again, shaking his head.

“First you placed me in PC, then with a piece of shit tweaker and then with the AB shot caller and now you’re all concerned about my future, suddenly? Really fucking touching, warden.”
“Maybe you need some more time in solitary.”

A threat, but this time, Juice has the upper hand and he looks straight at the man, who despite spending most part of his life with inmates, still doesn’t understand how some things work.

“That’s a bad idea, sir.”
“Oh, and why’s that?”
“Well… Your staff isn’t my concern, but I imagine it must be a hassle to figure out the working schedule when people suddenly go on sick leave and you have to hire newbies who don’t know the drill, sir.”
“Are you threatening me, Ortiz?”
“No, sir. You’re the one doing the threatening here. I’m just an excommunicated gangbanger trying to get through my sentence. Aint no threat to anyone here, sir, and you know that. And I don’t want your help, so why not offer it to someone who does?”

Chapter Text

“What did old Bernie want this time?”
“The usual. Me begging for another cellmate in exchange for something or the other.”
“And do I even dare to ask about your response?”

His boy glares, yes, actually glares at him from the sink where he scrubs his hands meticulously.

“Ask Daniels.”

Daniels is the guard pretending to only wait outside and not listening to whats being said behind the far too thin door to the warden’s office and of course, Tully already knows Juice neither ratted, neither asked for a new cellie. Better the devil you know, perhaps. And once a rat apparantly isn’t always one.

Tully puts his book down, it’s almost yard time and he looks at the pale man by the sink. He’s still scrubbing himself, like he’s been dipping his hands in the toilet and it’s more or less a tell tale sign of anxiety. Juice didn’t rat and they both know that Tully knows that, but the anxiety is still creeping up and Tully leaves his bunk.

“Enough, boy. You’re already scrubbed like you’re off to church.”

But the boy can’t stop, the stress is taking over now as he’s back in the relative safety of their cell and Tully takes the now red and sore hands, holding them still. He rests his chin on Juice’s head.

“I said enough, Juice.”

The growl is very low but Juice hears it loud and clear and the twitchy hands become a little more lax inTully’s grip. His pulse is still speeding though and the big eyes are wide in fear. His boy is several steps into a full on panic attack and Tully quickly looks around to make sure no one is peeking before he slowly turns Juice to face him and puts his arms around him in a close hug.

“S’alright, boy. C’mon, take a deep breath…”

When did he become this… sweet with his boy? It feels natural, the reactions aren’t calculated like they used to be with others. Tully’s body is reacting regardless of what would be the best move in this game that is life and where both him and Juice are but pieces on a board shaped as Stockton State Prison.

Tully is as sick of thinking ten steps ahead as he is moving others around. He’s good at it, really fucking good and it used to be a interesting  way ofpassing time as well as a thrilling challenge. How far does you power reach? Which ways can it take, how can you turn it yet another spin around and how many kinds of mayhem can you create, let loose and control? Prison is a breeding ground for bad seeds and it still amazes Tully how the justice system keeps putting them all in the same soil to take root. After all, all it takes is one sharp mind, a couple of functioning helpers and then the rest will become minions, spreading like weed.

Maybe it’s become too easy, too ordinary. It’s not as much of a challenge anymore, while trying to figure out Juice Ortiz apparantly is. Tully rocks him a little in their standing position by the steel mirror, while keeping an eye to the bars. Juice isn’t crying, just trying to breathe calm and Tully nuzzles his head.

“You’re doing good, baby. We have some time before lunch, you want me to read something to you?”

He can’t sing now, not in the light. (No, he doesn’t like singing, it’s just an efficiant tool!) Juice sniffles quietly.

“A little… sick of poems, papi.”
“Papi has other books too, baby. You like pirates?”
“Like… Pirates of the Caribbean stuff?”

Tully snorts like he’s deeply offended – and honestly, he kind of is.

“That’s your idea of piracy, boy? A fucking Disney trilogy with bad jokes and Johnny Depp trying to walk funny?”
“Think there are four movies now, actually, and they’ll probably make a fifth.”
“Fucking heresy…”

His boy laughs, which is a very welcome sound now, instead of the jacked up anxiety.

“You sound ancient, Papi.”
“I prefer old and wise, boy. Get yourself a cup of water and I’ll read one of the classics for you, you uncultivated spic.”
“Said the white trash Hitler wannabe.”

Tully startles a second from the unexpected and extremely rude joke, but he’s not angry, just surprised and before his boy realises the transgression and can get all anxious again,Tully gives him the smile no one but this Puerto Rican gets to see anymore. He pinches Juice’s ear lightly.

“Rude boy. I think Jim Hawkins could teach you a thing or two.”
“Jim who?”
“Jesus Christ, just drink some water and let me get the book already.”

Chapter Text

In the corner of his eye, he can see the the guard shaking his head, can sport the grin from Leroy, but he doesn’t care. He’s nothing in here and Tully can do whatever he wants to him, those are the rules of this sick game that’s become normal and as long as no one notices how Juice’s lifeless face onto Tully’s thigh is one of actual relaxation and as long as the hand drawing slow circles over his shoulders is hidden frim sight, this is… safe. As safe as it can be in here, at least.

“Squire Trelawney, Dr. Livesey, and the rest of these gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole particulars about Treasure Island, from the beginning to the end, keeping nothing back but the bearings of the island, and that only because there is still treasure not yet lifted, I take up my pen in the year of grace 17__ and go back to the time when my father kept the Admiral Benbow inn and the brown old seaman with the sabre cut first took up his lodging under our roof. I remember him as if it were yesterday, as he came plodding to the inn door…”

It’s soothing, lying like this and Juice stares blankly out into nothing, not because he’s wishing himself a lifetime away, but to keep up reputation.

He’s a punk who’s being forced to lie down and listen to a children’s story because the man who claimed him his bitch has decided it’s a fun way of passing time. Juice is relieved the guard doesn’t interrupt them, but also disheartened by the so obvious lack of care. The guard isn’t one of those on Tully’s payroll and he should come to the bars, telling the shot caller to stop this shit, but the man patrolling the block doesn’t give a shit unless Tully should decide to fuck Juice openly.

“…his sea-chest following behind him in a hand-barrow—a tall, strong, heavy, nut-brown man, his tarry pigtail falling over the shoulder of his soiled blue coat, his hands ragged and scarred, with black, broken nails, and the sabre cut across one cheek, a dirty, livid white. I remember him looking round the cover and whistling to himself as he did so, and then breaking out in that old sea-song that he sang so often afterwards: "Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest— Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!" in the high, old tottering voice that seemed to have been tuned and broken at the capstan bars.”

He doesn’t know what the fuck capstan means and he’s not gonna ask. It’s an old book, of course, and Tully probably loves showing off to his uneducated brown boy, to fucking cultivate him or some shit, but Juice doesn’t care because this fucked up stuff is actually comforting.

The hidden hand isn’t wandering, isn’t prying and prodding, it’s just a warm, soft presence against his back. The shot caller could easily slip a hand down Juice’s pants, could pinch or rub or whatever, but he doesn’t and neither does he press Juice’s face to his crotch. Juice shivers, he easily feels cold these days and without even interrupting the reading, Tully is grabbing his own cardigan from the side of the bed, spreading it over Juice’s upper body in a soft movement before putting the hand back, making those rubbing circles outside the shirt.

Juice has never been good at reading other people, always felt insecure even when things were good and he had a seat at the table, because the guys always thought he was a bit on the nerdy, slow and confused side. It didn’t bother him, the teasing, because they were his brothers and everyone was subject to jokes in some form. But when they pimped him out that time in jail without asking… They could’ve asked, should’ve, because he’d probably agreed after some talking, but they didn’t. It was just decided and Juice swallows when he remembers how they had him take his shirt off in the yard, not for that bullshit exercise shit, but to show the goods.

Jax, Clay, Tig, Bobby… they were all in on it, no big deal, it’s just Juice, right? Just the dumb, brown kid with stupid tats who wouldn’t wear the kutte if it wasn’t for his tech skills… Lets use him as a bait, we can risk his reputation, he’s young, stupid and pretty. Not as pretty as Jax, but we can’t afford making the prince look like a punk…

Is that why he didn’t go to them the moment Roosevelt and Potter started the shit with his dad? Because he’d somehow lost trust in them, although he was his usual smiley – and stupid – self, acting like it was nothing. Like he was nothing.

He’s crying again but it’s mute, he’s good at that, and the nazi who shouldn’t give a fuck and maybe doesn’t but is dangerously good at pretending he does, keeps petting him, doesn’t ridicule or lecture. He just keeps reading and when Juice’s body is shaking from tears, he leans a hand under the cardigan and searches for Juice’s hand because he can’t say anything now. Too many eyes, too much of a reputation to keep up and secrets that need to stay hidden.

It should be easy to hate Tully, it really should, but hate was never Juice’s strong suit and to name the feelings he has for the man who he now suspects didn’t even want to rape him in the first place, who must’ve forgotten to keep counting silently, trying to finish as quickly as possible, not because the color of Juice’s skin put him off, but for a reason the shot caller wants to keep to himself, makes it hard.

This nazi is the first person who knows who Juice is, black heritage, club transgressions, cowardice and all, but still doesn’t look at him with hatred, disgust or even despise. Nothing makes sense anymore, it hasn’t in a very long time, really, but Tully’s calm is contagious and gives a sense of stability in the chaos that is this… existance after Juice’s former life.

It’s not a living death anymore, for some reason. Not a life either, but Tully looks at him, talks to him, touches him like Juice is an actual living human, not a rat or a thing to fuck. And the hand holding his isn’t there to keep it down or hurt it. Tully’s long fingers are swirled around Juice’s, his thumb brushing idly over his hand and whatever it is, whoever this man really is, Juice is just too starved of human care to refuse it and even if he wasn’t, he’s not sure he would.

It’s almost like the shot caller is capable of actual kindness.

Chapter Text

He’s not surprised to see him. If anything, it’s strange he hasn’t come here or at least reached out sooner. Tully sits comfortably in the chair, hands folded on the table as is his usual manner with meetings with other shot callers and the man in front of him, whom he’s not met until now, looks older than he actually is, hair and whishers greyish and the grim scars are sagging.

“Can we talk openly?”
“I bought the room. No mics, no cameras.”

Telford nods and then sighs.

“The club isn’t… happy with this, Tully.”
“Ortiz aint no threat to you and you know that.”
“He’s a rat.”
“Not in here.”

The Samcro pres just shakes his head, snorting.

“Tha’ doesn’t matter. Wha’ matters is tha’ he’s suppose to pay his debt.”
“He did everything Teller asked of him in here, even offering himself, calmly waiting for me to off him…”

Tully pierces his eyes into the other man.

“Whatever he did on the outside, and I don’t doubt he was a coward and a rat, he never said a word about the club to anyone in here and made it clear he was prepared to die for you. I chose not to, because I don’t do cowards’ biddings.”
“Ye’re calling Samcro cowards?”
“No, I’m calling Jax Teller a coward.”

Telford is angry, insulted, and the way he grits his teeth tells it, but he’s also a calm and patient man, knowing not to ruin this meeting by letting his emotions take over.

“Ye’re taking advantage o’ this an’ ye’re calling Jax a coward?”

He doesn’t want to say Juice’s name and Tully raises an eyebrow.

“He sold Juice out to me, Telford. What was it he said… Oh yes: he could do with a little loving.”
“Liar!”

It’s not a real accusation, Tully knows the type of man Chibs Telford is, or at least wants to be. The decent outlaw who kills but doesn’t rape, retaliates but doesn’t use people as payment. A man who likes the whores and hates the rats but wouldn’t even consider pimping out a former brother as a punishment. The very idea is too sick to him to even come up with.

Tully has no difficulties to see how easily Teller could manipulate this man into thinking what he did was necessary, right and even justified. As long as only Teller’s side is told, of course. Tully leans onto the table, getting closer than this MC pres finds comfortable.

“If Teller had gone out the way he was supposed to, I would’ve carried out the green light. You let him ride off like some goddamn Jesus sacrificing himself when you should’ve stripped him of his kutte and shot him in the head. The heat he caused without Ortiz’s betrayal, cost us money, Telford. Money and time and not to mention the raised funds to both Charming and Stockton police. Your late pres is costing us money even from the grave so if I were you, I’d be a bit more careful with making demands.”

The Scot just stares at him and Tully has to force down a smirk. He can see how the man processes this intel, how he’s really fucking thinking about it and apparantly finds some logic in it, because he leans back, relaxing almost, or he’s just tired.

“Why?”
“Why what?”
“He’s… a half-black Puerto Rican an’ ye’re…”
“An Aryan shot caller, yes. I can see how this little… arrangement doesn’t make sense to you, but frankly, I couldn’t care less about making sense to you, Telford. You don’t get to act all concerned now after all this time. If you really had a problem with Teller’s business with me, you should’ve reached out sooner.”
“He shot a brother to cover up his lies, he… he covered up Tara’s murder an’…”

Tully makes a little wave.

“Yes, yes, I know. I know all of it, Teller didn’t exactly spare the details, but since when does Samcro pimp out their own while letting them think they have a chance to be absolved?”
“Wha’ are ye talking about?”

The man looks completely taken aback and Tully laughs, shaking his head because this is just too much.

“Are you kidding me, Telford? Teller was very clear about the posssibility of Ortiz earning his way back to the MC by taking out Lin and while I understand why there was no way back for him, I do not appreciate being lied to by some blond boy pretending to be a leader. I’m not Samcro’s tool, Telford, so if you want Ortiz dead, you better make some allies prepared to start a war with the AB because no one, especially not some dead Son, acts like a coward and then expects me to honor his wishes.”

There’s a long moment of silence where Tully expects the Scot to either launch out and start an actual fight, or leave. But the man sits dead still, staring onto the table surface and then he looks up with eyes trying to appear hateful, but they’re not. This man, Tully realises, isn’t some cold animal, he cares and probably has to spend a great deal of energy on keeping that compassion in check.

“Jax offered him to you as…”

He still can’t say the name and for some reason, that angers Tully. If you can’t even take the name of your target in your mouth, you’re no less of a coward yourself.

“Say his name, Telford.”
“Wha’?”
“You’ve not said Juice’s name since we started this conversation. If you can’t even do that, what makes you think I would take care of him for you?”

A look, it’s short and fast, over in the split of a second, but Tully reads it well enough. The only ones left in Samcro from the time before this mayhem, who aren’t patchovers like Happy Lowman, are Chibs Telford and Tig Trager. The rest are dead and buried, Samcro’s trail of intern blood is far from only Juice’s doing and Telford must be painfully aware of that.

They lost almost all of their brothers in all but a couple of years time and while Telford knows what he should do, maybe he’s just… too fucking tired of it.

The man gives Tully a look of disgust and poorly hidden grief.

“He rats again, we have a problem, Tully. Ye have a big problem.”
“That wont happen.”

Tully makes a smile he knows is both threatening and soft.

“Truth hurts, right? Maybe Juice wasn’t the only one who lied to you, Telford. Maybe he just wasn’t quite as good at it as the golden boy.”

Chapter Text

“I leave you alone for half an hour, boy… I told you to keep an eye on him.”

The last part is directed towards someone in the AB, most likely Hugh, and Juice can hear the excuses in that surprisingly light voice from the giant, but he’s not really catching what’s being said. He just knows that Tully has been seing Chibs. He didn’t tell Juice, of course not, but this is prison and rumors spread worse than the flu in here. And just like the flu, Juice easily catches this too. The pictures of a brother who told him to eat his gun, who found him with the markings of the rope and called him coward and who couldn’t bear to look at him when he rode off to his last mission.

Tully is lowering on the floor next to him, anger pouring out like steam and Juice insinctively puts his arms over his head, not that he has anything left to protect, but he can’t help himself.

“I never meant to hurt the club…”

He doesn’t mean for this to happen either, but he’s no longer in control. And when was he ever? He’s back in the garage, taking one punch after the other from the man he loves perhaps more than any other person in the world. He’s feeling his disappointment, how hurt he is and the self-hatred is creeping like ants over his skin.

The blows hurt, but not even close to the look from the brown eyes, the ones that cried when finding him with the chain, who looked at him with absolute disgust at the diner and turned away in what was something more, perhaps just deep fucking hurt, when Juice rode off.

“I love you, brother…”

Chibs isn’t there but he can feel a sigh down his neck, warm air and then lips against his ear.

“And he loves you, Juice. Probably wont forgive you, boy, but he loves you nontheless… That was… pretty obvious.”

Tully doesn’t lie to him, never has, which means he must be reading Chibs all wrong and that’s almost worse. Juice is back in the now, the hatefilled face is gone and there’s only these wanted and unwanted, badly needed arms surrounding him.

“C’mon, baby, let Papi see your hands.”

He obeys and there’s a little sigh from the shot caller.

“You slammed them against the wall, huh? You feel better from it? Stupid boy…”

In the midst of the anxiety and flashback, Juice suddenly feels angry and while he has no real strenght in his body right now, he manages to grab Tully’s left arm.

“Y-you too, T-tully…”
“Et tu, Brute…”

A snicker. Familiar and low and no longer threatening. The scars on Tully’s arm are old and pale, as are those on his back and chest. Those from the covered ink and those on his hips. The ones Juice can’t ask about, can’t know about but sometimes the lack of explanations is one in itself. Only a few of the scars are self-inflicted. You don’t live this kind of life without learning to tell the difference and to ask about them is to ask for things no one can know. Just as no one can know how the AB shot caller prefers to cuddle his spic punk instead of fucking him.

Tully holds him on the floor, they’re partly hidden by the bed and Juice thinks that maybe this was what he needed all along: just someone to fucking hold him when he was about to fuck himself up.

“He didn’t know… Telford didn’t know about Teller’s deal with me.”
“What?”

Hands rubbing his arms now, a sigh.

“Telford wasn’t aware of Teller giving you up to me in the first place. He only knew… about the green light, not the rest. Doesn’t know if it makes any difference to you, but the Scot got upset as hell when I told him. More upset than for you being alive, I think…”

For a moment Juice doesn’t understand and then it hits him, like a fucking sledgehammer in the face.

“Chibs didn’t…? It wasn’t a club decision… You getting…?”
“No, baby. Apparantly, you weren’t the only one going behind the club’s back. Might not mean anything to you, but I… I thought you had the right to know. And for what it’s worth, the Scot seemed to accept there’ll be no second green light. He seemed quite shocked about Teller’s deal with me… For what it’s worth.”

It’s worth everything. Fucking everything and more and Juice keeps crying, then laughing, crying again and he’s a mess, such a fucked up, useless piece of crappy mess but Chibs wasn’t in on this. He wasn’t aware, wouldn’t have given his permission and Jax knew that, so he never brought it to the table.

And yes, this is still so wrong, Tully is still a fucking rapist and Juice is still a coward rat but he can’t help himself and he puts his arms around the shot caller and hugs him, hard, hard, sobbing onto his neck.

“Thank you, Tully… Jesus Christ, thank you…”

Chapter Text

It’s been a long, long time since someone put his or her arms around him like this. Not to please him or to make a plea, but to just… show real gratitude in a way that felt natural. Tully isn’t sure when someone last hugged him in this manner, or who it was. He’s not a family man, never was, and the AB became his home so early on it’s honestly difficult to recall a time before that.

Dad probably wasn’t sure what was more disgusting: his son taking it up the ass or his son becoming an AB member. Anyway, the old man was never much for hugs to begin with and Tully suspects the MC being far more physical in expressing brotherly love than the AB is. Both the Sons and the Mayans are openly affectionate with their brothers in a way you just aren’t in the AB. Tully figures he’s always been an odd figure in the movement. He came out of nowhere, sort of, no family connections, just a slow rising from punk to efficiant executioner with a memory and ability to control himself few other men came even close to. And Teller was right about the color thing: green is the only reliable color, the only one that earns actual supremacy and those who don’t understand that, never last long on top.

Tully is where he is, not only due to social skills and a mind for business and money, but because he’s in it for the game, not the cause. He can look down on Juice for his lack of ability to survive on his own, but hardly for trying to live. The way he refuses to commit suicide to just put an end to it, has a weird sense of dignity to it and Tully kind of admires how this broken man shows an increadible capacity of accepting his fate without making an idiot or bitch out of himself in public.

No pride, no shame, no fucks left to give and what Tully suspects once was a pretty gullible man, is no easier to fool these days than Tully. That’s why it’s not embarressing or even feels like an advantage or a kind gesture to let Juice hug him like this, breathing long and hard onto his skin. This isn’t the punk showing his owner gratitude, it’s a man in such relief he’s not even thinking about not showing weakness.

Juice doesn’t have to do this, he’s not forcing himself and Tully sure as hell didn’t expect it, but here he is with his boy’s weakened yet still strong arms around him like he was a person to hug.

“You shouldn’t thank me, boy.”
“Yeah, I’m still going to… Can’t fucking stop me.”

Jesus Christ.

This isn’t good. Like, not good in the sense that something already bad just turned worse. The way Juice’s arms are folded around Tully’s neck speaks of more than just common gratitude, something that wont be defined since it can’t be named.

Telford loves Juice, but wont admit it. Juice loves Telford and his former brothers and it wont be reckognized even if the boy doesn’t deny it. Tully is just trying to pass the time, to survive, to stay on top, to not fucking loose himself anymore than he already has.

To not loose, is to not give a shit about a punk crying out of genuine relief. To feel nothing for him, just grant him a moment to be weak because you have the power and because it feels good to see how that power can tear men apart and put them back together.

I feel for you. Don’t know what the hell it is, or why, but I feel for you, Juice… I feel something and it’s not hate, it’s not despise, it’s not indifference… It’s certainly not power, but I feel for you and I should pull back, should push you away but I can’t.

I just. Fucking. Can’t.

Tully carefully leans them both back against the wall. He can’t let the others see this display of care and he wants to hold his boy like this for the rest of the day but that’s not possible. He glances towards the bars before dipping down to kiss Juice’s neck.

“We have to stop this soon, boy. Before they see us…”

He swallows, lowering his voice even more.

“But I’ll hold you tonight, okay?”

Daddy will deal with you later, sweet cheeks.

I’ve planned such a special night for my little girl…

Please, don’t make me wear this, sir…

You’re getting mouthy, girl… Lets put that cheeky tongue to good use, shall we…?

Tully has to stop these memories before they take over and he swallows hard, wills it away only to find another one taking it’s place.

I don’t rent out my goods, Jones. The wear and tear, you know…

You use it twice a night, sometimes more, Green. It’s good quality and I’m clean, just saying. It doesn’t  even scream.

I’ve trained it.

Yeah, we know, Green. Jesus Christ, everyone on the block knows because you’re not exactly silent.

You say I’m too loud…?

No, I’m saying your pet is! Just gag it, already, and stop make it use those lace things and people will stop asking for a test ride. Fuck, it sounds like a whore, man, you must be making it really happy.

So happy it’s crying.

What?

I said: so happy it’s crying, Jones. Like the little slut it is… White, prime meat…

You’re twisted, man… Fucking twisted... And what’s with that tail? He asked for that?

It didn’t have to.

You shaved the kid’s head…? Why?

To save money from shampoo expenses. Now get lost, Jones. Not renting it out but I might gag it, when and if I find it necessary.

“Papi…?”

Tully looks up, not realising he’d lowered his head and he sees a pair of scared but mostly very confused brown eyes. He should use his shot caller gaze, stare the punk down like the predator he is but Tully can’t pull himself together for that and instead he looks away, covering what he mustn’t show. That thing he’s not in control of anymore.

He feels for the boy and he shouldn’t.

“Tully, please… Y-you scare me.”

Juice rarely calls him that, his last name. Tully makes another attempt, closing his eyes again to force the memory back in it’s locked box. This time it goes better and he takes a long, even breath through his nose, pushing the air out in the same slow pace and the same way out. It feels better, the control is back and Tully relaxes for a moment with closed eyes, almost basking in the feeling of knowing how to fucking deal with shit when he hears something akin to a frightened mewl next to him.

“Juice?”

The boy looks like he’s expecting a punishment. A beating or worse… There are just so many things that are so much worse than blood. Tully should want that, to see blood on his boy’s body, to relish in the feeling on control but he doesn’t . Seeing his punk cowering like this due to the reptile like look Tully knows he’s sporting right now, doesn’t elicit the feeling of power or despise.

Tully does what he usually never does without an ulterior motive and forces the malice away. He makes sure his face doesn’t appear threatening, that what smile he can muster is soft and that his eyes aren’t looking past the boy but at him.

“Juice, sweetheart, I just got caught up in a thought. Nothing’s wrong, baby.”
“S-sorry for h-hugging…”
“Jesus Christ, boy, come here.”

Fuck potential eyes. Having a more-scared-than-usual Juice in the cell is gonna fuck up any peace remaining for this day and night and that’s just not worth it. Tully holds his arms out and his boy all but falls into them, holding on for dear life and Tully gently rubs the far too tense back.

“Never apoligize for… Christ, for hugging me, boy.”

He’s not Carl Green. He’s not Carl Green.

He’s not Carl fucking Green.

Chapter Text

Between dinner and lights out, Juice simply can’t focus, can’t stay calm and even after doing a long workout in the cell and sweating, he’s still jumpy and Tully is talking to his friends in the AB, meaning Juice can’t interrupt. They’re talking business, in code of course, and Juice tries to keep still on his bunk. Tully has had this dangerously calm gaze ever since seeing Chibs and Juice gets cold shivers when meeting it. Thankfully, the shot caller doesn’t seek him out at all with his eyes, maybe because he doesn’t want to scare his punk or, more likely, because he has better things to do.

Juice walks up to the sink to wash his face and torso, trying to get the stickiness off him. He hates doing this in front of others and before really thinking about it, he drapes his blanket around his shoulders to cover up. It’s gonna get a bit disgusting but so what. It’s not as if it’s not gonna get sweat, cum and tear stains anyway.

No one comments his doings, since Tully has shown on many occasions that he doesn’t appreciate other guys to pay that kind of attention to his punk. His pet. His possession.

The panic attack before was horrible, but brief, and it hasn’t returned. It’s just this all too familiar anxiety Juice can’t name that isn’t quite the same as on the outside, as it turned out when Roosevelt started to blackmail him. The fact that Juice now knows, or at least is fairly certain of, that there was no club vote about giving the half black rat over to the nazi shot caller, is a mercy Jax probably would’ve considered him unworthy of, but for some goddamn reason, Tully doesn’t. His motives are unclear, the man is all but impossible to read, but Juice can see some benefit in this for the nazi: his punk getting a little less depressing to be around.

Juice changes into fresh clothes, a clean tanktop and shorts, pants and instead of the blue prison shirt, a longsleeved undershirt that’s softer. He looks over to the shelf over the small desk and Tully’s books. The man reads a lot, and no, not primarly nazi books, in fact there are mostly dreary poetry, old novels that look like they belong on an English teacher’s reading assignment list. Treasure Island, the one that the shot caller has decided to read aloud to Juice, Pride and Prejudice which sounds somehow familiar, maybe there’s been a movie made of it that made Juice remember the title, then an old bible which is just odd and then a thin piece that spells Meditations by Marcus Aurelius on the back.

Without asking, or really knowing why, Juice takes out the book and returns to his bunk. It’s not until he sits down and opens it, that he realises he didn’t ask for permission and horrified, he looks up towards the bars and the outside where Tully is playing the usual round of cards with his fellow white hicks. Juice is prepared for a comment of some sort, maybe a refusal, an order to the punk to not touch his owners stuff or maybe some mockery for the brown gangbanger who thinks he’ll understand cultural stuff. Juice opens it.

The Meditations, by Marcus Aurelius. Written 167 A.C.E. Translated by George Long.

167 A.C.E.? The hell’s that? Maybe the year, which means this is some damn old stuff. Juice isn’t gonna ask. He turns the page where the title simply says Book One.

From my grandfather Verus I learned good morals and the government of my temper. From the reputation and remembrance of my father, modesty and a manly character. From my mother, piety and beneficence, and abstinence, not only from evil deeds, but even from evil thoughts; and further, simplicity in my way of living, far removed from the habits of the rich. From my great-grandfather, not to have frequented public schools, and to have had good teachers at home, and to know that on such things a man should spend liberally.

To think of Tully reading this, being anything but a man of good morals, piety and modesty, is downright funny and Juice would’ve laughed had it not been too risky, because of course a nazi would have these fucked up narcissistic thoughts about himself. Of course Tully, the high and mighty shot caller of the AB who never reveals emotion or weakness in the open, would consider himself a man of good morals and supremacy, not only due to the color of his skin.

Reading old Romans, giving the impression of being educated and intellectual, to separate himself from the gang of goons and hillbillies he’s after all surrounded with and in control of. The thin book is well-thummed and suggests that Tully has read it frequently, so it’s not just there for show. And for all the faults the nazi has, stupidity sure as hell aint one of them.

From my governor, to be neither of the green nor of the blue party at the games in the Circus, nor a partizan either of the Parmularius or the Scutarius at the gladiators' fights; from him too I learned endurance of labour, and to want little, and to work with my own hands, and not to meddle with other people's affairs, and not to be ready to listen to slander.

What circus means in this context, Juice isn’t clear of, he wasn’t exactly an attentive student during history class, but he does know what a gladitor was and he looks up briefly, just to see if Tully has any objections to him touching his things, but the man has his back turned to him and the one to notis is, of course, Marty, who grins.

“Look, boss, your brownie is trying to learn how to read.”

The very low and sparse chuckles tell Juice that Tully didn’t appreciate the joke and without looking at him, the shot caller shuffles the deck of cards again.

“He’s setting a good example for you then, Marty. Maybe if you ask kindly, he’ll let you study with him. You could use some good advice from Marcus Aurelius as well.”

The laughs are louder now and Juice can’t help but feeling just a little bit proud. Tully doesn’t sound like he’s mocking Juice at all, just Marty, and he also clearly saw from his angle wich book his punk was grabbing. Leroy, his second, now huffs.

“Nah, please, don’t Marty. It’s enough to have the boss walking around like some old professor here, making everyone feel like hillbillies.”
“Just don’t get it why he lets the spic touch his stuff.”
“Because race isn’t that contagious.”

Tully has a drawl now, which means he’s giving Marty a warning without doing it directly and Juice feels his hairs rising from it. Marty is too dumb to catch the signs and Juice regrets touching the book, is almost about to leave the bed and put it back when Tully speaks again, while shuffling the cards.

“Non-whites aren’t incapable of reading, you know, and had you actually attended school, you might’ve known that. Now, stop bothering my spic and keep focused, boys.”

Stop bothering my spic. Race isn’t that contagious.

Insults. Demeaning little pinches, the casual racism wrapped in some sort of intellectual bullshit. The white man allowing his little toy to pretend he can understand literature. Juice wants to rip the stupid little book to pieces or throw it at Tully’s fucked up head, but he was some fucking sense of pride too these days, and instead of giving in to something stupid and proove these assholes right about brown people being fucking savages unable to keep it together, Juice keeps reading.

He’s not pretending to read either, he really does fucking read this, because while he might an uneducated moron next to Tully, he’s not gonna let that idiot Marty define him.

From Diognetus, not to busy myself about trifling things, and not to give credit to what was said by miracle-workers and jugglers about incantations and the driving away of daemons and such things; and not to breed quails for fighting, nor to give myself up passionately to such things; and to endure freedom of speech; and to have become intimate with philosophy; and to have been a hearer, first of Bacchius, then of Tandasis and Marcianus; and to have written dialogues in my youth; and to have desired a plank bed and skin, and whatever else of the kind belongs to the Grecian discipline.

Breed quails? Oh, not to promote despair, right? And freedom of speech is hardly a thing Juice hasn’t heard of before. The names are ancient and the language pompous as fuck but it’s definitely not above Juice’s understanding so Marty and the rest of them can go fuck themselves. And it’s not as if Juice is doing this to impress, he just needs something to keep from pacing and panicking and if that thing is some old Roman philosopher, then so be it. It’s better than watching Tully playing cards with his minions.

From Rusticus I received the impression that my character required improvement and discipline; and from him I learned not to be led astray to sophistic emulation, nor to writing on speculative matters, nor to delivering little hortatory orations, nor to showing myself off as a man who practises much discipline, or does benevolent acts in order to make a display; and to abstain from rhetoric, and poetry, and fine writing; and not to walk about in the house in my outdoor dress, nor to do other things of the kind; and to write my letters with simplicity, like the letter which Rusticus wrote from Sinuessa to my mother; and with respect to those who have offended me by words, or done me wrong, to be easily disposed to be pacified and reconciled, as soon as they have shown a readiness to be reconciled; and to read carefully, and not to be satisfied with a superficial understanding of a book; nor hastily to give my assent to those who talk overmuch; and I am indebted to him for being acquainted with the discourses of Epictetus, which he communicated to me out of his own collection.

Jesus fucking Christ, that’s one long ass sentence and Juice can’t help but recalling that English teacher in middle school who would always go on about not writing too long sentences. She would probably get a seizure from this and Juice has to re-read the entire thing a few times before fucking gripping some of it.

He doesn’t know what sophistic emulation or hortatory mean or who the hell Rusticus and Epictetus are but Tully probably had to look that up the first time he read this and while the book is boring and something Juice wouldn’t look twice at on the outside, it’s actually keeping the anxiety in check for now. He’s never been good at multitasking and to look into his demons while trying to focus on this text is diffcult, meaning Marcus fucking Aurelius serves some purpose right now, even to an uneducated spic punk.

And Juice isn’t gonna give anyone the satisfaction of watching him put the book down before he’s ordered to. For the moment being, he’s in the tedious and disgustingly intellctual company of a dead Roman, but knowing that the guys Tully plays cards with wouldn’t understand this shit any better than Juice, makes it pretty easy to don’t care about their teasing. At least it’s a way of passing time without thinking about the future. Or the past.

Chapter Text

It’s not a show off, not a way to try and impress or get a favour, that much is clear. Tully has seen that kind of behavior many, many times both here and on the outside. Younger, less powerful or in some cases almost powerless men, trying to get on a shot caller’s good side by sucking up, waiting for praise like dogs. Tully has always despised that kind of behavior, especially from men, because it’s so entirely undignified and also something he never did. Green made him do plenty of humiliating shit, but never that. Tully never seeked out comfort or favors from him.

Juice doesn’t need to read Meditations to gain something from Tully and the boy knows that. Him taking the book – without asking! – and silently returning to his bunk without seemingly caring about the comments, isn’t a thing for show because there’s no gain in it. And the way the boy’s eyes have been moving, the slow turning of pages and small frowning speak for him actually trying to understand the ancient text.

Tully has no objections and no urge to tease him for it. The boy needs to learn a way to keep his demons in leashes and while he can’t imagine Juice knowing much of Greek and Roman history, at least it’s a way of passing time that doesn’t involve the boy doing workout to the brink of exhaustion. The block smells enough from sweat and other body odours as it is.

And to be honest, the boy looks pretty cute with his grey blanket snugly around him like some old monk’s robe, sitting not with his knees pressed to his chest, but a little further out as a support for the small book. He’s forming soundless words sometimes, the frown getting a little deeper and either he understands it and then his shoulders drop a little, or he doesn’t and he looks like he’s wanting to tell Marcus Aurelius to go fuck himself. Either way, it’s a hilarious sight in here where so few things are novelties or even remotely fun to begin with. If this is something that could keep his boy calmer, then Tully wont be stupid enough to prevent it – or let anyone else do it.

It’s a tricky deal though. It would’ve been easier, had Juice been another kind of punk, but the thing is: had he been, he wouldn’t have picked the book up at all. Since Teller so kindly offered Tully the traitor as a piece of bargain, it’s become clear that there are a lot more to the tech skilled coward than meets the eye. Juice may have done cowardly things, but he’s not a coward per se because not only did he walk freely to his assumed death in here, but when it was refused he didn’t took matter in his own hands.

Yes, he cries, he’s taking it up the ass, he’s submissive to Tully and accepts his position as a punk but he’s not snitching, not kneeling, not trying to take the easy way out with a razor or a sheet. And he’s not triggered one bit by people commenting him like this. He looks completely unaware, like he’s shut off the surroundings and that means he’s not particularly worried about Tully right now, which is good.

When the signal sounds for lockup, Juice still hasn’t moved and Tully is honestly happy to leave the social gathering and get some peace alone in the cell. Quiet will come later, the guys are usually pretty chatty and Tully never was. He’s what’s now called an introvert, he guesses, meaning he gets energized from being alone and not with others. Juice is, despite his nightmares and anxiety and depression, a good cellmate in that regard since he’s not one to blabber constantly. He remains in his position when Tully comes inside and the door is locked and he’s too deep in the text to even notice how Tully is leaning onto the bed.

“Boy…”

The startle almost makes Juice kick his face but Tully knows his skittish boy pretty well by now and easily ducks to the side, smirking, but stops when he sees the boy looks scared.

“S-sorry, papi, I didn’t… “
“Hey, hey, I scared you, easy now. Papi’s not angry. Have I lost you to old Marcus completely, huh?”
“No.”

The blush is simply fucking adorable and Juice puts the book away, swallowing.

“Kept me calm though. B-but I didn’t ask first, sorry, that was…”
“I had no objections, sweetheart. Seemed like it kept you calm.”

Juice nods.

“It did. D-didn’t even notice the c-clock.”

Despite the fact that it’s not lights out yet, Tully takes the boy’s hand, the movement and touch hidden from the bars and he brushes his thumb over the back of Juice’s hand. His boy leans in, not enough to be seen but the small tilt of his head bears longing. Maybe for Tully, most likely for the lack of anyone else. It’s still the best Tully could get and he wonders, not for the first time, who’s really the weak one in this cell.

Marcus Aurelius wont have the answer.

Chapter Text

The days here are too long. The slowness of the routine, the sense of time dripping away and every lights out a reminder of another day lost. That’s the supposed efficiancy of the punishment – or at least a revenge from society, maybe closure for victims or their loved ones. More often than normal people would like to admit, the victims aren’t angels and their killers not monsters. They’re animals, all of them, dangerous out in the wild but even more so when couped up in a big cage.

Lock’em up and throw away the key.

As if those old enough to become actual threats to society need the keys to run their ship. The lack of real understanding of how the world of gangs work, considering how fucking concerned normal people are, is just laughable.

You need structure! You need an education! You need to understand there are consequences for your actions! You need Jesus! You need to feel sorry for what you did! Prison is supposed to be a punishment, not a vacation!

Juice wonders if the good people with the rational, passionate slogans and fine words, know that a good amount of the men locked up in here probably can’t spell vacation or didn’t hear the word until they came back from summer break and listened to a richer kid telling about it in school. Prison is a punishment, but good people want more. More structure, more Jesus – and not of the forgiving kind – more discipline and the kind of education where inmates are molded into repentant citizens ready to wipe out their former lives and throw themselves out into the nothingness, clinging on to the vague promise of a meaningful life.

What they never mention, is the loneliness and lack of roots to return to. The real prison isn’t these walls, but the one you’ve tried to escape since before you lost your baby teeth, only didn’t know it yet. The classes you skipped, not because you were determined to fuck up your life, but because you were young, stupid and needed something more than the glares, the sighs, the yelling and the smacking from adults who expected so much and yet never counted on you.

Juice has had his share of Jesus, of detention, spankings, disappointment and rejection and people like the fucking warden will never understand how it feels when you’re finally accepted, not by the mercy of people who’re better than you, but from your peers. Prison is the place where they all meet, where the uneducated, the misfits, the maimed, lost and loosers are stuck together like one big, unwanted family and then the decent people keep wondering why the gangs can’t be dissolved, why even if you’d like to start a new life afterwards, at least for the prospect of not having to see those walls from the inside ever again, you most likely can’t.

They wonder, because if they actually bothered to look and see something more than animals in cages, they’d have to reckognize that the scum in here are human beings too and perhaps that’s the only thing they have in common with each other, gangbangers and family guys alike: the notion that with a closer look at the other side of the bars, comes responsibility and no one has time for that when you’re busy trying to get by, whether it’s in here or out there.

The structure has a purpose, probably even a good one, Juice will admit that because he’s not one of those people determined to see a vicious scheme behind every part of the prison system. There are good people working in it, like Sr. Pete and while Juice thinks it’s rather foolish to think that a nun can make a lasting good difference, the sessions with her haven’t been about shoving Jesus down their throats or pretending to know how their lives are.

Juice looks towards the sink, where the hand that took his a little while ago, is brushing teeth. He knows he shouldn’t looking the shot caller out, but no one sees him doing it and Tully seems lost in thoughts, for once not keeping an eye on his punk.

The old tanktop is very washed out and it keeps sliding down from Tully’s shoulder. In the sharp, almost industrial light in the cell that soon will turn all but black, Juice can spot scars that clearly aren’t from bullets, self-harm or fights. The placement and angle, the paleness that sticks out even on skin as white as Tully’s, suggests assistance, purpose and a crouched or at least steady and still position. A knife, maybe a razor, but some are too long and brings pictures of Juice’s teenaged ass in the mirror, after having been whipped by a cable.

It’s an old body, Juice thinks. Not primarly from years, Tully can’t be more than fortyfive, fifty at most, but due to too much life – and death – crammed in over too short a time. It’s the kind of maiming that keeps being refilled, like an old tattoo you don’t want to fade with time. This, how ever, isn’t filled in voluntarily. There are several scars on Tully’s arms and chest as well, that look very much like the typical self-harm stuff, but unless the nazi has some secret BDSM fetish he’s paid some very quiet guard to perform on him, the long, pale markings suggest something like a cable. Regularly and over a long period of time.

Not recently, but not from childhood either.

Juice quickly looks away once he’s realising he’s been staring. Tully says nothing but he always knows and when he walks up to Juice, now wearing a long-sleeved undershirt, Juice shivers. He didn’t mean to peek like that, to spy or look for weaknesses and he turns his head down but also onto the shot caller’s chest.

“S-sorry, I… I didn’t m-mean to stare at y-you, p-papi. G-got stuck i-in my h-head ag-gain…”

He’s once again reminded of that he’s property. He’s the prey and Tully the predator. The shot caller can look, the punk can’t. Another rule that is clear as day in here, that the law abiding citizens out there know nothing about. Juice feels the breath of Tully over his head, no hand is touching him though and that can be both good and bad.

“Did anyone see you looking, boy?”
“N-no, papi.”

He’s fairly sure. No guard was close and the guy in the cell across turns in even before light’s out.

“Good.”

Tully sounds calm, not the cold and threatening calm, but the almost soothing kind and then he sighs.

“I’m tired, sweetheart. Wash off that sweat and come to bed.”

Chapter Text

You don’t look people out in here like that. The boy is no newbie, he knows that just as well as Tully, as anyone in here will do less than a week into the first stint. The scars on Tully’s body aren’t secrets. Hell, you don’t get to have that kind of secrets in here, where you shower with up to twenty guys at the same time in a bathroom without stalls and curtains, under surveilance from guards and cameras. Knowing and looking are, how ever, two very different things.

There is no real privacy, so you learn to put up pretend walls and curtains. You develop blinders, situational deafness and the skill of holding your head down while still keeping watch. Juice aint seeing anything enyone sharing shower time with Tully hasn’t seen before on occasion. Just because you don’t outwardly look, it doesn’t mean you don’t see. Weakness, strenght, ink, old and new wounds, muscles or lack there of. One sees it all and everyone pretends one didn’t.

The scars Tully has to show once a week in the showers haven’t been commented, at least not to his face, for many years. Those who might remember how they got there are either dead or not serving time here, and while Tully doesn’t trust the staff any further than he can throw them, they’re generally not spreading things covered by professional secrecy. And Juice is no idiot. He’s not looking simply because there are scars, but because he most likely can’t figure out how they got there since they’re not the kind you usually end up with in here – or in the job as a shot caller or even for being a gangbanger.

Tully is no different from any other man growing up in the 70^th. Being spanked, belted or paddled was normal and he wasn’t a nice kid so he had his fair share. Usually those things don’t leave permanent markings but when you have a dad who’s method of getting the message through was to try more of what didn’t work things, well, could get a little out of hand. That’s also the case if you have a cellmate who gets off on seeing you squirm, cry and beg. When he has money to rent a private space and a belt, no questions asked, because there are desperate guards with bills to pay and a punk that needs to be taught a thing or two without someone interrupting the private lesson.

Who hurt you, papi?

It doesn’t matter anymore, boy. None of that shit matters in here and you should stop asking questions before you stumble over truths that aren’t yours to have.

That’s the answer Tully should give him, but Juice is probably the most beaten man he’s met in here, not primarly physically, but mentally. Threatening him for real, is like kicking up an open door and finding an empty room. You simply can’t overpower a man who’s already realised he has nothing to protect anymore. It would be like kicking a pup and Tully might have nothing but despise for most people, but he’s always liked dogs. And you don’t kick a pup who’s looking at you unless you want to turn him into a longterm threat – or kill him.

Tully wants neither.

His boy has washed off properly, smelling from that cheap soap and toothpaste and he curls into his usual roll, facing the wall as lights go out and the guard going over the cells with a flashlight, as always ignoring how Tully leaves the top bunk untouched and lays down beside his cellmate, because that’s what money get you.

Juice is tense but doesn’t turn away and soon Tully finds himself with an armful of warm, still shivering Puerto Rican. The heartbeats are so loud, drumming hard against his chest and speeding up that strange urge to soothe. To be, not good because that’s probably not possible at this point, but at least not being Carl Green and Tully nuzzles the soft hair now that they’re covered by darkness.

“I’m not angry with you, baby. It was bound to happen sooner or later… You seeing some more of me.”
“C-can I ask you s-something, papi?”
“Ask away, boy, but I’m not promising any answers.”

Who did this? When? With what? Why?

“Do they still hurt?”

Swallow. Breathe. Don’t think, don’t feel, pretend not to hear the concern, the kindness you don’t deserve.

Tully closes his eyes, willing away what seems like an urge he’s not felt in more years than he can remember.

“No, baby boy. Papi’s fine. Go to sleep, Juicy.”

I’m fine, sir. Just slipped in the showers, sir. No problems at all, sir. I’ll be more careful, sir.

Not once during his many, many stays in the sick ward that first year, did anyone from the outside visit and he learned to forget what he could, remember what he needed and never ever forgive.

Who hurt you?

Too many for far too long, baby, and your question comes twentyfive years too late and from the wrong person.

Chapter Text

He sleeps through the night, well even. Before things went to shit, he was a fairly decent sleeper, if he had company or weed. Xanax could do too, but he got so slow in the morning from them, weed was a better option and even better was to have someone close. Juice wakes up before lights on this morning, not due to a nightmare or restlessness and he feels rather good. Well, for being a rat and a punk in Stockton, sharing bunks with a nazi.

Tully’s holding him, still asleep and Juice peeks up to have a look at the face before the shot caller mask goes on for the day. There aren’t many moments when Juice has a chance to look past it like this and while the face not only is pale, stubbled and a little puffy, age creeping up on the skin, but also belongs to a man he should see as a monster, Juice no longer knows how to describe it when there’s no look of malice, despise or even coldness left.

The monster looks at him with different eyes, has done so for quite some time now, and while it’s strange and intimidating in a way, there’s also something comforting, almost friendly about it. In his sleep, Tully almost seems soft. Peaceful. It’s only when he moves a little and the still dim light in the hallway touches his face that Juice spots the unmistakably dampness on the skin.

The shot caller has been crying.

For a moment, Juice is baffled and he almost reaches a hand out to touch before realizing what he’s doing and stops himself. He carefully snuggles in under the man’s chin and feels the arm around him rub his back in sleep.

Ask away, boy, but I’m not promising any answers.

Maybe not, but Tully has been giving them, most likely without realizing it. Juice stares out into the half-darkness.

The scars, the blacked out ink. The sudden silences, lost eyes.

The goddamn counting. Usually up to eleven, sometimes twelve or thirteen. In rare cases longer.

You ever been fucked dry in the showers for all the block to see, baby?

He hasn’t. But the shot caller most likely has. And Juice saw his glances against the cameras, the mics. He felt how the body shifted, the grip softening, no words, only the counting, the angry grunts without any additional violence.

The amount of lube, the words returning, going from cold and sarcastic to teasing, to neutral, to curoious, to… almost kind. Never malicious. Those scars might be old, but they still hurt, albeit not physically, and a shot caller neither can nor wants to take comfort from his punk. That’s simply not how the world works.

You don’t even like it, Tully.

Juice swallows, looking at the clock that tells him light’s on is another hour away. He can’t help himself, snuggling in even closer and the way Tully’s sleeping body reacts by letting him close, is not violent, hesistant or even possessive. It feels natural, feels so good to get this comfort, this warm, lean man holding him at dawn.

How do you hate a man who already hates himself so much no one elses hatred matters anymore?

There’s a freedom in that too, he supposes. To know that no matter how other people may look at you, there are still no eyes even close to the disgust your own shows in the mirror. Only Tully doesn’t live it to the fullest. Juice has come to crave the comfort his rapist gives, because there’s just too little of the cold, malicious calculation in the way he acts with his punk and that has been the case since the beginning.

Tully never tries to humiliate him further than Juice’s position as a punk already is on it’s own. Juice honestly hasn’t paid too much attention to the prisoners outside the small circle of AB men he’s being cooped up with, but he’s seen other shot callers, and cons who’re just strong and dangerous enough not to need the position as one, and how their punks are treated. Ribbons and pigtails, make-up and kneeling positions.

They’re used as servants, collecting their owners meals, doing their laundry and their yes sir’s are loud and clear, their bows and kneeling on display for the entire cellblock to see – and the guards couldn’t care less.

Juice hasn’t been counting the weeks, but already the time in PC seems like another life, just like the one on the outside and to his own horror and shock, he’s not sure if he misses it anymore. The good parts, that were. It’s simpler in here, he’s not used as a minion or even a fucktoy. Tully, who’s a monster, makes him feel, for lack of a better word, safe in a way the club never did. In the relative privacy of their cell, Juice gets comfort, closeness, an attention he’s probably always craved but didn’t know where to look for.

With the Reaper no longer behind his back, but walking by his side, the fear that’s been a chokehold around his neck since far more years than he ever spent as a Son, has lost some of it’s strenght. It’s turning looser, doesn’t tug him back as roughly as before, not when Tully is there to hold it. And for some reason, Tully isn’t taking the usual path of self-hatred for the powerful. Not with Juice, not anymore.

For what it’s worth, Juice can’t see a need for Tully to tug the leash. In the open, it’s of course a matter of display of power and Juice knows that game well enough to not give the shot caller cause to protect himself and his reputation. Even that time it happened, the punishment was given behind closed doors and, which is just as important, clearly unwillingly.

The man holding him like some kind of human teddy bear, isn’t mostly doing it to keep a toy close or a punk in check. It’s a man who needs closeness, comfort maybe, and who can only have it by being one of the worst threats to a con in here. But then again, he could also be playing. This could be a sinister game, a way of passing time and exploring more of his power.

Juice can stretch himself to believe Tully has a capacity for accepting, maybe even appreciate, the idea of being kind without demanding something in return that causes the object of his caring pain and humiliation. He can also imagine this terrifyingly intelligent man to use an idea he doesn’t truly believe in, in this case white power, as a means to an end.

It’s horribly cynical in a way that’s right down baffling. The idea of someone holding on to a belief, a brand that demands a devotion close to that of a cult, without giving a fuck. It should cause concern, should make Juice worried and disgusted, but maybe he’s lost those feelings in here, at least when it comes to other people.

And he’s seeking comfort from his rapist – is there a thing as former rapist? Probably not. – because in this fucked up version of what’s become more of an afterlife than a living death, Tully is the first one to accept every part of him without pushing him away or using him as leverage. It’s not how it’s supposed to be and Juice is still, when seeing himself with his outside eyes, disgusted with the whole thing, but the man on the outside is dead and these past weeks have shown that the man inside isn’t.

Not even a shot caller, silently crying himself to sleep.

Chapter Text

There is something with the way his boy carries himself these days that worries Tully. Not for his own sake or because he dislikes it, because he doesn’t. The dead look that used to stand out like a dark pit in the hollow face is gone and in it’s place there’s this hardened but not really challenging gaze. Sometimes, it’s as if Juice isn’t present at all outside their cell. It used to be due to a look of death, a shadow of a man who’s long since given up, but that’s changed and Tully likes it.

Sharing a cell – and bunk – with a man waiting for death as calmly as Juice, has honestly taken it’s toll on Tully because unless you’re an actual sadist or complete pshychopath, you can only take so much of another man’s self-loathing in a small prison cell. Juice is actually alive, almost living a little when there’s just the two of them, but the living thing is a flame that goes out the moment they step outside the cell and what remains is a body that’s alive and walking, nothing more.

A good thing about it, like now at yard time, is that fewer cons look at Tully’s boy like he’s a joke or prey. The sun is too hot today, breakfast was crap and Tully looks at his boy through sunglasses while getting a little exercise done. Juice is doing pull-ups, shirt foregone and the tanktop is tight around his upper body, as is the gauze wrapped around his lower arm to cover the ink. He’s hot as hell, there’s just no use in denying that, and in here that means he’s prime meat. Or would be, if Tully had less power. As it is, other cons can merely watch and make jokes they think Tully doesn’t notice.

Tully takes another blow on his smoke and lets his most predatory gaze run over the men closest to Juice. One of them, a Son if he’s not mistaken, realises Tully is watching but bikers are rarely the prime of IQ and the idiot stares back. He seems young, Tully doesn’t remember him in here before, and he turns to Leroy.

“Who’s the Son?”
“New fish, came in yesterday. Samdino charter originally, transferred to Samcro recently.”
“Know what he’s in for?”
“Stupidity, most likely.”

Tully snickers and Leroy lits another smoke.

“Don’t know much, boss, but he’s barely dry behind his ears so I doubt he’s been patched in that long. Say what you want about the sheep fucker, but Telford has standards. That little fucker over there aint Redwood material.”
“True.”

You don’t have to like a club or even having business with them, to have respect. Telford is a very different leader compared to Teller, and Clay Morrow. The lack of blood bounds and family fued is most likely part of it, but Tully is good at reading people quickly and Chibs Telford is the kind of man who leads a pack of wolves instead of, like Morrow and Teller, trying to be a shepherd and getting their flock of sheep to go where they want to.

Tully respected both Morrow and Teller for their ability to get shit done even if he never had any personal contact with Morrow, but family bonds aren’t always healthy and most certaintly not always strong. Telford is an outsider in that regard, and both friends, allies and foes usually agree on that whataver faults the sheep shagger has, he’s not a hothead and he’s not dishonest, neither with his own nor associates.

The Son who isn’t Redwood material, most likely got transferred due to a favor of some sort and now he’s strutting around in here like the Reaper on his arm makes him immortal, or at least untouchable. He’s not in here for murder, that much is clear, probably he was just stupid enough to get caught assaulting a shop keeper or accidently killing someone while drunk driving. This could also mean that the Sons are short on new recruits in general, which isn’t surprising considering the heat they caused before Teller drove into that semi-truck.

Tully looks at him through sunglasses that make it seem like he’s looking at nothing and everything and the Son who’s around Juice’s height, quite buff is, judging by the openly contemptuous gazes at the rat, longing for a reason to come at him. Tully turns slightly towards his second.

“See what you can find out about this little juvenile fish and how he ended up in the big pond.”
“Got it, boss. Might wanna keep him away from your princess though.”
“What did you say?”

He’s calm and therefor much more frightening. He knows it, knows he doesn’t even have to look at Leroy. The man knows Tully about as well as anyone will in here – if you don’t count the parts only Juice gets to see – and the short silence is enough for Tully to know the message went through.

“Sorry, boss. Didn’t mean no disrespect. Wont happen again.”

Tully just nods slowly, showing he’s accepting the apology and they sit silent for a little while, both of them looking at the bars where Juice is doing another round of pull-ups.

“Word of advice though, boss.”
“And what’s that?”
“The boy is eye candy in here, you know that. If I were you, I’d make sure he’s wearing a big t-shirt next yard time.”
“Maybe.”

He’ll consider it because while Juice seems like he couldn’t give a fuck about the looks as long as no one touches him, he’s already been attacked in here – Tully doesn’t count himself because he didn’t do it in the open or out of nowhere – and cons in general are idiots who can’t plan ahead of their next jerk off session.

The boy wont like it, but Tully will have him wear something less revealing tomorrow.

Chapter Text

The warden looks smug when presenting the “offer”. Juice is still a bit sweaty from the exercise outside and more than a little tired of Fitzgerald’s shit. Bernhards is there as well, of course, arms folded like some goddamn high school teacher who’s about to give a stern warning to an unruly student.

Fitzgerald has his stupid little tie on, looking groomed and neat and he’s folding his hands on the table, leaning forward a little to drive his point home. Juice silently wonders if he’s trying to copy Tully and if he’s at all aware of how miserably he fails.

“You’re not making much progress in therapy, Ortiz, and Sr. Pete is worried that your lack of activity will cause you further problems, so we have an offer.”

In other words: he’s not sharing enough, not showing enough humility and remorse. He’s simply not very good at lying in group like that anymore and therefor his place there is a waste of time and money. Something Juice has already pointed out and now these idiots think they can use that as a leverage, as if it’s news to him.

He looks at them, blatantly unimpressed.

“Okay, sir.”

Bernhards shakes his head.

“Do you understand that this means you’ll have to quit the therapy unless you can show progress?”
“I understand that, sir.”
“We’ve assigned you a job. You’ve been idle for far too long and I think you’ll agree with us that some time off from Tully would do you good.”

It’s funny how things that would be illegal for a cop on the outside, is perfectly okay for prison staff to threaten a con with in here. Juice can barely hide his disdain, it shines through the cracks some but he can’t help it.

These men are supposed to be the good guys, those with the moral high ground and there they sit- and stand – pointing out just how aware they are of what Tully does and has done to him.

Cooperate or we’ll let him rape you and on top of that have you do the shittiest job in here. Because we too can make your life miserable.

Juice smiles.

“What kind of job are you offering me, sir?”
“The laundry.”

The worst job here aside from handling the literal garbage and cleaning bathrooms. Juice keeps smiling, not challenging or smug, but like the simpleton they think he is.

“That’s a very kind offer, sir. When do I start?”

It’s hard not to laugh at the two idiots who clearly expected protests or maybe even a threat of some kind. Bernhards pulls himself together first.

“Tomorrow morning, after breakfast.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t be late.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, sir.”

He’s not sure when he became this openly but still not obviously hostile towards people holding power over him. It may have something to do with the thing everyone in here, from the lowest punk to the warden, must do on daily basis: fighting to maintain whatever sliver of power he has. And since the warden has come to the conclusion that you can’t bribe Juice into ratting again, or move him to another cell without retaliation that can’t be traced back to Tully but everyone knows comes from him, this is probably a perfect middleground.

If you can’t afford to make the shot caller pissed off but still want to hit him where it hurts, you get to his punk and preferably in a way that looks completely innocent. The warden gives him an annoyed look.

“You can leave, Ortiz.”
“Thank you, sir.”

He raises from the chair and leaves, walking idly through the hallway with the guard back to his cell and every protest and unwanted emotion under lock and key behind the uncomfortable prison shirt. He shouldn’t care, he should remain dead but that’s proven to be difficult when the grave is constantly being dug into.

Suddenly, the energy gotten from yard time is gone and when Juice is back on his bunk – Tully is still outside – he’s so exhausted he falls asleep.

Chapter Text

Princess. Leroy knows nothing and Tully wants it that way. Juice might be sleeping right now but he is no beauty and Tully wont put any ribbons in his hair. Okay, he’s kinda pretty, cute in a way, and that just makes the princess comment worse.

Juice was exhausted when returning from the warden’s office and the guard escorting him was the one telling Tully about the laundry. There are several guards on Tully’s paylist, their salary is shitty, they work long hours and a little extra means a lot as long as the risk is fairly low. It’s important to never ask too much too often, or to be cheap or use threats unless it’s necessary. Bribing guards is a delicate matter.

Having his boy work in the laundry is not ideal, but at the moment there isn’t much to be done about it.

Tully goes to the sink, washing off a bit before sitting down by the small desk with one of the coded letters. There is a whole bunch of them in a neat pile because being a shot caller in prison means you have to do a lot of shit the old fashion way. That’s good, since it makes time pass a little faster and keeps you occupied. As of late, Tully has been a little too busy keeping an eye on Juice but he has other things to attend to as well.

Understanding the business part of the AB was what eventually got Tully away from the the position as a punk. Carl Green was too stupid to see it, but the entire time he had Tully kneeling between his legs in the open, not to make him blow him but to simply treat him like a dog, that dog took internal notes. Tully has one hell of a memory when he wants to and he rather quickly learned that the best way to be kept in the loop, was to be invisible.

Green mostly spoke in code, of course, but it wasn’t that fucking difficult to break, especially not with the amount of idiots who failed at using it correctly. The shaved punk with a pigtail, short tank top and pink lipstick was just part of the decorations, the commodies, the service and the entertainment. No one worried he would pick up anything of importance and even he would, they knew he wouldn’t say peep. What they didn’t count on, was the way he’d use that silence.

Tully opens the first letter, a plea from a business associate in Tacoma who asks for more time to make the last transfer of a debt, due to a medical bill concerning his 5-year-old daughter. Tully doesn’t care, but gratitude is one of the best hooks to use in this business and he writes an answer, graciously allowing the man to contact the AB collector in question and tell him that Tully grants him another two months.

He’s good with numbers and the man’s debt isn’t of a size that giving a little more time would mean anything for the Brotherhood. The man has also been good at paying back in time before and you simply don’t let a father suffer because he gave his kid necessary medical treatment. The papers are in good order and Tully signs his answer in the elegant handwriting he’s using for business, stucks the letter in an envelope and conceals it simply to give the pigs at the prison post office more work.

Back when he was Green’s toy, he’d run errands for him. Clean the cell, polish his boots, do his laundry and collect his tray, of course, but he was also sent to the commissary on Green’s behalf, or the library. Within six months, as the first paralyzing shock was easing up a bit, Tully knew every shitty corner of the prison and he started to gain, not friends or respect, but associates of some sort. By cleaning after himself in the laundry room, the con who had the job to look after that area, was grateful because most of the cons were swine.

And by going to the library regularly, asking the old con in there, Tom, for reading tips, he earned points with him as well. Being observant, polite and patient took Tully a long way forward and as his ass turned numb from the constant pain and Green took to whipping his back instead for variation, Tully learned just how little your life is worth in the hands of others. Unless you’re the puppet master, someone else will tug your strings and the power and resistance most effective, Tully discovered wasn’t always the one most visible.

Power is to know things and knowing when to use that and for what purpose. He’s killed more people from in here than on the outside, either by himself or by giving the order for someone else to carry out and not once has he been caught. That, along with his very white ass and easiness in painting the picture people wanted to see, is what made him rise from a punk in pink braids to an AB member and then a shot caller. It took in total sixteen months of rapes, assaults, punishments and a stomach in constant rebellion before he rose, not to power, but from his knees to his feet.

The last person who ever made the mistake of calling Tully princess was found hanging in the showers with a crown drawn in lipstick across his face. It didn’t even take two days before the first con in need of protection showed up at the AB table, not to speak to the new shot caller, but to have a word with the boy. A few weeks and a whole bunch of similar visits later, the new shot caller, Andrew Cutler, started to let Tully join the conversation about the AB business and once he realised that the former punk who no longer wore braids, lipstick or short tank tops, was a better asset sitting at the table than serving it, Cutler’s greed and pragmatism won easily.

Tully finishes another letter, still deep in this memory that belongs to the first good ones during his first stint in here. He’s never been sentenced for life, the crimes he’s been convicted for have all been of the kind that doesn’t fall under the three strikes rule and if he’s lucky, he’s out on parole in about six years. If not, he’ll get shanked or get caught doing something that earns him a life sentence or even the death penalty.

In Tully’s experience, it’s the naïve and insecure, easily triggered and impulsive – or the overly confident and comfortable ones who end up with 25 to life or on death row. Honestly, he can no longer remember how it felt to wake up and not having control over shit. First of all, himself. That’s how it began, by shutting down everything that could threaten that and now he no longer reckognizes that feeling.

There’s a price to pay, of course. Tully starts on letter number three – another shot caller put away for life in Nevada Ely State Prison politely asking for possible intel about a missing delivery of H that should’ve come through a week ago – and allows himself to think about that thing that must remain unspoken, even if it’s accepted in silence.

Most shot callers who’ve lived long enough to know what makes the world go round, really don’t give a shit about race – or sexual orientation. It’s all about money, power and reputation and as long as that holy trinity is honored, there are very few lines you’re not allowed to cross. Gangs who’re being ran as businesses, will never be successful with posers like Darby or that useless shit Gerber who let the Nords down and eventually got himself killed by Jax Teller.

Thinking about the biker pres who gladly sold out his former brother to be raped, makes Tully throw a glance towards the bottom bunk where Juice is sleeping. He looks peaceful, which is just a mockery against reality and an assault on common sense, but in here, there’s no such thing as common or sense. Just the reality of how a prey becomes predator and claims a prey of his own in a neverending circle of trying to survive without ever really living.

The Reaper, the bringer of death, ironically might never have suited Juice better than now. And the next time Leroy or anyone else calls Tully’s boy princess, there’ll be hell to pay.

Chapter Text

It’s when you’re starting to step outside your head without detaching from yourself that you can start to see things more clear. Juice has never been able to do that before. For as long as he can remember, he’s been trapped in a maze of his own and other’s thoughts, tangled feelings and instincts confused for ideas and plans. More often than not, he’s had a difficult time telling when a feeling is his own or someone elses – if a will, a longing or a motive is something from inside himself or not.

Juice has killed out of panic, out of love, out of real and imagined necessity, out of cowardice and for business purposes. He’s killed a brother who trusted him and then had prospects killed by putting the blame on them for a crime he committed. They were innocent those times and got horribly, accidently, in the way. Juice has killed but he’s not a killer. He doesn’t feel like one.

Does that mean Tully could’ve raped him without being a rapist? The idea is as sickly and bizarre as it sounds. There is no excuse for Tully raping him and Juice is pretty damn sure he’s not the nazi’s first victim. Killing can have a just cause, but rape?

No, he’s not gonna get that shit in his head.

Juice peeks from his curled up position on the bed. He’s been sleeping for a while and woke up by himself, not from a nightmare or that fucking alarm bell. Tully sits by the small desk, back towards the bunks and writes something, holding the pen almost elegantly with his hand. He should hate those hands, should feel disgusted by them but frankly, Juice has never felt as comfortable with someone’s touch as he does with the shot caller’s and while that is just fucked up and disturbing on every god damn level, it’s none the less the truth.

At night, especially, Tully’s hands are guardians against nightmares, closed doors stopping intruding thoughts and the wall shutting pain, cold and loneliness out. Even at the times when nightmares interrupt, Juice sleeps a lot better in here with Tully, than he ever did on the outside.  

And right now, despite it being daytime, he doesn’t want to be alone.

“Tully?”

He doesn’t call the shot caller by that name too often, but Tully is too far from the bunk for Juice to use the nick name without anyone noticing. The shot caller puts the pen down, turning around and when his face is hidden from the bars there’s a smile for him.

Juice can’t help but blush and he doesn’t know why. The smile looks… sweet. It’s a little bashful, seems genuine and just not suitable in here at all.

“You awake, baby?”

The shot caller leaves the desk and comes to squat by Juice’s head, leaning his arms onto the mattress. He’s still smiling and strokes Juice’s cheek with two curled fingers. It’s a shallow, but warm touch, not degrading or dismissive. Before Juice really knows what he’s doing, he leans close to drop a peck on the shot caller’s forehead.

The nazi in the half-buzzed, dyed haircut and catlike gaze, drops his lower lip just a little, eyes widening and he looks… lost. A split second of utter and complete confusion, surprise and then a small blush starts creeping up on the pale face. Juice bites his lip, not sure where to look and so he lowers his head to curl into Tully’s chest.

“I’m awake, papi… You busy?”
“Not really.”

More strokes, this time over his head, his neck. Fingers lingering by the spine, the one he tride to snap with a rope and a branch.

Chibs found him, yelled, hit and cried.

Ye coward!

Tully’s hand is gentle and careful. No snapping, no grabbing or shaking. Voice not angry, loud or disappointed. Tears are prickling Juice’s eyes, he doesn’t know when he got so weak in this way for the shot caller who hurt him so badly. But isn’t that the story of his life, really?

He doesn’t have it in him to hate even when he should and it’s only now he’s seeing that, feeling it and knowing that it truly does come from within.

If I were ye, I'd take that gun, put it in my mouth and pull the trigger.

Some hurt just goes too deep it can’t be cried away. And still he does. Still he tries.

“You’re lost in your head again, boy.”

Tully’s voice has different sorts of calm. There is the neutral but respectful one, that he uses with the guards, with just a hint of disrespect people mostly can’t trace to the point of accusing him of being rude. Then there’s the leader among friends calmness, the voice that doesn’t need to rise for allies to pay attention. That’s the least scary one, at least in the open.

This calm is balancing on the edge of worry, sternness and protectiveness. It bares traces of Chibs, not the man who told Juice to eat his gun or screamed coward in the forest, but the one who comforted Juice in a bathroom, telling him it didn’t fucking matter his dad was black. In comparison, Tully’s lack of outspoken compassion – good or bad – sounds like a lack of caring and at one point, that was what Juice heard and also what the shot caller most likely felt.

That has changed. Juice feels the hand steadying around his nape, a firm but slow squeeze and he gets a kiss on his forehead. Tully isn’t angry with him for the peck and Juice finally looks up. He wants to find the monster he hates but it’s hard these days and right now impossible. Tully’s hazel eyes have a way of appearing black and that scares people. Cons, brothers, punks and guards alike. Right now they aren’t scary. Difficult to read, yes, very difficult, but whatever it is pointing at Juice, it’s not malice, despise or even power.

Who the hell are you, Tully? If I asked, could you even tell me if you wanted to?

“You shouldn’t think so much, baby boy. Put your shirt on, it’s almost lunch time.”

The gaze turns away and when Juice looks at the wall where the mirror is, he can see the other man’s eyes in it. They’re those of a shot callers again. Black, motionless and ready to have a look at the world.

To thrill holes in it, set it on fire and watch it burn.

Chapter Text

The boy makes an effort. The motive for it is still unclear, but despite the weariness, Juice is sitting like he’s alert in the cafeteria. He picks at his food, as usual, and there might come a time when Tully will have to address that, but it’s not now. Juice is still exhausted but hides it well. His back is a little too straight and it looks like he’s trying to appear taller, but it’s probably just a way of keeping himself awake.

To not show weakness.

The food is edible today. Meatloaf, mash and carrots with gravy. Another two pieces of useless white bread with butter, of course, and cherry jello for dessert. Carbs with more carbs and a pitiful slice of fatty meat. But the cons in the kitchen are fairly good at spices whenever they can get their hands on the right ones, Tully admits that, and overall the lunch could be far worse.

Watching Juice pick over his food, makes Tully realise how thin he actually is. One becomes used to things, he supposes, and its only when he actively compares his boy’s frame with the rest of the cons in the cafeteria, that Tully notices it.

Juice is, not skeletal, but visibly too thin. The bones and veins on his hands are prominent, the cheeks hollowed from more than just poor sleep and depression and the prison pants are hanging a little too low.

Tully keeps eating and recalls a time when he used to be as hollowed out himself. It started off as a stomache ache that didn’t pass, with an appetite that just wasn’t there and with a foul taste in his mouth. Blood, cum and unwashed dick.

Here’s your dessert, princess.

He’s no longer that boy and these days his belly is flabby, his face filled out and the veins no longer prominent under his skin. Eating became easier with time and with a little low profile support from Underwood in solitary.

You’re turning into skin and bones, kid, and you weren’t big to begin with.

Food’s shit and I aint hungry.

Getting sent down here all the time wont make it better. Can’t even get commissary, you know, and if you keep this going, you’ll turn ill. One man food strikes wont change anything for the better.

Underwood was right, of course, but it took time before things made a turn for the less shitty. One night, Tully got a terrible stomach ache, absolutely horrible, and the guard on duty thought he was faking it until Tully literally started to bawl his eyes out and throw up bile. Appendicitis brought him to the sick ward and a bed instead of a crammed bunk or concrete floor.

Tully looks at his boy, at his men and the cafeteria. There’s no one left from those days, no one who can spill the beans about how the Aryan shot caller made the prison doc and nurses loose their shit from the sight of his skeletal frame with whip markings and, once they’d gotten him sedated, the puffy, bleeding hole. Weaknesses that should’ve been kept hidden and Tully refused to speak but eventually started to eat again.

The only thing he remembers with anything close to comfort from that episode, is how soft and safe the bed in the sick ward felt and how the nurses and doc were furious on his behalf, refusing to let him return to the cell block before he’d gained a little weight. How he’d bitten one of the nurses who came up from behind without being reported and how the warden got pissed when Tully wouldn’t give up the name of his rapist and abuser because placing a skinny kid who should’ve been in juvie with a 40 plus gangbanger nazi in for armed robbery and assualt with a deadly weapon apparantly had nothing to do with this.

Juice has stopped picking his food, put the spork down and it’s obvious he’s not gonna eat anything more. Tully throws a glance at the watch on the wall, a little plan taking form. Commissary is still open and he looks around the table where his men are more or less done with the crap. He’ll have to guess a little, because there’s no chance in hell he’ll let them know he cares about his punk's eating habits.

Chapter Text

The Samdino man Juice can’t make himself think of as Redwood, keeps looking at him from a distance and had it been someone known to him from before, it would’ve felt uncomfortable. Had it been Chibs, Tig, Happy or Ratboy… Juice forces away a shudder and takes a blow on his smoke.They have extra yard time this afternoon, due to some fucking pest control or something, meaning the yard is filled with more cons than usual, plus extra guards.

Juice is not comfortable outside, but not as wound up or numb as before. Marty, whom Juice has started to name the village idiot in silence, is bored and bounces around as Tully, Leroy and Hugh are all busy talking about something that either is above Marty’s rank or his brain capacity. Most likely both. Leroy starts to get irritated and Tully’s very slight turn of the head tells Juice he’s about to have had enough of Marty ruining yard time too. Juice finishes his smoke and looks at Leroy.

“Leroy?”

Tully’s second looks up, a little surprised because Juice has never addressed him directly like this. Juice forces himself to remain calm.

“Can I borrow your deck of cards?”

Juice throws a glance at the bouncing Marty and Leroy gets it. He digs in his pocket and without a word, he throws the deck over to Juice.

“Thanks, man. Marty? Wanna play?”

Marty spits on the ground, probably not solely out of disrespect, but because he’s just disgusting in that way in general.

“Don’t play with spic fags.”
“Of course not.”

Juice smiles, shuffling the cards expertly.

“Maybe you just don’t wanna loose against one.”

The snickers from the other AB guys are enough for Marty to puff his chest up.

“Fuck you, spic fag.”

Juice ignores the slurs and starts dealing the cards, not waiting for a confirmation that the idiot is in, because Marty is the kind of guy who can’t walk away from a challenge and when Leroy moves a little on the bench by the picnic table to give room, Marty has little choice but sitting down, facing Juice.

“You know Spades?”
“I know what fucking cards are, spic.”
“I meant the game, shithead. You play Spades?”

He’s rude, but Marty is very low in rank and has also been told off several times for coming at Juice, even punished at one point. It’s almost crossing the line here, but the quick look at Tully tells Juice he’s not yet overstepped. It’s close though and Marty isn’t happy. He holds his hand out.

“I’m dealing.”
“Sure.”

There’s no point, nothing to gain by not letting Marty do that. The guy is too fucking insecure and ready to lash out from the slightest insult, real or imagined. Juice is doing this to keep himself from focusing on the new Son in the yard – and to make an impression. He’s not acting with something as elaborate as a long-term plan. He’s not a shot caller, after all, but he’s starting to see patterns within the group he’s kept with. Tully is one of a kind when it comes to keep his shit together in public, but Leroy comes in good second and Hugh, who mostly just engages idly in conversation without really giving too much input, seems happy with being the muscle controlled by the shot caller.

Then there are a couple of other guys, Juice still can’t make himself remember their names, but they’re younger than Tully and older than Juice, possibly around thirtyfive or so, and they never ever engage with Juice but simply ignore his presence completely.

Oh, right. Butler and Parker. Juice forces away a smile because sometimes coinsidence is just too ridiculous and together they sound like a couple of stupid burglers in a kid’s movie or a pair of equally braindead cops in a comedy show. Juice hasn’t had much reason to pay attention to them, really, because for most time in here he’s not cared at all and once he started to care, the attention and energy hasn’t been enough to cover those who’re not close. Since they’re not as high in rank as Leroy or Hugh, they’re not talking too much to Tully without being spoken to, and unlike Marty they know how to shut up and stay still.

Marty has as little patience as he has focus and he throws the cards on the table after the first round.

“Fucking cheater!”
“Everyone hates a champion.”

He grins at the man, takes the cards and starts shuffling again, as the memory hits him behind the smile.

Belfast. Girls laughing, accusing him of cheating in cards. Green pastures, summer that felt like cold spring. Small villages with white houses and a treacherous calm. High hills, curving roads, him and Hap following O’Neil, the sudden shouts and sound of an engine from the barn.

Chibs cradling his dead cousin, crying over the body.

Paddyboy?  Paddyboy!

“Hey, spic, you lost somewhere?”

Always.

Juice closes his eyes, trying to bring down the curtain before Belfast and the life he lost and when he looks up, he finds himself looking straight at the new Son. The eyes have that kind of disgust that is personal but not intimate. They don’t know each other, have never met and Juice doesn’t even know his name.

It’s his own past life looking back at him and it’s nothing but a stranger. He forces the image away and Marty looks uncomfortable as hell.

“You’re creepy, Ortiz. You know that?”

Juice laughs, which only makes Marty look more confused.

“Yeah? Does that mean you can’t make it another round?”
“Like hell. Start dealing, you freak.”

He’s not entirely certain, but in the corner of his eye, Juice thinks he can spot a very small gaze of something unusual in Tully’s face. It looks suspiciously close to pride.

Chapter Text

“Four hours, Tully. That’s it. And that’s another six hundred, I have…”
“Medical bills and mortgage, yes, I know, Linch. How’s your mother holding up?”
“Alive.”
“And kicking?”
“More like screaming. Mostly for her daughter to get another job.”
“Coming back here must be like a little piece of heaven then.”
“You know me, Tully. Baby sitting you shitheads is all the vacation I ever wanted.”

Tully smirks. He happens to like this screw. Linch is in her late thirties and with a body to die for – and from. She’s a bodybuilder, around 5 feet 9 and trying to charm her into anything is a dead end. You want her to give you a favour, hard cash is the only way and she doesn’t take any unnecessary risks. Tully likes her because she doesn’t need to bark and intimidate, and she’s completely and utterly disinterested in getting personally involved with the prisoners on a level she can’t control. It takes time and work to get her in your pocket, but ones she’s in, she’s reliable.

He hands over the cash, she counts them as always and nods.

“The rest?”
“Tomorrow morning, as always.”
“As always…”

She smirks.

“So… a Puerto Rican, huh?”
“Yes.”
“No white boys available?”
“No one who knew enough about soap and toothpaste.”
“Ortiz does? A catch in here, then.”

Tully just hums, Linch lost her ideals early on since starting here almost a decade ago. She doesn’t particularly like her job and as most guards, she’s come to accept things she’s not supposed to because you can’t start a battle over every fucked up thing in here without eventually loosing your job or something more valueble. Tully has tried to use Linch only when he’s had a more willing punk, because there’s always a risk of this screw’s moral to show up and become a wrench in the wheel.

Linch puts the money in her braw, not giving two fucks about Tully seeing her with her uniform unbuttoned. She knows he doesn’t care even if she’d never ask the question right out. In here, there is no such thing as an identity you can’t choose – or be robbed of or forced into – except your heritage and skin color. And as long as no one asks a sincere question or gives an equally sincere answer, everyone can just keep pretending there are about 97% straight men in here and then 3% queens who sexually starved cons can fuck since well done make-up and a pair of swaying hips goes a long way when the only pussy you have access to, comes in the form of poorly handled nude magazines.

“Anything I need to know about your Puerto Rican?”
“He’s a little skittish.”
“Of course.”
“No pet names and don’t touch him unless you really need to.”
“You know me better than that, Tully.”

True. This is another reason why he likes Linch. There are female screws who’ll use cons for sex, and it’s not always consensual, but there are no such rumors about Linch. Tully would’ve heard if there were. He then remembers.

“Dinner?”
“Commissary, I’m doing the graveyard shift, after all. I’m afraid there’ll be no candles or silver.”
“As long as there’s no raisins or energy drinks. He likes chocolate though.”
“What a shocker. I’ll get your delivery and you’ll get me the rest of the money in the morning. Now get lost.”
“Yes, ma’m.”
“Screw you, Tully.”
“I’ve missed you too, Linch. Oh, and another thing.”
“What?”
“Tell him to bring Treasure Island.”

Linch snickers.

“You plan on boring him to death?”
“Not really, but then he’ll know that I sent for him.”

Chapter Text

The job is surprisingly heavy and unbelievably shitty and by noon Juice wants to drench himself in industrial bleach. On the bright side though, Tully must’ve made it very clear who the spic punk rat belongs to and that there’ll be consequences if his possession is touched in any suspicious way. In reality, that means social isolation in the laundry and while Juice is grateful it’s also very uncomfortable.

He’s scheduled here five days a week during afternoons from now on because there’s no such thing as easing in a lowlife con gently, especially not since he’s already spent a few months in here without doing anything useful. It’s about time, probably, and it would’ve been fulltime had there not been too many inmates having to share the work.

He’s set to take tumble dried sheets and then pull them through an electric mangle while still damp and the con in charge takes every chance he gets to point out every little wrinkle Juice doesn’t get straightened out. The room is hot from steam, smells from both dirt, cheap laundry soap and bleach. The cons all look tired, some have red eyes and one idiot keeps rubbing them with his hands without washing the chemicals off first. No one ever accused the average con of having too many braincells.

“You Tully’s boy?”

Juice holds one end of the sheet and the con who suddenly decided the silence was too awkard while  folding laundry for the mangle, pulls at his end to straighten it out. They both walk up to each other, putting the ends together and Juice takes the folded sheet, nodding.

“Yeah.”

It doesn’t even bother him to acknowledge it anymore. It’s the truth and trying to pretend otherwise wont give him any benefits. The con’s name is Tom or Thomas or something, a half Jamaican that Juice will not be as stupid as to call a jump-up. He’s not part of the Jamaican gang though, but like many half-breeds in here, left to search for a group who’s loyalty isn’t as tightly bound to the blood. He’s not an outcast, just not part of of a tight grouping and despite the chemicals burning Juice’s eyes, it’s a relief to work with someone who’s not a gangbanger.

Juice takes the folded sheet and puts in in the stack of already done ones, while Tom/Thomas grabs another one from the neverending pile of laundry. He has dreads pulled back in a sloppy bun and skinny arms of the sort that just naturally wont grow visible muscles.

“So… Nazis like brown sugar too, I guess.”

It’s not malicious or even surprised, just a very matter-of-factly comment from a low-ranked con who knows the system just as well as Juice. They meet on the middle again and Juice shrugs.

“Can’t always win the cellie lottery.”
“He snores, talks and farts in his sleep?”

Juice can’t help but smile.

“Not that I’ve noticed.”

Tom/Thomas makes an ironic little grimaze.

“Then you won. Gregory should be considered a bio weapon and confiscated the next cell search, aint kidding.”

That makes Juice snicker. It’s not a real laughter, far from it, but despite his rinning eyes and the noise from machines, too loud cons and the fear he must keep in check since Tully isn’t here to protect him, as far as prison work goes, he probably could’ve ended up worse.

The afternoon goes by fairly quickly, as apposed to just sit with his own head, but when the bell rings out the workday, Juice’s eyes are red and rinning, his face damp with flushed cheeks and his hands are itching and aching. Tom/Thomas has been perfectly fine to work with, not asking the wrong questions or having a temper.

When they change back into their uniforms – strictly superwised – the half Jamaican even gives a little nod.

“Guess I’ll see ya tomorrow, kid.”

Kid. It’s not a slur or even a degratory thing. Juice nods back.

“Yeah. Thanks for showing me the ropes, man. Appreciate it.”
“No problem.”

The bell goes off again and it’s time to get to the cafeteria. Juice is starving but knackered and when a guard pulls him aside and tells him to go to the block, he gets annoyed.

“S’dinner and I’m starving. Didn’t do nothing!”

A few cons passing by are looking and Juice hates being in focus so after that little outburst, he complies and follws the hack back to his cell, where there’s no Tully to be seen and Juice is confused. The door is closed and then the guard just leaves.

“Hey! Hey, what’s going on?”
“Thanks, Roberts.”
“What’s this about, Linch?”
“Just a check-up at the clinic.”
“I could’ve taken him there myself!”
“Yeah? Yates is in there…”
“Fuck…”

Yates, apparantly, is someone Roberts doesn’t want close, but who’s this new guard that looks like a female giant and where, where, where is Tully? Linch, as she’s called, pats Robert’s shoulder.

“I’ll take it from here.”
“Thanks. Glad you’re back, Linch.”

Roberts leaves and Juice just feels the anxiety take over. He’s hungry, still itching from the laundry and he’s exhausted and no Tully and a new hack, Jesus, this isn’t good.

“Relax, Ortiz, Tully sent me.”
“Sure he did.”
“Told you to bring Treasure Island with you. He’s paid good money for this, so we shouldn’t let him wait.”

Chapter Text

The stress shines like a goddamn beacon around his boy and the relief when seeing Tully is painful to witness. Tully almost regrets not telling him beforehand but you can’t be too careful in here and hopefully, this little arrangement will make up for the minutes of anxiety. Linch is gentle when removing the cuffs and she looks at Tully.

“Four hours, set the alarm. When I open, you’ll be ready to leave.”
“Four hours sharp, Linch. Thank you.”
“Don’t do anything too adventurous.”
“I’m boring by nature, Linch.”

Linch just smirks and leaves, locking the door and Juice still stands on his spot, looking like he doesn’t know whether to laugh, cry or just sink to the floor. Tully holds his arms out, a gesture he can do in here, with cameras and mics off.

“It’s okay, baby. I had to take precautions to arrange this, I’m sorry if I got you worried. Let me hold you, sweetheart.”

The shivering form is all but falling into Tully’s arms and he holds his boy like that, like he usually can’t due to prying eyes and even if he’s washed off some, there’s still a smell from bleach surrounding Juice.  He rubs a hand over the tense back and there’s a sniffle onto his chest.

“What… what’s all this, papi?”
“A treat. For my sweet boy. And for myself too, I must admit.”

Tully chuckles into his boy’s hair.

“I’ve missed taking care of you in privacy, baby. Now there’s just you and me, no cameras, no mics for four hours.”
“You gonna read me Treasure Island for four hours?”

Juice still shivers a little, clearly not relaxed yet, but he’s getting there and Tully keeps petting him.

“If you want me to, but not until we’ve eaten.”
“You brought a three course meal and wine?”
“Close. Tortilla wraps, canned tuna and sweet corn for main.”
“Sounds way better than the shit they serve in the cantine.”
“I hope so. And then there’s vanilla pud and canned peaches for dessert.”

The look on his boy’s face is one of happy surprise and Tully is at a point where he can no longer completely ignore the little tug of happiness it gives him, simply by making Juice smile for real. The stress has already decreased and the huge eyes are looking at the still unopened bag from commissary. Tully smiles.

“Looking at that bag like a kid at Christmas gifts, boy. You hungry?”
“No, but I want to be.”

That’s probably the best one could hope for and Tully nods at him.

“Open it then, sweetheart. I’ll pour the wine replacement.”
“Hooch?”

The boy scrunches his nose (no, it’s not fucking adorable!) and Tully chuckles.

“Worse. Sprite Zero.”
“I happen to like that better than hooch, papi.”
“At least it doesn’t taste like raisins and yeast. Come on, boy, open the bag and don’t let an old con wait for supper.”

There’s a blush and Juice starts taking out the precious dinner, opening the cans and carefully preparing tortilla wraps. It’s not really like he’s serving Tully and that feels strangely alright. Usually, a punk is either graciously offered something from his owner he’s not allowed to decline – or offering his owner something that can be dismissed with a single snap of the finger.

This, oddly enough, feels a little bit like sharing. Juice looks up at the corner again, then back at the shot caller.

“No camers or mics?”
“Not a single one. Even checked myself before you got here.”

The tense shoulders relax a little bit and then Juice attacks his lack of appetite head on, with a huge bite of his wrap.

Chapter Text

He’s full. Not overwhelmingly, like he often gets these days if he attempts to eat what would be considered a normal sized meal, but okay full. Canned tuna is not bad, it tastes healthy and feels almost like back in the day when you came home drunk and had to get something to eat but your fridge was empty and you settled for whatever took least time to make.

Juice looks shyly at the shot caller. It’s been so long since he was on anything even close to a date and he can’t even recall the last one he had.

“What’s with the deep thinking frown, baby?”
“Just… I don’t remember last time I had an actual date… I mean, with a chic on the outside.”
“Thought bikers were drowning in pussy.”
“Fucking aint the same thing as dating.”

The shot caller nods.

“True. Never dated a lot.”
“Didn’t think so.”

He realises immediately that he was rude and he looks at the shot caller with remorse, knowing he overstepped and how it sounded but Tully just snickers and shakes his head.

“Don’t start shivering now, boy. You’re right. I’ve never been much into this whole dating stuff so I have no fucking idea what I’m doing right now.”
“Aryan girls don’t do dating?”
“Depends, I guess. Does sharp-shooting soup cans while getting high count?”
“Not in New York, it doesn’t. Guess dating is more old-fashioned in wherever you’re from.”
“Canton, Ohio.”
“So… you’re basically a hick and I’m a ghetto kid. How romantic.”
“Suits me just fine, boy. Got room left for pudding and peaches?”
“Yes, please.”

There’s an odd look from Tully, like he’s a little surprised but not displeased or intrigued. Just not prepared, probably, and it takes but a second for the usual mask of control to settle back in place. Split in one paper cup each, the suger bomb that is their desert is served and  the anxiety has started to slow down for real.

The fact that there’s no camera means Juice can lean onto the shot caller and the man chuckles at Juice’s longing gaze towards the conjugal visit bed.

“You tired already, sweetheart?”
“Just put a load of sugar and caffein in my system, Tully. Guess I’m just a little sick of the bunk and I wanna take advantage of a real bed.”
“Guess we better move then, baby.”
“Gotta warn you though, papi.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m no good to fuck when I just ate.”
“Juicy…”

There’s a sigh and Juice starts thinking he said something wrong, when Tully gives him a smile, shaking his head.

“We can fuck – later – if you wanna. If we wanna. Okay? There’s no camera, no mic, no… appearance to hold up for a few hours, baby, so how about we shut that ADD brain of yours down for a while with some good old pirates, huh? Or Marcus Aurelius…”
“Pirates! Please, pirates, for fuck’s sake!”
“Grab the book and get comfortable then, baby. You deserve a treat after your hard work.”

Juice blushes when retrieving the book and as Tully sits on the bed, Juice takes the opportunity to stretch out on the luxurious space before curling up in his usual roll, head placed on a soft pillow in the shot caller’s lap.

“If I fall asleep…”
“I’ll blame it on Robert Louis Stevenson.”
“Who?”
“The author of the classic I’m trying to broaden your cultural horizon with, you street urchin.”
“Street what?”
“Urchin. Rascal.”
“Jesus, you’re ancient, papi…”
“And you should listen to your elders, so shut your mouth and lets see where we left Jim Hawkins and Mr. Silver…”

Chapter Text

He could get used to this. There’s no drugs, no hooch and still, Juice laid down in his lap without being asked – or even ordered to. It fucks with Tully’s mind, with the pitiful excuse for a heart he has and, furthermore, with his sense of reality.

His boy is wide awake and there’s a warm smile ghosting over his face. It’s a stark contrast to the man staring at the Reaper in PC, who snorted coke and looked out into nothing with Tully’s head in a similar position on his lap. Tully can lie to himself when he needs to, but that would be weak. He’s not gonna pretend that his boy is even close to happy right now, just less miserable than he used to be. In here, where happiness is as rare as freedom, those things count.

Juice searches for his hand and Tully lets him, as always. He’s rarely pulled back from a touch instigated by his boy. He doesn’t want to reject him and, truth be told, Tully isn’t even sure how that would feel like at this point.

What he does know, is that there is a real difference in his own treatment of Juice and how Green treated him. More important though: there’s a difference between Tully’s treatment of Juice and of his former punks. It was so easy to just take the temporary pleasure, wave them off and then nod them back over, seeing them blush from anticipation once they’d accepted the situation.

Juice is the only one who didn’t put up a resistance at first – and never yielded. Tully did and neither of them really knows how to handle the oddity of it, it seems.

Tully reads aloud but finds himself a little too caught up in his own web of thoughts to put a real effort into it and when he looks down, he sees his boy asleep, relaxed like a cat on it’s back. Their hands are still folded together and Tully only hesitates for a moment before recalling the lack of cameras in this temporary and expensive privacy. There’s not much time left but they’ve used it well, meaning not at all like people would expect.

He puts the book away and strokes the hollow cheek in his lap, watches the still too thin lips and all he wants is to kiss them, not having them around his dick.

Ron Tully, shot caller for the AB, wants to kiss his half-black Puerto Rican punk. He’s done it before, a couple of times, but Jesus fucking Christ, how he wants to this time. Kiss him and more.

But his boy is asleep, looking as peaceful as a child in his mother’s arms and for some reason, Tully can’t do what he would’ve done weeks ago without any difficulty. He just doesn’t want to interrupt this… peacefulness, it’s so rare it’s almost unbelievable in a place like this and especially considering Juice’s state when first coming here.

His boy has changed a lot, but there’s still this aura of I don’t give a flying fuck around him. Usually that’s a really dangerous thing to be around. A man in here who has literally nothing left to loose rarely belongs to the kind of people who turn that pain inwards. It’s more of a suicide bomber type, who’ll go out either with intention to bring others down with him, or leave a trail of casualties of war behind.

People on the outside so very rarely understand that prison isn’t a parting from a gang banger’s world, but a part of it. Prison is Tully’s and Juice’s world and dipping into it from the outside, thinking a tazer, bulletproof vest and a tag will give actual power over it, is a stupidity that seems to repeat itself no matter what politicians currently running shit. This isn’t their world, it’s Tully’s and Juice’s and evey other prisoner with a long enough record and the others are just in it – and it will take them down in a minute.

Tully isn’t the type who’ll put the blame on the system for ending up where he is. That’s weak, he’s done a hell of a lot of choises he doesn’t regret at all. Robbery, assault, extortion, murder and rape. The latter only on the inside, only men and only punks. He got used to that too, it didn’t take long at all. Green knew how to break kids down quickly, to put in the heavy artillery fast, frequently and long enough in the beginning to not give any space for anything but survival. It happened every night the first month, at minimum two times per night, sometimes more, depending on how much coke Green had gotten his hands on. It would escalate, the need for absolute dominance, for remaking the kid into whatever Green needed.

Tully keeps petting his boy’s cheek, it’s softer than it should be and the clock is ticking but they still have a little time left. Green would’ve made another kind of use for it… How Tully hated, feared, was disgusted by his hands, his smell, his little breathy giggles down his neck, the way he sometimes licked a stripe across his shaved head, as if he needed to brand him further, then tugging at the little tail, whispering “good girl, so cute when you’re crying for daddy…”

“Papi…?”

The boy who’s not himself squints up at him from his lap and Tully feels his own lips curve into what feels like a genuine smile because while he wouldn’t admit it, he loves the way Juice calls him papi in that soft but not really submissive and certainly not scared voice. The sixteen months of agony melts away again, settle back in his closed memory and he knows his smile is of a kind that no one within theese walls have ever seen.

“You awake, sleepyhead?”
“Didn’t sleep, papi.”
“No?”

The smile grows wider, bright and sunny. Sunshine. Son Shine.

Had you been a white girl, I could’ve kissed you again, like we were on the outside…

Tully smiles back, has to because there’s just something forcing him and it doesn’t even feel like a defeat. He strokes the hair this time.

“Just rested, huh?”
“I like your arms, papi. Don’t… don’t sleep well without them, you know.”

Tully ignores the nut sized lump in his chest, how it travels up in a hard little knot to his throat and how his own smile hurts.

“Papi?”
“Yes, baby?”
“Thank you… for the date. I... I really, really liked it.”
“Me too, sweetheart.”

Had you been I white girl, I could’ve held you like this anywhere…

Juice’s arms reaches up and before Tully can process what’s happening, there’s a gentle force pulling his head down, dry lips meeting his own and it feels… strangely, impossibly just like breathing – living – has become a good thing again.

Chapter Text

He’s not used to this but in a way he probably should be. Not for the urge or the reciprocation, but for the lack of logic in his actions. He’s kissing the shot caller, he’s being kissed back and there is no lost black holes staring back at him, no calculating little smirk or even violence answering. Outside their very relative privacy, there are no signs of gentleness in Tully. Of calm, yes, but that comes from years of taught control and lack of impulsive traits, not from a personal need for being less intimidating to his punk.

When their lips part, Tully looks way too calm, like he’s trying to process what’s happening and just when Juice is ready to apologies, the shot caller kisses him back. It could’ve been violent, intruding, a way of pushing back and keeping the punk in place. It should be, but it’s not.

Because Tully isn’t calm. Not one bit. And Juice isn’t counting heartbeats, but the too few minutes counting down too fast. Maybe they should’ve made better use of them, this couldn’t have been cheap or easy to arrange and Juice slept it away. He slides down to Tully’s neck, to the warm skin there and he nibbles onto it.

“Sorry, papi…”
“What for, sweetheart?”
“Sleeping the time away…”

He could swear there’s a swallowing from the shot caller and the hand placed around his waist pulls him closer.

“You needed it, baby. And I… I like it when you’re… not so tense and tired. I didn’t bring you here for a fuck.”
“I know. I feel better.”

He knows because he just fucking knows. Because he’s been with Tully for so long now, he’s learned to read him a bit. All the confusing, mind-fucking and also the nasty bits of this strange man have slowly started to fall into place and maybe, just maybe you can’t simply decide on hating someone just as you can’t force yourself to love. Forgiveness, that one you can choose, and no, Juice shouldn’t forgive Tully for raping him, but didn’t he once hoped for forgiveness for betraying the only family he had? For killing one of his own brothers, stealing and lying and keeping them in the dark.

It doesn’t matter anymore that Tully raped him. All that matters is why and the answer is as simple as the action itself is horrible: survival. Juice killed, lied and stole to survive. Tully raped him for the same reason. Because the world they live in, the one that’s so far away from what most people would consider even close to normal, this is how they’ve kept breathing.

It’s ugly, it’s wrong and it’s fucked up. It’s dirty, immoral, unhealthy and stupid and they need it so desperately the past somehow doesn’t matter much anymore. The club couldn’t forgive Juice and all the time since Tully refused to kill him, he’s thought of it as the nature of things. That forgiveness is a thing you can never hope for, it’s a powertool of the righteous ones but Juice is a rat and still, he knows there’s an element of forgiveness towards Tully. Not because he accepts the rapes, but because his mind is finally in a set where he can see the patterns clearly.

He looks at the nazi he should hate, fear and disgust and strokes his cheek instead.

“Ron?”

He’s never used the shot caller’s first name before and once again, there’s that barely visible widening of the cat like eyes.

“Yes, Juice?”
“I mean it, you know.”
“What, baby?”
“I feel better. Not just from… all this, but from… being with you.”

Before Tully can answer, the first warning knock sounds and Juice looks at the clock. They have to get ready to leave.

Chapter Text

No one calls him that anymore. Ron. It’s Tully or boss. Well, papi too, when with Juice. But Ron? He’s not been Ron with anyone for years. They left their date a couple of hours ago and the boy has started doing some workout in their cell while Tully socializes with the men. They’re playing cards, idle talking and the mood is good. That means there are no obvious tensions or straight out threats or violence.

Juice seemed to like the, for lack of a better word, date. The smiles were genuine, the appreciation visible and he actually had an appetite. The kisses… They were eager, willing. Or maybe they just appeared so. Maybe he’s just become better at theatre, at playing whatever role it is he’s taken on.

Punk. Survivor. Ghost in human flesh.

Three years. That’s how long Tully’s first stint went on for and almost half of it was spent as Green’s cum rag. There are few photos of him from that time, for good reasons. Those that probably still exist in some medical archive, aren’t the kinds you put in the family album. Bruises, dead eyes, x-rays of broken things. Maimed skin and sharp bones. Pain so frequent he couldn’t remember a time without it.

How come you didn’t have us look this up sooner, Tully?

Didn’t think it was anything seriously wrong with me, doc.

You have four broken ribs, son. You’ve not felt any pain at all?

Not that I’ve noticed, doc. Guess my nerve system is a little fucked up. Just thought I had a cold, you know. With the coughing.

They’d treated him for the “cold” for three weeks without any progress and it was only after the nurse insisted they should do an x-ray that the four fractures were discovered. Ribs heal themselves, but the pain was horrible, the coughs made it worse and being fucked was unbearable. The doc was shocked that he’d walked around without proper pain medicine for that long without saying something.

Green was shanked not too long after that, the gossip about his punk’s ribs already spread and Tully was far from healed when he’d bribed the guard to sneak into the morgue for a little post death castration. He was still healing the night his new cellie tried to shove his dick down his throat and was met with a razor blade. It wasn’t cut off that time, Tully gave the creep a chance to pull out and how he’d loved the scream of pain and terror from the old shit.

He’d not just punished him, but taken him by complete surprise and before the night guard had come running from the other end of the block, Tully had already flushed the razor and rinsed his mouth while the man who thought he was just some toy he’d inherited, screamed like a baby.

He’d lashed out at Tully, impressively managed to punch him in the still injured ribs and the cons in the surrounding cells who witnessed the mess and learned that the punk who looked weak, small and submissive, not only had decided to punish pre-hand, but also could take some serious pain without wincing. While smiling.

Fuck, he got good at smiling. At smirking. Never letting it reach his eyes, because he’d forgotten how to smile like it meant something good.

Yes, sir.

Of course, sir.

Please, let me take the ribbon out before bed, sir?

May I have the honor of sucking you off, sir? I’m your good princess, daddy..

Oh, he learned. He learned so much… Put the knowledge to good use.

Yes, you may leave now, sweetheart.

Don’t cry, boy, I’ll be gentle.

You ever been fucked dry in the shower…?

No, and he’d forgotten about that pain. About the tears mixed with lukewarm water, of the guard’s backs at the glass door. He no longer remembers the stitches or the stolen painkillers. No recall of dad’s last visit that stint or the changed lock when he got back to the house that no longer was home. All he remembers is how one shitty phone call back to the hell hole he just left, was enough for Andrew Cutler to reach out to the local AB charter and just like that, Tully had a family on the outside again. He was white, American and violent. He’d been a punk, yes, but he’d shanked his owner, had stepped up, showed strenght and brain and so Cutler put in a good word.

He got a room at what looked like some shitty bed and breakfast, over crowded with other hicks and their girlfriends and after a couple of suspicious weeks where the guys constantly tested the newest recruit and Tully had proven himself worthy of a prospect year, it just went further up the ladder.

A new family, new ink and new girls who liked the intellectual sass that was added to the parties with Tully’s precense. They were white, of course, blonde or brown hair, big eyes pretending to be more innocent than they were and mouths wanting to be more mature than they had words for.

Life was good and no one called him Ron.

The alarm for lockup sounds and Tully assumes he did some kind of talking with his men, but not about what and he thinks he can spot a couple of suspicious or at least questioning looks from Leroy. For once, Marty’s general stupidity and constant talk has been an asset.

All Tully wants to do now, is to be with Juice and he’s not even gonna ask himself why.

Chapter Text

He’s tired. Knackered, as Chibs would’ve said and for a moment there’s some of that sadness pushing up to the surface again. The guilt, the shame, that constant pain like chafed heels. The things he lost, the damage he caused and he washes the sweat of a little harsher from the workout. In the mirror he sees Tully and the man seems tired too. He’s working on something by the small desk, seemingly deep in whatever he’s doing and the only sounds from him are the rasping one from the pencil and papers being turned.

He’s writing another letter, in code, of course, and it could mean anything. The posture isn’t as calm as usual though. Juice doesn’t think it’s visible from the bars, but he can read the man better now and the way the left shoulder is slightly risen, the left foot moving underneath the desk, tells him Tully is not really himself right now. Or rather, as usual. Juice has no idea who Tully’s real self is and the shot caller probably doesn’t know either.

Juice makes himself ready for bed, brushes his teeth and washes up before taking the stupid Meditations book and goes to his bunk. It’s stupid because he actually likes reading some of the stuff. It might be ancient, but a lot of the advices are pretty good or at least not completely fucked up.

He’s never been much of a reader, unless you count comic books and tech stuff. He’s been deep down in computor books as a teen, but that was it. Wasn’t the type who ruined classes in school, but he could never focus for too long with so much people around and back at mom and Ezekiel, there were always fights. Juice was part of the problem, he’s not gonna deny that, but his mom and stepdad alike had one hell of a temper and trying to read anything at all with two people constantly at each other’s throats wasn’t ideal, to say the least.

Juice doesn’t blame the path he took on them though. He made his choices, but opening Meditations feels like he’s stepping into territories where he doesn’t belong. Reading was for queers and girls and four-eyed nerds. Most of the things Juice learned in school that actually stuck, are of this kind. The social codes he never quite understood but could compensate with his tech skills.

No queers, no nerds, no pussies. All the rough touches because you couldn’t just hug or hold a friend who needed some support – and certainly not have a deeper conversation. You came to school with black eyes from your old man? Tough shit, man, he’s an asshole, come on, brother, lets get wasted.

There are only two men Juice has known who can either give comfort or show emotions without fearing to loose face: Chibs and Tully. The former showed emotions and the latter gives comfort. Sure, Chibs did too, but it was always so… Juice can’t really find the word for it. Maybe socially acceptable?

It seemed so easy for Chibs, pouring his heart out without ever letting it take over. He knew the lines and which ones to cross and not. Steady like an old tree and probably a better pres than the club deserves. On the other hand, thinking of him in here with some distance and Tully as a sort of barrier, Juice can’t help but thinking that for all the talk of not letting their hearts rule, Chibs was… kinda naïve. He believed in an honor code and got devestated when the people close to him couldn’t stay on that narrow path with him.

Maybe, Juice thinks as he tries to focus on Marcus Aurelius’ old man speeches about honor and dignity, Chibs was both naïve and inexperienced about real loneliness and desperation. Having your wife, kid and club taken away from you is brutal, but at least he knew Fiona and Kerrianne were ruled by the IRA and Jimmy O. and he had another club that would take him with open arms when things fell apart in Belfast.

Chibs, good old naïve Chibs doesn’t know shit about being left with absolutely no one but yourself. He doesn’t know how it is to know that without the Reaper on your back, there is literally no one left to call you by your name without having to read it from a police report first. There is a half sister somewhere, sure, but Juice hasn’t met her since she was an infant. Mom died in cancer while Juice served a stint in juvie and her boyfriend, the girl’s dad, left with the kid somewhere afterwards. Juice has never heard from him since and he doubts the kid he only remembers as a little screaming bundle, knows about her failure of a half brother.

The day Juice dies, there will be no one to claim his body, no one outside these walls who’ll even know he’s dead or wonder where he is. He’s gotten himself to the state he so desperately wanted to avoid, to be all alone in the world, and instead of dying from it, he’s been picked up and saved from the isolation by the most unlikely human being imaginable.

Yes, human being.

Tully has monstruous traits, the mind of a devil and his heart is, at best, a ticking bomb. Juice has never been good at hiding his feelings like Tully and he can’t even imagine how it must be like to force yourself to rape a punk when you so clearly hate every second of it, so much that you rather take him as your cellmate to keep the picture of power and control intact without having to show it to the guards in PC.

The things you do to yourself and others to survive, just another day, one heartbeat at the time as you slowly start to forget how it was to live. How it used to feel when someone called you by your name with a smile in their voice and you smiled too, because you were there, you were looked for, longed for and your name was spoken with love.

Perhaps that’s the useless, impossible hope that keeps lost cases like him alive. The wild, stupid dream of being, just a little loved again.

Chapter Text

Juice isn’t at all tense when Tully climbs into the bunk and that’s new. Usually, there’s always some strain, either from anxiety or pain, but not tonight and maybe it’s because of the date or Marcus Aurelius or the meds just working better – who the hell knows? It could be a coinsidence but in here that shit counts too. Everything, the bad and the good, every goddamn grain of it, counts when you’re serving time.

His boy snuggles closer as soon as Tully has laid down and that’s somehow still a novelty, not the action itself but the intensity, the activeness behind it. The boy wants to come close and a part of Tully despises him for it, the same part that shouts about race treason, fags and weakness, about reasons to be shanked or hanged, drawn and quartered. It’s a voice speaking about what should happen to Tully, the queer race traitor who never had a heart for the brand to begin with.

When he got the first Aryan ink, it didn’t even seem like a big deal. The men were proud, Tully had earned it, had risen from a punk to, first, a survivor, then a helping hand, an errand-boy who prooved time and again he could be trusted. Cutler had, of course, made a thorough investigation into Tully’s family tree and found no jews, no niggers, no spics or anything else undesireble. At that time, Tully himself was so numb from sixteen months in Green’s “care”, he didn’t ask for or question shit anymore.

He’d already been marked against his will and at least these were the kind other men carried around with pride. With them on display, he was suddenly someone worthy of respect, no longer someone to push into the mattress. His former status as a punk was a thing to be ignored from that moment. Cutler allowed no mention of it, not even a joke, and certainly no talking to any prison medical staff anymore either. Tully declined offers of therapy, trying not to feel pissed about being offered it now and not when he needed it. He wasn’t a punk anymore, he wasn’t owned by anyone and they could all just fuck off.

He’d not used his cock with someone in two years when a new kid was put in his cell. He wasn’t particularly attractive and talked way too much, but one look from Cutler was enough for Tully to know what was expected.

Put that new fish in place before things get out of hand. No mess though.

Tully only knew of one way to do that without creating a mess. The kid didn’t cry, didn’t make any real resistance and Tully used lots of lube so he had it easy. He only complained once and Tully then told him in the coldest voice he could muster, that he was lucky. Very lucky. There were no more complaints after that.

Before he got the sentence putting him with Green, Tully enojoyed sex as much as any other guy. Pussy, hands, mouth, ass, you name it. A willing girl knowing what she wanted and what she did was awesome. He prefered the tomboys, though, which some friends teased him about. Not that he didn’t appreciate a nice pair of big tits but it was no requirement. He liked the girls who didn’t play games, who were a little on the rough edge, smiling naurally and not in order to be seductive. Those who would show what they wanted, what they liked and didn’t, and who would pass out with him in bed afterwards.

When he came out of prison for the first time, he still liked it, but he couldn’t take them from behind anymore. Had to be face to face, or maybe from the side, cradling them. Blindfolds and cuffs? Hell no. Shower sex? Out of the fucking question.

One of his short term girlfriends called him Mr. Vanilla. Another one constantly whined about him never wanting to do it doggy style and then there was the chick who right out asked him if he was some kind of queer. Usually he doesn’t hit women, but that time he punched her face and she left crying. Tully didn’t feel sorry for her. All he could think of, was how lucky she didn’t know she was.

 Juice wriggles a little closer and finally, Tully snaps out of his thoughts. He hates how easily they catch him up these days and in another time, he probably would’ve taken it out on his punk, but Juice is… well, not like the others and there is no satisfaction in the thought of hurting him – or putting him in his place. He wiggles his ass backwards, rubbing up onto Tully, not like some bitch trying to be good to earn points, but like he actually wants it.

And then, as if it’s a natural thing to do, ever, in prison, he searches for Tully’s hand and puts it onto his belly, holding it there and moves in little circles, silently showing how he wants to be petted and when Tully gives in and keeps up the rubbing once Juice has let go, he’s already forgotten why he shouldn’t do the things he didn’t know he still wanted.

Chapter Text

Smooth. The palm is so smooth and makes Juice think of what Tully used to do on the outside. Certainly not mechanics. He can feel the slight bulk falling into the sway of his back, this old, tainted and partially ruined body that once caused him pain. It’s dark but Juice doesn’t need light to see the scars on the arms holding him, on the hand rubbing his belly.

Tully’s breaths are tickling his neck, they’re a little rushed but even, and so are the heartbeats against his back. The boner rubbing up against his ass is no threat or something to be endured now. Juice wants it and his mind remembers the last time they did this, when they did it and it wasn’t just done to him.

He shouldn’t want it, he knows that, but oh, God, how sick he is of thinking about all the shoulds and shouldn’ts that just don’t matter anymore. He doesn’t want to feel Tully hesitate, question what he used to take without asking. As if he suddenly needed consent and Juice is the one calling the shots. He isn’t, but Juice throws that notion away with the other things he knows and he grinds closer, tilting his head backwards to whisper:

“Want you to fuck me, papi… Please? I… I need you in me…”

You can’t give more consent than that and maybe Tully, bizarre as it is, wants it, needs or at least waits for the chance of it, because Juice can feel the body pressed to him going just a little lax, some muscles falling a bit, loosening from the usual tension, the self-protective strain and Juice is momentarily shocked by how huge the difference actually is, when he feels the shot caller all but leaning onto him in a way that, had it been another situation and two very different people, might’ve been called clinging.

Tully kisses his neck over and over, not saying anything, just doing his best to keep himself quiet as he reaches under the pillow for the lube. Juice tugs at his own shorts, then Tully’s and Juice shouldn’t trust this man but he still does, trusts him not to cause pain and he’s stupid for trusting but since when was his brain ever a reliable tool?

Fingers coated in vaseline are sliding down, beneath and the entering is slower than expected. In fact, Juice is even surprised that Tully takes time to loosen him up at all. It’s not really needed but he appreciates the gesture and being fingered is nice as hell. Tully makes circles, pressing all the way around his inner walls, alternating between slow, shallow pets and deep, grinding thrusts. It’s for Juice’s benefit, for his pleasure and he knows that by the ragged breaths Tully can’t control and how he still controls his own needs.

“Shh, keep it down, baby…”

Maybe Juice’s pantings are a little bit too loud, but he can’t help it and he turns his mouth to the bend of Tully’s arm to choke the sounds. The man smells good, it’s a scent Juice has come to connect with not just comfort and company, but with longing.

The way Tully keeps nibbling on his neck, mouth warm and teeth kept away, is not a threat, a punishment or a way to grind him down. The skin this nazi is supposed to look down on, be disgusted by or at least not wanting anywhere near in this way, is being peppered with little kisses that no one, no girl in the past, has ever done to him. For him.

There’ll be more stains on the sheet than usual, with how much Juice is leaking and he can feel Tully getting more lube, how he coats himself before scooting Juice’s right thigh upwards. There is no rough breach and Juice shudders at how Tully needs to go slow, not for his punk’s sake, but his own. He slides in but an inch at the time, breath strained against Juice’s neck. They both moan quietly as Tully finally slides all the way in and Juice can feel those heartbeats like a hard drum onto his back.

“You good, baby?”
“Very, papi. I’m very goood…”

It comes out a little wrong but Tully understands and doesn’t make a joke about good boys. He moves slowly, a grinding pace that allows him to thrust deeper, but he takes his time.

He could just ram it in, could just take what he wants, what his punk is actually offering, and in blind need care about nothing more than that, like a payment for indulging his boy with a private dinner. Juice’s hole being his right to have due to his status as a shot caller. Only that would be too easy, to predictable and Tully is anything but predictable. At least Juice has learned that by now.

He closes his eyes and leans his head backwards as his sweetest spots are kneaded, deliberately and Jesus, it’s so good, feels so right and he mewls into Tully’s arm, resting in that embrace that keeps the world and his own grief out.

It’s something with the way Tully holds him, the cradling grip that doesn’t keep Juice down or putting him in place. It’s how Tully reads his body, how he adjusts his angle when Juice shudders from a particularly good thrust. It’s how he keeps him close, how he holds one arm around Juice’s chest and pets his belly with the other one.

All the little signs of… love making, not dominating or rape and Juice tilts his head up, deciding to challenge his luck.

“Kiss me, papi? Please?”

Kisses must be controlled out here where people might hear them, but Tully is as enthusiastic as Juice, not just indulging his punk.

But you don’t kiss your punk like this. You don’t kiss him at all, especially not on the mouth, especially fucking not for real. They’re not negotiating, not trading offers or even just getting off. This is some very twisted form of actual love making and they should both be as appalled as ashamed by it but they’re too far gone for that and when Tully reaches down to stroke Juice, there’s just no way of pretending this is a quid pro quo.

Juice pushes himself into the hand, fucking it in contrapoint with the thrusts into him. Tully flicks his thumb over his bellend, rubbing the wet slit and Juice is close now, getting closer by the second and Jesus, he’s gonna leave actual bite marks on Tully’s bend of the arm but he can’t help himself and the shot caller doesn’t stop him.

When he comes, he’s an exhausted mess of raw pleasure, ass throbbing around Tully’s cock and he’s floating on it, with how goddamn good his entire body feels in this moment and how it’s not accidental or gratiously allowed, but instigated and Jesus Christ, when was the last time he had that with anyone, anywhere?

Tully chokes a gasp into Juice’s shoulder, almost akin to a sob, and he holds him like he can’t bear to let go as he stills for a moment, pulls almost all the way out and then pushes back a final time, stilling as he comes while the heartbeats drum-drum-drum like those of a hunted animal catching it’s breath in the safety of it’s lair.

“Don’t let go… Please, Ron… Hold me…”

And the man who clings onto him, whom Juice so rarely has called by his first name, for once doesn’t have an answer in words, only in the way he pulls him even closer, hardening his grip and muffling the pantings and the wetness against Juice's neck they’re gonna pretend isn’t there.

Chapter Text

He remembers. Not that he’s really ever forgotten, but the past is flooding over him now, as Juice has only just fallen asleep, cradled in his arms. The boarders of time and ignorance, of reputation and survival, are the most vulnerable at night, everyone knows that, especially in here.

Juice is sleeping so calmly, they cuddled before he fell asleep and Tully cries into the pillow, grateful for how the boy somehow knew to pretend he didn’t notice. That these are tears of the kind that, more than others, just can’t be shared.

Sixteen months.

Four hundred and eightysix days and nights.

Of rapes. Of beatings. Of constant humiliation. Of loosing who ever was the boy who fucked up and paid with more, so much more than the sentence doled out. The official punishment and then the one behind those bars, the informal one with no set number or time limit. The day he walked through the gates outside, the boy wasn’t free, he was still there, sentenced to remember the last years of adolescence as a poisonous mist of fear, pain, humiliation and most of all: loneliness.

There’s this idea that a man doesn’t let others define him, that a strong man is his own making and Tully is spreading that gospel just as any other shot caller – or gangbanger – because this is their world and Tully a top predator in it, one of the benefits coming with that position being forgetfulness.

Oh, and hypocrisy. So much hypocrisy.

The only nights the kid Ron was left alone, were when he was in the sick ward or in solitary or, if he was really lucky, Green had ended up in the hole due to his ill temper and stupidity. Those were almost good nights even if the sleep was still erratic and filled with too many dreams – good and bad ones alike.

It was a time for self-comfort, for a little rest for bruises and scars, for a burning, bleeding hole and sore mouth. A few hours where the punk could be a boy again, the toy a living thing, the puppet a human being.

Problem was, it just hurt too much in the long run. Shutting it down was the best thing to do, it made him stronger, decreased the number of grins and scornful looks when the visible and audible signs of his status got fewer. With time it made it easier to, not forget, but at least not thinking about the fact that he’d been raped far, far more times than he’d ever had sex.

Four hundred and eightysix days and nights.

He spent some of them in the sick ward, others in solitary, but all in all, he was stuck in Green’s arms for at least four hundred of them and had him in his ass at least once everyone of those nights, often more depending on how much coke the con had gotten his hands on. That counts up to more than five hundred rapes in sixteen months.

Five hundred plus rapes.

Who are you after it ends, if it ever does? A survivor? Sure, but are you still you? Is that beating in your chest your actual heart or just a mechanic wheel, moving a body with a dead soul?

What kind of creature are you, who despite being so happy for your rapist finally dying, still miss him the first time? Because you’ve become so used to have him there, to never have a moment of physical loneliness except in solitary, that you simply can’t cope with not being constantly violated anymore?

How are you supposed to pick up the life outside the day you walk through those gates to the freedom you’ve forgotten about? How will you take care of yourself again when you no longer know who you or the people around you are without being either a predator or a prey? When you can’t remember where survival stops and living starts and the only thing left to cling onto, is an ideology you belive in only because it helped you to stay alive.

Juice moves a little and Tully gently cuddles him. Because he can and because he wants to. Because the boy, the man, who gave up, is constantly showing how to ask for, give in to and give good things without shame.

He’s the first man ever to look for something more than a predator, a prey, a shot caller, a punk, a fellow nazi brother, a favor or a con in Tully. Protection. Sure, he’s given protection to cons several times and no, sex hasn’t been the primary payment in those situations. But Juice isn’t interested in that kind of protection, he needs to be protected from a fear of loneliness that’s stronger than Tully has ever met in a person before.

Usually, he would’ve used that information to his advantage. Threatening Juice with distance and loneliness to keep him on his toes and have him pliant and servile. The boy murmurs something in his sleep and Tully still remembers how he’d be punched och kicked awake whenever disturbing the man forcing him to sleep in his bunk. All he wanted those nights, was for the creep to let go of him a little, for that chokehold to ease up enough for him to breathe properly again.

Five hundred plus rapes. A thinned out chest with ribs who never healed properly due to too much repeated pressure. A throat with bruises from a heavy arm and that stinking breath and drool down his neck.

Don’t let go… Please, Ron… Hold me…

No one, literally no one in here calls him by his given name. And neither has anyone, inside or outside, begged for Tully to not let go.

He loves to cuddle this man, there’s no use in denying that. Loving to cuddle doesn’t mean you love the one in your arms. It’s just like sex in that way. You may love the act, may even make love, but whether or not you love the person you’re with, is a very different question and the only living things Tully isn’t ashamed to love – or even knows he loves – are his dogs.

Tully lets the pillow suck up the few tears he’s not able to hold back and closes his eyes. He pulls the sweet, clean scent of Juice into his lungs, listens to the heartbeats against his arms, that used to be either too fast or too slow, that now are steady and calm, like he’s not just enduring this or using it as a means to survival.

He still doesn’t know what he’s truly feeling for Juice, only that this time it could’ve been himself begging for his punk to please, not let go, because I know what I did to you, to countless others, and no longer know where the punk stops and the shot caller starts.

It’s been too long since I learned how to stop caring, I don’t even remember how it felt to be grinded down into dust and rebuilt in an image of someone else…

Chapter Text

He’s dreaming. It’s been a while, really, and it’s not as bad as it used to be. Chibs is just looking at him, not screaming and Jax isn’t there. It’s just Juice and Chibs and it’s night, there are trees surrounding them and Juice can’t breathe.

Ye coward!

The night is silent, lonely, he’s lost somewhere – how did Chibs find him? – why is he here? The rope is burning, his neck not broken but just sore because if he’d had a spine to begin with, he wouldn’t have failed even with this.

The scene shifts and he’s back in Stockton, but not in his cell. He’s in an interrogation room and the lawyar, the cops, the shitty prosecutor are all talking to him at the same time, surrounding him with words, with papers that he could sign, pens that are being tucked in his hands.

They threw you under the bus, Ortiz. You have no obligations towards them.

You betrayed them, right? You know better than me how your club, sorry, former club, does to traitors. Do you really think it makes a difference if you stop talking now?

They used you. As soon as they found out you had a black daddy, you would’ve been nothing to them. Nothing!

You have nothing to gain from protecting them at this point, you know that. You have no protection in here unless you cooperate…

Voices, faces… So many of them, just looking, screaming, crying, accusing, sighing.

Talking without waiting for answers. Because he’s nothing to no one, just a tool, just a liability. A rat you hunt, trap, put down and forget about. An obsticle at best.

Hands are grabbing him, pulling at his arms, his legs. He’s a ragdoll, limbs torn in different directions and he wakes up puking, his body shaking from ague and he can’t tell what’s sweat and what are tears on his face.

“Baby… C’mon, Juice, you’re dreaming, sweetheart…”
“I didn’t m-mean too… I didn’t…”
“Shh, baby, I know that. Papi knows you have a good heart… My good baby, sweet Juice…”

Pets, soft ones. Hands no longer shaking but rocking him. Gentle whispers, words of solace, of something that, right before consciousness, feels like actual care. A speck of grace in a vastness of cold nothing.

“I’m sorry… for my part…”

It’s not meant for his ears, even in this state of not quite wake, Juice knows that. Five little words, whispered so silently into that vastness, maybe to be picked up by someone, but not intentionally.

Papi knows you have a good heart…

He cries. Juice is sobbing like something has broken inside him, pouring out. He cries into whatever he can reach of Tully. Arms, hair, a shoulder, the chest. A chest where there’s a heart too, believe it or not, and Juice can feel the beats, the warmth, the little signs that gives meaning behind the whisper.

Not an ask for forgiveness, certainly not an excuse, but a silent confirmation: I regret putting you through more pain just because I could.

No words and for once, even in this state of half-sleep and general brokenness, Juice doesn’t need them to read between the lines – or rather, the five little words. Imaginary care, fake love, a belonging that doesn’t exist, right? He’s nothing to no one.

“Hey, my darling, it’s alright… I’m here, baby, you’re not alone…”

There they are. The words. The petnames that once were taunts and now comfort. Right now, they just cut right through him.

“I… I should die… I’m a rat, I shouldn’t… I’m… Fuck, why are you keeping me?!”

He’s not screaming, just whispering harder, more air being pushed out as if he could rob himself of air enough to cut it off for good. He doesn’t know what he feels beyond the despair, the self-hatred and sense of unexisting borders between him and literally anything else, good or bad. The arms just keep cradling and rocking him. The grip is gentle but firm, protective in it’s own fucked up way and he can feel the now not just familiar but also welcomed mouth in his hair.

“Because I…”

A sigh, the grip marginally tightening.

“I feel for you… I feel for you, Juice…”

Perhaps the part of him not still colored by the nightmare and the desperation it brings along, already knew. Perhaps it’s just a confirmation of the silent change in their, for lack of a better word, relationship, that’s been going on for so many weeks now. Perhaps they need the veil of a dream, even a nightmare, to ask questions and give answers.

Juice rubs his face against the heartbeats that aren’t calm anymore, but brutally fast behind the swastika that simply doesn’t suit the man who’s not a monster to him. Sociopaths don’t feel remorse, they don’t care about their victims, their preys. And they sure as hell don’t show themselves vulnerable, not the type of monster Tully is – or tries to show.

“Who are you?”
“What do you mean, baby?”

Juice swallows, still holding on to the man who used to be a monster, the lover who once was his rapist and by God, how fucked up has this leftover life become?

“A nazi who… doesn’t care about race…”

This is dangerous, but his nightmare clouded brain doesn’t give a shit.

“A rapist who doesn’t even wanna rape…”

He’s pushing it, can’t help himself because the confusion is too much, the state of whatever their  so called relationship is, has shifted so dramatically it’s simply impossible to act like nothing when raw emotions, nightmares and memories mix up at night.

Yes, he’s pushing it and Juice expects to be pushed away, to hit that mental wall again that is Tully’s border.

“I… I don’t expect you to understand, Juice, and I know it counts for shit, I shouldn’t even tell you this but I guess I’m shit at lying sometimes too.”

It’s not the dangerous calmness, certainly not a seductive or begging voice. It’s tired, so tired and a little lost, like it’s trying out unknown words. He feels the grip loosening a little, as if Tully prepares to be… rejected, which Juice just wont have, so he pulls the arm tighter around him, presses himself closer to this mess of shitty survival that almost bears traces of life. And he sniffles into the warm skin.

“Just say it. Admit why you… why you didn’t want to… And don’t give me the race shit, because you don’t care about that and… and you know I know that.”

Without the covering darkness and whispers, this would’ve been impossible and a few weeks ago, it would’ve been no matter the level of light or darkness. The heart that people don’t expect to be there at all, is all but trembling against him now, a trapped bird trying to get away from too small a cage.

The voice is very quiet and not calm at all.

“Because I don’t… get off on hurting someone. It was… unnecessary and I… I hated every second of it…”

Chapter Text

I feel for you.

What does that even mean? Is it good or bad or just… as it is?

Who are you?

What a question to ask a shot caller with nazi ink. Tully holds his boy close to the heart that shouldn’t be there, that no one believes is anything more but a mechanic beating, because it feels good for both of them and he wonders, for the first time, if Green felt anything while keeping him in a chokehold.

It took several months after the bastard’s death before Tully could sleep better again. His body had grown used to being pressed down, suffocated. He got out himself about a year afterwards and he can still remember how old friends looked at him with a mix of shock, disgust and pity. Not that he’d expected to be invited to parties or the local sports teams, but still. Calling the number Andrew Culter had given him before leaving, was an easy decision.

Who are you?

If only he knew. Or maybe it’s just as well that he doesn’t. Tully has no illusions about his own part in all the things he’s done since stepping out of prison that first time, but he knows damn well there are parts of his persona that are very much just a mask and nothing more.

You’re shit at being a nazi, papi.

Tully smirks to himself because that’s simply not true. He’s damn good at his job, because unlike the idiots puffing their chests with nazi symbols out like it’s a sign of actual supremacy, he’s never been a true believer. Not in the AB, not in his whiteness, not in anything, really. Just survival and he’s good at that, better than most, especially in a place like this and Jesus fuck how easy it is to lie your way into the minds and unruly hearts of misfit cons, as long as you know how to make them feel good about themselves in a way that makes them grateful to you. Had he been black, he’d done the same with them – and he learned it all from Green and Cutler. You’re either the predator or the prey. You either steal the lowest’s food or go hungry. You either cry or make people cry.

You etiher rape or get raped, live or die and grayscales are for the world outside, where you no longer belong.

How the hell do you feel for someone you don’t know? Tully watches his boy sleeping way too comfortable in his arms. The man he, for some reason, feels for in a way he doesn’t really reckognize but bears a very frightening trace of the kind of knot in his stomach he’d get as a young boy and never truly got to explore.

He’s had punks, yes. But also lovers. On the outside, only girls for the major part of his life and only in his late thirties, did he give in to that absolutely secret urge during a solo holiday trip to Vegas, high as fuck and with a stranger who cared as little about the nazi ink as he did about condoms. Tully had to do pretty much all of the thinking that time and it had been good, if a little rushed and the man’s kisses tasted way too much of tequila and sweet chewing gum.

Tully had been gentle with him, listened to his moans, his laughters and afterwards experienced how it felt to have a grown man place his head on his lap with a smile, whispering fuck, Charles, I wasn’t expecting that because no fucking hell Tully’d be using his real name and Charles was about the first that popped up his mind. Charles had had the stranger’s head in his lap, softly stroking the short, unruly hair, litting a joint that wandered back and forth between them in a silence more comfortable than Tully thought was possible.

The prison ink and nazi symbols were visible, as were the scars but the man who’s name maybe was, maybe wasn’t Paul, didn’t care. Perhaps he was too high or just smart enough to know when something should remain unspoken. And Charles had been smiling, unable to resist pressing a small kiss on the curved lips because he was miles and miles away from the place where every encounter with a man had meant pain and also from the place where, had anyone seen him like this, he’d be hanging from a tree with a pole up his ass, suffocating slowly while his former brothers watched in disgust.

The thing confused with an actual heart is drumming hard behind old skin, nazi ink and cheap prison clothes. Heart and mind, two halves of the same machinery keeping his battered, pathetic carcass breathing and moving, talking and watching but mostly listening in this cell, these hallways.

For the footsteps, the breaths, all the different ways a con or a hack could sneak up on you and take what once was yours to give to someone you chose – and who chose you. A hot woman or a soft man, smiling without malice or sadness.

But who is this man curling into his tainted old chest like a kitten searching for comfort? Who looks for closeness with the monster who literally treated him like a thing to be used instead of a human being?

Why do I feel for you, baby? Why does the petnames come so easily? Why do your clingy hands give me comfort, why does the rhythm of your idiotic heart make mine beat more steadily?

How come time alone with you feels akin to a… home?

And if so, why am I so utterly lost around you?

Chapter Text

He’s not dead, hasn’t been although he got damn good pretending he was. There’s no one waking him from the death within. No, it’s only himself who somehow seems to have decided to take a step away from the limbo that’s been his existence for so long.

Tully is the first person in years to say he’s sorry for something truly bad he caused Juice and maybe Juice has finally learned to distinguish between the sorry’s that matter and those who don’t.

It’s not the words, not primary, but the stillness, the hesitation, the ever so slightly fear betraying the nazi cradling him. A piece of the mask falling off as if the hateful marks on his skin were nothing but a costume. An armour of ink telling people like Juice to lower, to cower, to know their place. Beneath him.The lines of the swastika reveal nothing about that place having become a gentle embrace in this shot caller’s scarred arms.

Can you really pretend being a nazi up to this level even if you were the world’s greatest infiltrator? Wont your mask crack at some point? Or is it possible to be so numb that it doesn’t matter? And if Tully is numb, if Juice is numb, then why, why the hell are they doing this?

They shouldn’t feel anything.

Protected by one of their blankets, they’re not fucking, just kissing. Quietly, softly and it comes so easy it should scare them both halfway to a seizure, but maybe, yes maybe they passed that particular roadblock far too long ago without noticing. When you know how it feels to be a walking dead, somehow there aren’t as many things left to scare you anymore. You’re already, to quote Tully’s favourite Roman, shadows and dust.

In the darkness, Juice snuggles closer into the tainted chest and the countless scars on this aging, partly wornout body. He’s holding a hand on the broad back that once must’ve been thin and scrawny, belonging to an easy prey. So easy it wasn’t enough to leave simple scars. It needed a more permanent marking…

It comes almost naturally, his hand suddenly starting to stroke the lower back softly. Juice doesn’t know why, if he’s trying to soothe and if so, whom? Tully allows it though, so he lets his hand remain on the small of the back and bends his face upwards again, getting the kiss he’s angling for.

The impassive eyes are shifting when he looks into them, without breaking contact. Insecurity, a confusion maybe, and it’s telling how it doesn’t really surprise him. This, Juice baffling realises, is how fucking far they’ve drifted into whatever this is that isn’t a shot caller and his punk anymore, but a whole new kind of sick insanity none of them really controls.

Tully’s breath is warm, controlled, a held back sigh of mint and some kind of life, some fucked up mockery image of what once was a woman with no particular name smiling into a kiss. It’s not sweet, not beautiful, but raw and lost, hopeless and so terribly human, this longing kept in the darkness: please, touch me, let me touch you as if it meant something…

As if I still meant something to someone…

No fucking, even no rutting yet, just this embrace. These slow, warm kisses. He can feel Tully’s cock hardening against his hipbone, but the nazi isn’t grinding onto him, not forcing or pushing or rushing anything and Juice isn’t gay, isn’t bi, has never ever been interested in another man before but they’re slowly rubbing up against each other, cocks pressing hard together and it’s fucking good. No one is above or beneath, they’re aligned in an odd, for this place completely unnatural way but it doesn’t matter.

It just doesn’t fucking matter anymore. This is the hand they’ve been given, the cards to play and when Juice dives in for another kiss, Tully has lost a little of his control, a small sigh, akin to a moan, slipping the usually so composed shot caller and the huge but soft hand gripping around them both at the same time is something that should never happen in prison, never ever, no matter who’s the one calling the shots and it’s certainly not Tully. Juice nibbles at the vein on the side of the man’s neck, the pulse betraying the fact that there’s still life under the dead mask.

“Papi…”

Beats. Too many of them to keep the image of a heartless creature alive.

“Yeah, baby?”

Breathy. The drum-drum-drum against the place where his heart used to be.

Where is it now?

“Make me come, papi… I’m so…”
“What?”

Fuck, it’s good. The hand, the voice, the words that aren’t malicious, the comfort he takes no matter if he deserves it or not.

And so, far easier than it should be, Juice cuts off the questions and the answers no one has, and maybe there’s just a little taste of blood, the iron like one, coloring the kiss when he lets go of whatever it is he’s been holding back and, for the first time in God knows how many months, feels completely and totally human as he comes hard and sweet, thanks to a nazi who no longer manages to pretend his ink is anything more than a cover-up.

Chapter Text

It’s a funny place, this world. Hate has rights. Love has none. He’s not sure where he heard that quote, if he was out or doing time or whatever. It sure as hell didn’t come from Green or Cutler or anyone associated with the AB, that’s for certain. Maybe some prison clerk or even a punk feeling philosophical. After all, Tully’s never found any particular fun in keeping his toys silent just for the sake of it. Most likely, it’s from one of the countless books he’s read throughout the years.

He didn’t talk much himself during the sixteen months with Green, apart from the yes sirs, no sirs, thank you sirs and please sirs. Please, let me have a drink of water, sir. Can I please wash my hands, sir? May I please read the book Tom borrowed me, sir? He recommended it.

Tom, the librarian, was nice and old and someone that was considered rude and undignified to mess with. He served time for murder and was one of the few who didn’t claim to be innocent. I did wat I did, kid, and I’m serving time for it. Aint gonna lie to myself or God, Tully. Did you finish The Hobbit already? How did you like it?

Reading was one of few ways to keep sane. Or at least to not tipping over completely. So was what little contact he had with nice people like Tom and even Underwood, the guard in solitary who brought cinnamon rolls in secret without demanding shit for it. They would talk to him like he was a normal human being and that was most likely what kept him from committing suicide.

He’d hurt himself, sure. Bite, scratch or slam himself into the concrete walls. Cut when he had the right tool. Cigarette burns were another favourite. By doing them himself in the open, Green somehow seemed to decide that one was off the table in the dark. No points for him if no one knew which ones he’d made and not. And he had other ways to mark his punk.

That one time, about three months or so before Green was shanked, when he took Tully to a private room and more or less tore him apart… Tully lost count on the rapes long before the paid guard returned and he even passed out a few times, only not deep enough to not be brought back. Come thinking of it, it was a miracle how Green managed to keep himself restrained enough in that state to not kill him on pure accident.

High as a kite, the aggression wound up like hell and all the stamina in the world thanks to a dust of the white magic. The right amount of privacy to essentially do whatever he wanted for a rather long period of time.

Tully has never forgotten, only refused to remember for a long time.

Chunks of hair pulled off from the stupid little tail. Bite marks, punches, more cracked ribs and broken fingers. A ruptured spleen, renal trauma and anorectal trauma. He still can’t fathom how he not only didn’t die, but got to keep all of his teeth as well. Apparantly, miracles do exist.

He doesn’t remember how long he was with Green in that secluded little hell, or how he got removed and taken to hospital. Not just the prison wing, but a real one, on the outside. The staff was nice too, friendly and gentle, not treating him like he deserved it, or like he was scum just because he was a con. Of course, he was young then, eighteen, and not a nazi – or a killer – yet.

He does remember how both male and female staff touched him as softly as possible, how they spoke to him with kind voices and cared about whether he was thirsty, if the pillow needed to be fluffed, the sheets changed or his hair – what was left of it – washed. Yes, he remembers that, the shocking contrast to the violence and malice, and how he even got a card and a copy of The Lord of the Rings, sent to him from Tom, not as a loan but his own to keep, bought by Tom’s own money as a gift, with an inscription he later discovered was a quote from the book:

Even the smallest person can change the course of the future.

It didn’t feel like that at all, not in that sick bed, but he’d been happy for the unexpected gift, for the realisation that someone who wasn’t even family gave a shit at all and the crazy kindness that was to buy a useless punk like him a freaking book that cost actual money and having it sent to him.

This. The violence, the neverending healing that mostly gets interrupted and is set back, has been normal to him for most of his life and he wears his nazi ink with pride because it’s a sign of how he managed to survive and go from that wreck in a hospital bed to a force to be reckoned with. It took time and one hell of an effort, but eventually, the first think coming to people’s minds when seeing him, wasn’t the punk of Green who cried himself to sleep, but a calculating survivor with a terrifying amount of patience and a mind for business.

Cutler didn’t invite him to share opinions in the open at first, of course. There were tests, ways to proove not only his loyalty, but his worth. To put it bluntly: did he still have even half a ball? Well, cutting off Green’s dick and shoving it down the bastard’s mouth in the morgue apparantly was a step in the right direction. Nazis were simpleminded and that had its perks. Pretending to give a shit about race isn’t any more difficult than it is to shut down your emotions.

No, he shouldn’t do this, shouldn’t hold Juice like this and Juice himself should be disgusted and horrified by it. There is no reason for the boy to feel anything but resentment towards Tully, and for the first time ever, that actually matters.

No one else, punk or not, has been able to guess right about Tully’s past position and he’s never fucked anyone, inside or outside, boy or girl, with a better ability to read people than himself. That was never an option, not even a conscious decision but something given: never ever get yourself vulnerable again. Never choose someone who can overpower you for real, no matter what. Get drunk, get high, but never to the point where you loose control.

Problem is, there’s never really been a backup plan for this sort of loss of control.

Juice is sleeping in his arms, calm and soft, not broken anymore or at least not like he seemed to be in the beginning. If Tully allows himself to get a little fooled – which he never does – he’d say the boy reminds him about the man he fucked in Vegas and who’s name could’ve been Paul.

Paul had been soft too, he recalls, and about the same age as Tully. At least there was no notable age gap. He can’t remember his face too well, but his hands were… well, lets just say, something else than he was used to.

It had been a strange and shockingly nice experience, being with a man like that, who probably was used to closet cases and therefor knew how to guide a man on the edge of something he really had no good image of. Instead of getting on with the fucking the moment they locked the motel door, Paul had stilled Tully’s nervous hands, pulled him close and smiled, saying there was no rush.

Hands stroking his hair, lips leaning into his neck, his ear, soft murmurs.

You’re hot, Charles. Like your eyes…

He wasn’t even young, he was in his thirties and liked girls, dammit, but in that motel room, he didn’t miss them one bit. Hands and mouths were enough that time, Paul said he didn’t enjoy being fucked and if it was alright with Charles, Paul prefered other things.

I like it softer, you know. You okay with that, darling?

Well, he didn’t know, really and so he’d just smiled and nodded and went with the flow. And so he found out that yes, softer was good.

Before that, he’d not known how it felt to have a guy touching you like that. How it felt to kiss him, to have him treating you like something more than a hole and with you answering in kind. No battle of wills, no shame, no powerplay. No faces turned down to be spared to see.

Paul hadn’t commented his ink or scars, he wasn’t interested in prying or judging. He was just lonely and wanted good company for a while. He’d stroked Charles’ neck, nuzzled his nose to nose to make him laugh and blush because how weird wasn’t that? And when Tully went down on him and shivered as hands came onto his head, Paul had just stopped touching him like that and leaned back on the bed instead.

In here, you don’t suck dick unless you’re forced or conditioned to, or openly gay and smart enough to use it as a strenght instead of a weakness. Those cons are few and afar and just because Tully can admit to himself that there have been moments, like the one with Paul, when he fucking liked sucking dick and was proud of doing it well, it’s not worth the risks it brings along in here. He had an eye on the bars the entire time he got himself and Juice off this night for good reasons.

Juice murmurs in his sleep as he often does, but he’s not having a nightmare and Tully rubs his back, feeling him relax and snuggle closer, like he shouldn’t want to, like Tully shouldn’t long for, like they’ll both be severely punished for in one way or another if anyone finds out. A small whine pulls him out of his thoughts.

“Papi…?”
“Yes, baby? You having a nightmare?”
“No… I’m cold…”

Tully smiles, pressing a small kiss on the nape of the warm neck before him.

“I really can’t understand how that’s possible. You’re a human furnace, my little love…”

Fuck.

Jesus fucking Christ, he didn’t. He didn’t say that. Tully freezes like he’s back in Carl Green’s chokehold, praying to a god he doesn’t believe in that the boy is more asleep than awake. Juice snuggles even closer, wanting to be near and he sighs, murmuring something barely audible as he slips back to sleep.

“I’m not your… little love…”

And just like that, he’s asleep in Tully’s now rigid arms, unaware of the heartbeats tearing  the shot caller up.

Hate has rights. Love has none.  

They say the punishment should fit the crime and Tully needs no trial, no judge, jury, lawyer or prosecutor to know he’s guilty and that this hurt is something he deserves a hundredfold and more.

He let his guard down and he’s not doing that mistake again.

Chapter Text

Another nightmare and it’s bad this time. Really bad. A small part of his mind is aware of it, but it’s sorta looking through a glass on the spectacle. The rest of him is terribly alert in the dream and the line of faces in fron of him staring with empty eyes is new.

Miles, Darvany, even Roosevelt. And then he sees the rest. Clay, Gemma, Tara… Jax. Juice tries to catch their gazes, but the eyes are all white, no pupils, no irises, nothing. In another line, he can spot Chibs and he’s looking back at Juice with the same despise and heartbreak as at the diner, only with normal eyes.

Ye coward! Ye’re just a traitor, a fucking rat… No one’ll say yer name again, rat. Ye’re dead to me, dead to all o’ us ‘cause ye pissed on yer patch, on our patch… So why don’ ye jus’ do wha’ ye should’ve done in tha’ diner, an’ put an end to yer pathetic existence…?

No one loves him and that's how it always will be. And Tully is nowhere to be seen...

A sharp sting clears the mist and in Chibs’ place he can spot two very different eyes, not pepper dark and cold from disappointment, but a warm worry in hazel.

“Juice! Juicy, you’re dreaming!”

He knows these eyes, this voice too. Calm, a little raspy, softer in the darkness.

“Papi?”
“Yes, it’s me, my lo… boy. Papi’s here, baby…”

Juice’s left cheek hurts but he’s awake now, finally, and when the faces disappear one remains. He doesn’t think, just throws himself at it, burying himself in the crook of the neck, panting and whimpering.

“D-don’t leave me, papi… Please, don’t…”
“I’m right here, Juice.”
“You can’t l-leave like that…”
“Baby, I’m literally locked up with you in this fancy suite. Where would I go?”
“But you left me…”

It’s still hard to separate dream from wake and he’s crying now, tears wild and lost all over even if he’s still remembering where he is and manages to keep it quiet. He’s digging his fingers into Tully’s back, can’t help himself and the shot caller makes a little sound of discomfort.

“Better cut your nails some tomorrow, sweetheart.”
“You left me, papi…”
“Baby, it was just a dream. You want me to hold you some?”
“Yeah… I’m cold…”
“Alright then, let me just adjust us a little, okay?”
“Okay, papi. Don’t leave.”
“I’m not. Sorry for slapping you, baby. You wouldn’t wake up. C’mere, sit up for a moment. I’ll get you some water.”

Even the momentarily separation of a few seconds is difficult to manage right now and when Tully returns with the water, Juice just clings onto him with both hands and Tully has to bring the cup to his mouth.

“Careful, baby. Take it easy, breathe slowly through your nose, yeah? Small sip.”

The water tastes metallic, but it’s fresh and cold and then he feels a cool, wet towel onto his face. He’s still freezing, but his face is all sticky and this feels rather good. Tully wipes his cheeks and forehead carefully and then removes the cloth and empty cup.

“Better?”
“Y-yes…”

He still shivers though and his tanktop is sweaty. Tully takes it off.

“Lets get you into something dry.”
“I’m all drenched…”
“Yeah, pretty much. Don’t worry, we’ll fix it. Just keep quite, please.”

Juice stays still on the bunk, feeling helpless as a child, while Tully washes his upper body, then dries it thoroughly and helps him into a clean tanktop. He then gently moves him down to the floor and hands him the cloth and a pair of shorts.

“Wash some more if you need to and put these on while I change the sheets.”

Tully is as quiet as he’s effective while pulling the sheets from the usually unused top bunk and when Juice has managed to get changed, finally dry again, their narrow quarter is all set with dry sheets. He looks at the shot caller who seems very tired, bags under his eyes and body looking older and weary.

“Sorry for ruining your sleep, papi.”
“Don’t apologies for nightmares, baby. Aint your fault and I’ve had them too.”

A smile now, but it’s sad and Juice can’t help but reaching for the man’s hand.

“Y-you have a nightmare just w-wake me up, papi. I’ll hold you.”

Tully laughs. Or chuckles, quietly, but there’s a sudden brightness in his eyes, a warmth that Juice didn’t know he’s missed seeing for a few days and he can’t stop himself from pressing a little kiss on the man’s lips.

For the split of a second, the shot caller looks utterly lost and he lowers his eyes before pulling Juice back into his arms in their usual sleeping position. Juice can feel the warm mouth onto his neck, a soft nuzzle that feels like home by now and he entangles his fingers with Tully’s onto his chest, wriggling back a little to feel him all the way against his body.

“Can you sleep now, papi?”
“Sure I can, baby. It’s you I’m worried about.”

Juice snuggles into the hand with a smile.

“Don’t worry, papi. S’always better sleeping with you…”

Chapter Text

He’s not in love. He doesn’t love in any way, because he can’t. He’s a sociopath, that’s what the psych doc who evaluated him during his second stint declared. Tully recalls the tiny man with glasses and a smile even the newest fry among the fish would’ve seen through. How old was he by that time? Twentythree, twentyfour, perhaps.

A proud AB member, ink on display and a gaze that no longer lowered or hesitated for anyone, especially not a shrink. Frame still a little slight, but no longer something to fuck dry in the showers. Of course he was declared a sociopath, incapable of empathy and with highly manipulative tendencies, what the fuck did they expect he’d be like to make it through that first stint alive? Of course he had no capacity for love, because who would have been on the receiving end of something as humane as that in there?

Tully has always been a bit of an odd figure in the movement, balancing on just the right side of fuck off to be considered an asset and not a threat. It’s majorly due to his skills that the AB is even alive and kicking in Cali, especially after the shitstorm Darby caused. When Cutler discovered that Green’s former punk not only could bite and cut dicks off and run errends, but had a sense for business under the slowly re-growing hair, the shot caller would invite him to listen at some of the meetings.

Tully had known the deal, not uttering a word unless ordered to, never insulting anyone, never make anyone feel threatened and Culter picked it up. Along with the relief that finally came with not being raped at night anymore, or forced to wear girl’s panties, short tops and lipstick, it slowly – very slowly – started to give a sense of, not security or respect, but some sort of boundaries to claim.

Thanks to the rumor about the post-mortem castration, the biting and the fact that Cutler didn’t take or gave Tully over to someone as punk again, the message was clear: he no longer had that status. He was still a little shit who should shut up, watch and listen, but he wasn’t a literal bitch anymore.

And he’s not in love. He’s fucking not.

Love. Aside from the poems he’s read to past time, there’s simply no place for that word in here, unless it’s the usual love and respect, brother you toss around like nothing with your men. And even aside from the sheer stupidity of it all, it’s simply not him.

He doesn’t love the brand, it’s just a means to survival and while he doesn’t dislike his brothers – or most of them – he can’t pretend to himself that he actually cares about them to the extent that he should if he truly had a heart for the cause.

He loved his mother, though. A nice woman, kind and caring. Thank God she’s long since dead and didn’t have to see her only son in nazi ink. He never let her know what happened inside and dad sure as hell didn’t spill the beans of what he suspected but never right out asked. The shame was already enough as it was and mom needed her strenght to fight that cancer shit. She lost the battle, eventually, and Tully wasn’t even in prison at the time.

As far as she knew, her son had bettered himself, was on his way to fix his life and while dad wasn’t persuaded, he was at least decent enough not to show it in front of his dying wife. It quickly went downhill once the funeral was over and Tully can’t pretend he’s sorry for not having the man in his life. By that time, he had a new family after all, brothers and sister who’d give their sympathy and support after the funeral.

Every man, no matter how badass he was, had the absolute right to cry when his mother died and so Tully did share tears in front of others, drinking and then laughing because it felt good not being alone, to belong somewhere and to have a nice girl on his lap instead of being dressed up as one himself and forced to suck cock.

It’s not good for him, to be thrown into memories like this and Tully sighs. This annoying shit started with the boy and if mom was here – and didn’t know the details about Juice and how Tully’s thing with him started out – she’d probably laugh and shake her head, not dismissive but with warmth and that particular smug tease in her eyes.

Oh, Ronnie, you’re in love, alright. Aint fooling your own mother.

The thing is, you can’t be in love with someone you don’t know and he doesn’t know Juice. Right? The man in his arms is his punk, at least to the name if nothing else, and who knows who the real man is, whatever is left of him.

And Tully buries his nose into the neck he refused to stab or break, pulling in that sweet, addictive scent again and in the barely conscious moment just before he falls asleep, his exhausted brain whisper that unnamable thought that yeah, maybe, perhaps, he’s actually still capable of being just a little in love.

Chapter Text

He’d like to think there was a time when he did this, laid just like this, but with a girl. Not in prison, of course, but not on the pool table or a couch or even the dorm in the club house either. Nor in an impersonal room at Diosa. It’s probably a really bad and pathetic thing, that if any of his past girls would show up here now and offer him a night, he’d choose Tully.

It’s become less easier to hate himself with the nazi. Juice feels the soft, even breaths onto his neck and the spine that may actually still exist, if in a crooked and weak form, and the cadence is soothing. He tries to think of someone else who made him feel better, in this particular situation but the past is blurry and faceless outside the people who used to be his family. The girls, how ever, were always impersonal and always ready to move over to a guy with more status if offered – or ordered to.

Jesus, the way they treated some of them crow eaters... Like little more than human dolls equipped with three holes and two tits. Sure they were tough ass girls, had to be or else they wouldn’t have come looking for – let alone staying with – the Sons, but Juice can admit there were times when they treated them like crap. And then he’s not even started to think about poor Darvany…

Fact is, Juice has never had an actual girlfriend, not a real one. He’s had steady bedmates, if that counts, although not for a long period of time. Girls who looked for some fun and company, in bed and maybe by the telly and breakfast too, lonely but just as him, not the type to get vulnerable and go more steady. Also, there’s always been something about “fucking on the road doesn’t count” that bothered him. It felt kinda shitty when Jax and Clay – Chibs’ wife was estranged so that didn’t count – happily slept around and just counted on Wendy, Tara and Gemma to stay put. Acting like that to a girlfriend you were serious with just felt wrong.

And it’s not as if the girls have waited in line for a tech nerd with stupid tattoos OCD and probably fucking ADD as well. Tully was more right than he knew about that one.

Tully, yes… Juice isn’t unaware of the term Stockholm syndrome, nor does he think there’s anything even close to healthy with this, but it’s still the first relationship of any kind where he’s felt seen without being judged. He’s not afraid of Tully’s judgement, for some reason, and it’s not only the time leading up to the ex-communication and all the shit Juice caused and what he lost that makes him fall into Tully. It’s a huge part of it, but not all.

This man is the first person to hold him continuously through the night, not to fuck him or keep him check, but as a simple company, gentle even the first times it happened. The hesitation Juice is pretty sure Tully wasn’t aware of showing, at least not to that extent, that made the mask slowly crack and reveal small, very small spots of empathy that kept coming with enough frequency to widen the cracks a little more.

It’s near impossible to know what exactly it is he’s feeling for the man. It’s not fear, not anymore, he’s been through too much for that kind of state at this point. Nor is it hate, at least not much. Hate the sin, love the sinner? Juice can’t help but making a disgusted smile to himself. Is there anything more condescending than that bullshit and has anyone who’s ever been either the victim of a severe crime, or the perp guilty of it, found any comfort or excuse in it?

Yes, it was wrong of Tully to rape him, of fucking course it was. Just as it was wrong of Juice to kill Lin, to kill Roosevelt, to kill Miles and to help cover up Tara’s murder. And two or more wrongs don’t make something right, but Tully doesn’t have to say the word for Juice to know there’s a pain in his past so great he considered using lube during a rape an act of kindness.

Juice is no psychologist, hell, he barely understands half of his own stupid brain, but it takes no genius, only a bit of self-awareness and knowledge of the world outside gang culture, to know that the kind of life people like him and Tully lives, has it’s own rules and guidelines, many of them utterly foreign and appalling to most people.

The Sons have never condoned rape, no, but the lines have always been blurry at times, especially when there’s been power, pride or big money at stake. Or, when there’s been a need to punish a rat while gaining some points with an ally in prison.

He’s not in denial about the horrible shit Tully has done to him and he knows he’s pretty much a screaming commercial for Stockholm Syndrome but the nazi has changed ever since he got Juice moved into his cell. Or at least that’s how it seems.

But what if Juice would pull back? What if he tried to decline the shot caller? Act as if there was actual consent in this…

What would happen if the time spent with this almost illusive nazi who doesn’t believe in the ink he displays, once again changed?

Chapter Text

It’s nothing new, nothing to bitch and whine about, but it hurts. Tully curses through his teeth when the alarm for yard time’s ending goes off and he barks at Leroy for patting his shoulder.

“Idiot, fuck off!”
“Dislocated, huh?”

Tully tries to roll it and glares at his second.

“No, just awry.”
“Go to the clinic then.”

He probably should but he wont. Not right away as it is, can’t be looking weak from something that doesn’t even bleed. Tully usually doesn’t think much about his age when it comes to hairlines and wrinkles, but there are certain aspects of it that he could go without. And he’s not gonna do pull-ups in the open again any time soon.

His boy is sweaty from the workout though, looking rather disappointed for having to return to the cell which is good. Juice needs to start showing a little more backbone on a regular basis, especially with the new Son still going around looking far too much in his direction. Juice appears too relieved to return to the relative safety of the cell, though, which isn’t good.

The Son keeps his distance, yes, but his looks at Juice are openly hostile and Tully knows an impatient little shithead when he sees one. A restless dog, pent up and ready to show he’s got control over the bitches. Yeah, nothing new there. Tully’s shoulder and neck hurt like a bitch but he’s still the alpha male of his flock, for lack of a better title, and he lets his cold glare slide over the yard like the eye of freaking Sauron, which eventually gets the other couple of Sons – not from Samcro – to take the hint and say something to the little shithead that has him turn his attention elsewhere.

“You okay, papi?”

It’s merely a whisper, the boy shouldn’t use that nickname out here, after all, and Tully looks at him.

“Don’t worry about me, baby boy.”

He shouldn’t use petnames here either but it could be passed for a humiliation. It’s not uncommon for cons to use that endearment in a mockery way in here and none of Tully’s men care about it. He need to go to the clinic though and Tully looks at Hugh who knows the deal. Shot callers don’t walk alone in the hallways if they can avoid it.

Juice is good, keeping up a proper cool face, but there’s worry in his eyes Tully can read by now and he turns to him, giving that smile that looks predatory but isn’t and his boy knows it.

“Stay with Leroy, baby. Gotta have this checked.”

His boy just nods, then smiling and it’s innocent and punk-like enough, but still makes Tully feel. Something.

“Okay, Tully. Be careful.”

Tully raises his non-existing eyebrows then.

“I’m always careful, sweetheart.”

The men snicker and Juice looks down, seemingly ashamed but there’s a smile twitching on his lips and Tully shouldn’t care but still does. About the fact that it feels kinda good that he’s not making him feel embarressed or degraded in public.

He leaves before he can make the boy – and his own damn shoulder – feel worse and walks to with Hugh dogging his footsteps like always in the open. Tully never goes alone in here. A shot caller is simply too much of a target, just like a punk, only with the means and purposes changed.

Because in prison, nothing really changes when it comes to the basics.

Chapter Text

He’s so rarely alone in this place it’s sometimes just straight out weird how he can feel so alone without Tully. When Juice comes to the laundry for his for now rather short work day, Tom/Thomas is already there and gives a rather friendly nod.

“Glad you’re here, kid. Three of the boys caught the flu and we still have a piece rate to fill. Grab’em sheets over there.”

The Jamaican is easy to work with, doesn’t give the wrong kind of looks, is efficiant and controlling in the way that only extends to the task they’re poorly paid for. He doesn’t like bullshit and he’s also good at showing how to protect yourself against the air and the chemicals in here. The bleach and laundry soap used are sharp and more than one con cover their faces with cloths at times.

“Heard your boss got injured.”
“Dislocated shoulder, probably, and he’s not my boss.”
“Owner, then.”

Technically, that’s true, but it still makes Juice uncomfortable hearing it said out loud like this. At one point he honestly didn’t care and perhaps that was a better time. Or at least more honest. Only Tully’s never openly humiliated him beyond the unspoken fact everyone knows.

“He’s a strange one, though. Tully.”

Juice frowns.

“How so?”
“Well, for a start, he don’t even look like he belongs there. With’em rednecks.”
“You never seen a white collar nazi before?”

Tom/Thomas looks confused and Juice laughs, handing over the other end of a wet sheet.

“Not all of them look like hillbilly trash, you know. Had a gang in Charming some years ago, lead by this uppety class guy Zobelle, all fancy suits and proper shit. High rank and all, you couldn’t tell.”
“Damn…”

Juice decides not to mention the fact that Zobelle worked as an F.B.I. informant and that his heart for the cause was questionable to say the least. It’s not as if there aren’t plenty of white collar nazis dressed to the nines to give a good impression. He folds the heavy, moist sheets and hangs them on the frame to dry.

“You had busniess with them too?”

Juice snorts.

“No, man. We… they’re bikers, not nazis.”
“And yet here you are, with the AB shot caller number three.”

In another life he might’ve went at the Jamaican, or at least told him to fuck off, but a punk has nothing to loose, he’s already at the bottom in pretty much every way possible and Juice just calmly takes another heavy ass sheet from the pile, handing over the other end.

“Here I am, with the AB shot caller number three because I fucked my club over and had to pay for it.”

A low whistle, surprised face and maybe, if you look closely, a little chocked.

“Damn… I didn’t know the Sons gave up their snitches as cum dolls for nazis.”
”An old and fine tradition. Really uplifting.”

He’s not sure why he’s joking about it, how he even can. Perhaps it’s just come to that, after all these months where the time without rapes now is longer than the one with them. Then he remembers and frowns at the Jamaican.

“What did you mean about Tully being a strange one? Besides his looks.”

Tom/Thomas shrugs.

“Nothing in particular. Just… He doesn’t parade you. I mean, like he was…”

Juice stiffens, looking up from the sheet.

“Like he was?”

The Jamaican now looks uncomfortable and he grabs another sheet quickly, throwing the other end at Juice.

“Think we’ve talked enough about your boss. Or owner or whatever. I aint saying nothing else, kid, I’ve already said too much and you better not mention this to your daddy or anyone else, because Mobay likes me and the hillbillies can’t afford a beef with us. Aint got the manpower. Got that?”
“I got it.”

They keep folding in silence and Juice’s head is swimming with thoughts. He’s long been suspecting something akin to an assault, either a major one or several over an extended period of time. Tully is a puzzle, but lately some pieces seem to have fallen into place. Only problem is how to look at the picture the shot caller never intended on anyone to see again.

Chapter Text

“You’re not twentyfive anymore, Tully.”
“You mean I’ve been spending all this money on good moisturizer for nothing? Guess I’ll have a bunch of complaints to write.”

The doc snorts. She‘s rough but good at her job and she knows how prison works. She sits down on the stool next to the examining table when Tully gingerly rolls his shoulders with stiff movements. The dislocated one is back in place but he’s tense as shit and the doc shakes her head.

“You keep messing with old injuries like this you’re likely to end up with a permanent impairment and I know how things work in here, Tully.”

Of course she does. Dr. Lopez has been working here for six years and has pretty much every inmates respect because she’s treating even the lowest of scumbags as she cares, no matter which crimes they’ve committed or what kind of ink they carry. She knows more than well that some injuries, even if they’re no close to fatal, simply makes you an easier target and a shot caller in his forties with a long sick ward record will either die a violent death or going into a very painful old age.

Tully smiles at her, not the threatening or even teasing kind, but genuinly because in order to give even half a shit about someone like him when you have access to the records, you’re probably a truly good person. There are few of them in here, and out there as well.

“You’re a good person, Dr. Lopez.”
“Thank you, Tully. I wish I could say the same.”

Tully laughs because he likes that she doesn’t pretend to be fooled. That’s probably why she’s lasted as long as she has in here. She’s not old but most docs get their asses off as soon as they get a better opportunity. She cares about the scum she’s paid to give the cheapest possible treatment to and more than once she’s stood up for pretty much every kind of con in here, demanding better meds and rehabilitation, more resources to the sick ward and once even threatened to sue the governor for trying to limit access to proper treatment for the 60 plus inmates.

You make threats or even behave badly towards her, it doesn’t matter which gang you belong to or what position you hold, because people will fucking shun you. Tully hisses as she touches the sore spots with moves that are gentle enough but clearly very medical, giving no room what so ever for any misinterpretations.

She makes a displeased grunt and Tully sighs.

“There a new problem, doc?”
“I wish. It’s the twenty year old one. I’ve warned you, Tully. No more pull-ups if you don’t take proper time to stretch. You use them tennis balls?”
“Occasionally.”
“Well, occasionally isn’t enough and don’t give me excuses about not having time.”
“Wasn’t going to, doc.”
“Of course not. Take a deep breath, gotta listen to your lungs.”

It’s standard procedure with cons who’ve reached past 35 and Tully is forty with a body feeling like fifty on good days and seventy on the bad ones. The tennis balls was her idea of massaging yourself and it works if you just do it. You lay down on the floor with the balls on your trigger points, between your shoulder and just above your ass, letting your body weight put pressure onto the balls and then you move slowly.

It works, even feels rather good, but it’s also a display of vulnerability and therefore a thing you do when you have a sliver of privacy. Tully rarely has that after lights out and he’s not the kind of shot caller who’d let a punk massage him in the open – or in the cell.

He takes the required deep breath with the cold stethoscope on his ugly skin and recalls the doc, or was it a nurse, who finished an examination by making Tully suck him off or he’d not get his painkillers. That was a guy though – a very long time ago – and this stern and professional doc is a woman at least three inches shorter and with nothing against him if she’d try any shit. She moves the stethoscope.

“Again.”

It doesn’t hurt too bad, he’s used to this shit after all. She moves it a couple of more times over his back and chest, ordering him to breathe and then she’s done, hanging the stethoscope back around her neck and pats his good shoulder.

“I’ll get you advils for the day, one oxy for the night for a week and then you come back for a check-up. No pull-ups, no push-ups, no boxing and no fights.”
“Taking away all the fun in my life, as usual, Dr. Lopez.”

She rolls her eyes but has an almost fond smile on her face.

“I raised four sons on my own, Tully. It’s my job to make life less fun for boys who’d get themselves killed otherwise. Now off you go and if I see you here again in the next two weeks with anything else out of place, I’ll be tempted to follow state guidelines and send your sorry ass away before you’re halfway to my room.”
“Yes, ma’m.”

She wouldn’t. She’s not fooled and God help the poor idiot who’ll try to steal from her medical stash – or bribe her to get more – but she’s loyal as shit to her medical oath and both the staff and the cons respect her. She’s the kind of person who’ll go to the newspapers the moment anyone told her to keep shit down to protect the high and mighty and that’s why she’s pretty much untouchable in here.

Tully heads for the door, nodding at her.

“As always, thanks for your excellent care, doc.”
“And as always, I’d appreciate if you’d make an effort to make it less of a Groundhog day. Take care, Tully. I mean it.”

Chapter Text

He’s barely touched his dinner when he realises he’s actually hungry, just lost in his thoughts. The sticky spaghetti and minced beef is more than edible and Juice ignores the thought that maybe he’s just relieved to see Tully back again, with his shoulder back in place and his usual impassive look on his face across the table. He’s feeling tired from the work, his hands actually aching a bit but it went well enough. No fights, no threats, no accidents and as far as forced labor pals goes, Tom/Thomas isn’t bad at all. In fact, he’s proved to be of some help.

The damn laundry powder could be improved though and Juice’s eyes are red and sore, as are his hands. He almost regrets quitting the group therapy for more work, but at least this makes time go faster and he doesn’t have to listen to sob stories and fake regrets in that circle jerk shit. And he gets an income. A pathetically shitty one he’s not even sure how to spend, but still.

Leroy nods at Tully who’s twirling spaghetti around his fork.

“They put you back together, boss?”
“Good as new. No pull-ups or push-ups for a couple of weeks though.”

The men now nod all around, showing they understand there’s nothing serious wrong with their boss and Tully then turn the subject of conversation to business. Juice is ignored as usual and he’s fine with that. The last thing he needs is to be involved in the AB business, either by accident or by active participatory. He just keeps his head to the food and his ears opened.

Tully’s injury isn’t serious, no, but Juice has spent more than a year under a kind of pressure he assumes comes with being a rat waiting for his execution,whether it’s in prison or outside, and the bodily symptoms have, among others, been constant tension. With the way Tully moves, it’s all but clear he’s in quite some pain and while the others may not notice, Juice has seen plenty of sides the shot caller doesn’t show in public to spot the signs.

It’s not much. Just the frown getting slightly deeper, the eyes a little thinner and answers less engaged in the conversation. In other words: best thing for Juice – and the others – to do, is to keep calm and not be annoying. Juice hasn’t forgotten about the punch Tully threw in private to punish him for getting into a fight with the Jamaicans and he has no intention on giving him another reason. Juice keeps his mouth shut between bites, eyes politely turned to the upper line of his tray to see just where the others are in terms of eating pace.

As usual, he’s falling behind. Since moving into Tully’s cell, eating has slowly gotten a little easier, but the concept of feeling actual hunger is rather foreign and Juice’s stomach isn’t used to normal sized portions yet. He ends up leaving a third of his tray now, but it’s the best he can manage if he’s not to be left alone to finish it and that’s just not an option. The shot caller seems uninterested in his food, probably due to pain and he’s mostly making non-verbal responses to the conversation while picking at his tray. He’s not pushing it away though, letting his men finish their dinner without showing impatience.

Maybe he’s having a migraine too or something. Migraines give you a shitty mood. Or his neck got hurt as well. Tully is in his forties and has played this game for a long time. This kind of life makes you age faster and heal slower. Injuries of some kind are more or less constant.

It’s a relief when dinner is over, even if Juice hasn’t managed to finish his tray. Tully is acting strange and honestly it would be easier to handle that in the cell – another thing he never thought he’d think. That being locked up with Tully in a small cell for most part of the day isn’t even close to the worst part of his accidentally continuing existence. That it often is a relief, sometimes even a pleasure. They walk back in their usual pack formation, with Tully first, Leroy to his right and Juice right behind at his left. Hugh walks last, not because he’s last in line by any means, but because the AB in here seems to have a different idea of formation than the MC.

It’s more like a wolf pack, with the leader at the front, the weakest in the middle and the muscle last. Tully walks as usual, no hint of weakness and even when they’ve entered the cell he’s acting like everything is fine save for that little frown that looks like he’s simply contemplating or being intimidating. Juice isn’t sure how to act. He had a plan that seemed good in theory, but…

As Tully goes on to spend some time with his little gang – playing cards probably – Juice is honestly relieved to get out of his sight for a while. He takes to make ready for bed, remaking it just to have something to do, then cleaning the already pretty tidy cell and lastly he remakes both their bunks, because why not. He makes sure the right bottle is within reach and then he curls up crosslegged to read – or at least try or pretend to.

When he was still a Son, the others would always look weirdly at him, or laugh or shake their heads, whenever he wasn’t acting like a biker “should”. His proclivity for being neat, disliking germs and how he could practically be a crime syndicate boss online but hopelessly nerdy IRL were all targets for their other’s ribbing and while it was mostly in good spirit, there was always this strange gap that didn’t seem to exist between the others.

Or maybe it did, it just escaped his notice as so much else. Tonight though, he thinks he’s read a thing or two right and now he can only wait for the right moment. It shouldn’t be long.

Chapter Text

Shitty doesn’t even begin to describe Tully’s mood when he’s finally able to take advantage of seniority and call it the night. He can’t let the cell block know he’s feeling worse from the pain, that he’s so stiff he can barely move his neck. When he steps inside, the cell is spotless meaning his boy is probably in the midst of a panic attack or something similar which Tully right now simply can’t fucking deal with.

He walks straight to the sink and there’s a small relief when the door is locked behind him and the guard passes.

“Papi?”

His boy’s voice is quiet but not shaky and Tully turns to him, trying to ignore how pain is creeping down his neck, the popped shoulder and all the way down his spine.

“What?”

He’s not snapping but it’s close and fuck’s sake, he doesn’t have the energy to spare for a wound up boy right now but Juice remains all calm and walks up to him, leaning closer.

“Let me help you with that.”

Tully makes a groaning little laughter.

“Already got the meds and they don’t help, baby. And as sweet as you are, fucking is the last thing I want right now.”
“Good, ‘cause if you wanted my ass now, I’d call you an idiot, papi.”

Juice very rarely acts openly rude to him these days and Tully is half on his mind to punish the boy when Juice grins widely.

“You aint an idiot, papi, just stubborn. You think you’re the only one who can use your hands, huh? Sit down, back to bed. Now.”

It’s been a very long time since anyone without an office uniform ordered Tully to do anything and in this pitiful state and with that sweet smile stuck on Juice’s face, Tully just does as he’s asked – ordered, actually – and gets down with his back to the metal frame, Juice placing himself with his knees on each side of Tully’s fucked up shoulders. He pressures his knees slightly onto Tully’s upper arms and starts touching the neck.

“What are you up to, boy?”

He doesn’t want to admit worry but punk or not, Juice is a grown ass man with mechanic hands and swelling biceps, able to snap Tully’s neck if he wants to.

“Gonna ease up some tension. I’ve done this before.”
“Uh-huh. And how many corpses did you leave behind?”
“You’d honestly sit down like this if you thought I’d actually snap your neck, papi?”

Tully snorts.

“No. But I don’t like quacks. Do you know what you’re doing?”
“I know exactly what I’m doing. Take a deep breath and let your shoulder drop.”
“If you fuck me up…”
“Breathe and relax, Tully!”

If he wasn’t in such terrible pain, he’d laugh at how his boy sounds like an exasperated parent and Tully decides to humor him because at this point, he’s ready to risk getting snapped. He takes a deep breath, sighs out and tries to relax. The next second Juice makes a quick but careful twist, there’s a sound of bones cracking and before Tully undestands how the hell it happened, a lot of tension has left both the injured shoulder and the strained side of his neck.

“Better?”
“Yeah…”

He rolls the shoulder carefully and while it’s still tense, it no longer feels stuck.

“Put your hands on your shoulders, like you’d be hugging yourself.”

Tully just silently obeys and the he feels Juice’s arms coming around him, firm and steady, turning his upper body first to the left, then the right and something is popping back into place.

“Now, arms down to each side and relax.”

The arm around his head is warm and careful as is the hand onto his shoulder but it hurts like fuck when Juice adds pressure and stretches out the right side of his neck. It’s the good kind of hurt, but Jesus fuck, it’s gruesome. The right side isn’t as awful but still in pain and Tully may have the beginning of tears in his eyes from it.

“You okay, papi?”
“I’m… Where did you learn this, baby?”
“One of the girls at Diosa. Stripper studying to become a chiro.”
“She alive?”
“Uhm… Far as I know. Why?”
“Need to send her a thank you card.”
“Hey! It’s me you should thank.”

Tully smiles, now turning his neck back with ease to look at his boy.

“You just nipped a beginning migraine attack in the bud, baby. I don’t think a card is enough to thank you for that.”

Juice grins back and he’s rather cute with this almost smug look on his usually so tense face.

“How about I give you something more to thank me for? And don’t look at me like that, it’s not light’s out yet.”
“Then what in the world do you have in mind, boy?”
“I’ll show you, papi. Loose your shirt.”

Chapter Text

He’s never seen Tully’s back this close before. Not in light or on display like this and Juice is honestly surprised it’s happening. The shot caller sits on his knees and feet, letting Juice sit behind and above him, which should just be a big fucking no, but since when is the Aryan shot caller predictable? Juice takes the lotion and adds some onto his palm before starting.

Fuck, the man is tense! Warm enough, yeah, but that shoulder really fucked him up and Juice decides to start with a warm-up, just rubbing in broad moves with firm but not too much pressure. It’s not a pretty sight isn’t, but he already knew that and it doesn’t matter. Everyone in here has scars and if they don’t have them when arriving, they do when leaving – walking on two feet or carried in a bodybag.

The skin is scarred, far more than he realised. Time and sun have bleached much of the damage but this close it tells a story that is worse than Juice previously thought. This wasn’t part of his plan, to use his almost forgotten skills to get a closer look at his… whatever Tully is to him these days. All he wanted was to try and be of help, to show off perhaps, and by that kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. He has nothing to gain with the shot caller being bodily hurt and malfunctioning. Not anymore.

He’s already asked once and didn’t get an answer, which was expected, but Juice sort of knows anyway from what he’s accidently learned over time and this afternoon in the laundry and it makes him sick to is stomach.

Whoever did this didn’t just mean to punish or hurt. He – because it’s definitely a he – wanted Tully to really suffer, physically, mentally and probably socially. Kicking a wild pup into submission. Juice swallows and focuses on the tension.

“You okay, papi?”
“Yeah, baby. You’re good at this.”

Juice smiles then because he’s a sucker for praise, apparantly.

“Thanks. Gotta spoil you too sometimes, you know.”

Tully laughs, a short and quiet sound of surprise with maybe just a hint of actual happiness. If that’s a thing you still have when you’re a former punk turning nazi shot caller. Yes, Juice can read between the lines too, even those partly hidden by ink and the pace of time on the slowly relaxing back.

The shot caller is leaning back onto him now, head actually tilting against Juice’s thigh and it’s such a vulnerable pose it simply can’t be conscious. The broad shoulders are practically a nest of knots, probably years of them and if Juice didn’t know any better, he’d say Tully is showing trust. He bites on a groan and Juice huffs.

“You know, papi, this is what happens when old men think they’re too good to stretch properly.”
“You calling me old, boy?”
“Older than me for sure. I’m thirtyone.”
“Yeah, I’m but twentythree.”
“Oldest twentythree-year-old ever then.”

Tully laughs again and it’s actual amusement in it.

“I’m going on fortyone, baby.”
“Good. Otherwise you should get worried.”
“We all age faster in here, boy.”

Juice snorts.

“Out there too. You should seriously see a chiro when you get out.”
“I’ll consider it. Ouch, what did you find there?”
“Knots, knots and more knots, papi. You really gotta improve your stretching routine.”

It’s a conversation so normal parts of it could be mistaken for a chat between good friends – or even a couple – on the outside, but Juice isn’t fooled. He knows that for Tully to allow him this close to his scars in bright light, he must’ve been in serious pain and the fact that he’s not pulling away now, means this is doing him good.

Maybe it’s wrong of Juice to do this. It looks like he’s submitting, like he’s rewarding Tully for breaking him down but that’s not the case. No, for what it’s worth, at least Juice is aware of the difference between how that would feel and how this feels. The pieces of the incredulous puzzle that are supposed to form a picture of a nazi shot caller who relishes in raping punks, a sociopath without empathy and care, has another pattern. There are pieces of those things too, yes, and maybe it’s just the Stockholm syndrome and Juice’s revived longing for something more than a living death speaking, but good God, he’s never been good at hating.

Working on Tully’s sore back has another purpose too, much like the shot caller’s habit of having them share bunks. Being locked up with someone for most part of the day, means you gotta deal with shitty moods and temper tantrum, sometimes violence, and in some cases nightmares and whining about soreness.

The shot caller’s pale skin is getting red on the worst spots now but he’s a lot more relaxed and Juice finishes off with smooth moves all over the back.

“There. Starting to get all red now, so we better stop.”
“Thank you.”
“S’nothing, papi.”

Tully turns his face up, looking a little glassy in the eyes, cheeks slightly red from the relief.

“Yeah, it is, baby. Seriously, Juice… Thank you. Now… aside from things I can’t manage now without throwing up, how can I reward you?”

Chapter Text

Herbal tea might not be the drink for celebrations but right now it does wonder. Juice looks cute while taking a sip, grinning again.

“Green mint is actually a favourite, papi.”
“Then you can have as much as you like, baby. I’ll buy more.”

Tully would buy him pretty much anything he’s able to afford at this point if asked because that wasn’t a day’s worth of tension coming off, but years. He’s feeling dizzy and sore but good God, it’s so much better and he can even move his neck and shoulder again. He sits leaned against the bedframe still, now with Juice by his side and they each have cup of tea.

His boy glances at him.

“Need more painkillers?”

Tully shakes his head and he knows his smile is probably too soft but he’s just feeling too good to care.

“No, baby boy, your magical hands pretty much cured me. And I was serious about rewarding you. Green tea aint nothing.”
“A cuddle then?”

Jesus. How did it come to this?

It’s not light’s out yet but they’re in their cell and the guy across knows to keep his eyes to himself – as does the guard currently patrolling. And it’s not like they’ve not seen them sleeping together or Tully comforting Juice before. Leaving them be makes their job easier and they know it. No hack wants to spend time trying to soothe a con’s nightmares and panic attacks while waking the whole block up.

And they’re also, mostly, very aware of the cost of making Tully’s life unnecessary difficult in here.

So, light’s still on or not, Tully puts his cup down, raises to grab Treasure Island from his shelf and nods at the bunk.

“Get up, sweetheart.”

He’s freezing a little, strangely, but it’s probably an aftermath of the bone cracking. Tully feels a bit unsteady when raising, but he’s not reeling and he makes it to the bottom bunk without showing any further weakness.

“Grab my blanket too, baby.”

He takes Juice’s and pulls it around his own back before sitting back, supported with the boy’s pillow and then Juice curls up with Tully’s blanket around his knees, still holding the half full tea cups and manages to sit down and lean back without spilling.

“Here you go, papi.”
“Thanks, baby. Now, where were we… Lets see, ah… Part Two, the Sea-Cook…”

He’s grateful for this, for having the book to focus on or he’d start crying so it’s as much a way of hiding as it’s a reward for Juice. His boy has no clue of how long Tully has walked around with this injury or where it stems from.

It’s not an unusual injury at all, not even if you’re a law-abiding citizen living a quiet life, but in Tully’s case, this fucked up shoulder isn’t a result of some stupid gym shit or a car accident or getting worn out from a heavy job. It’s one of those memories he’s not even tried to push under the rug, due to it’s random reminders every once in a while.

He was conscious for most of it, unfortunately, and Green must’ve paid some serious money because they were alone in the gym at night and he’d strung Tully up against one of the machines with arms pulled too far back and it hurt so much he was crying floods long before it was over, which only riled the bastard up more. It only happened once but even if they put his shoulder back in place at the infirmary later, it’s never fully healed.

Now, twenty plus years later, he’s reminded of how it could feel. Almost how it used to feel before he served that first stint… You learn quickly how to cry in silence inside, and when you’re getting a pro at it, you even know how to shed fucking tears when talking, when reading, without revealing it. A slightly different angle for the head, eyes to the side and with another man’s head onto your good shoulder and a book and firm voice as cover, even a shot caller can get away with it.

You also learn to forget what’s normal, forgetting all about how the absence of pain felt like, because how else will you survive in a place where you’re either the predator or the prey and nothing, not ever, anything in between?

Chapter Text

He only meant to help out, to be practical about one of few things he can actually do to improve anything in here. He’s not gonna kid himself about what the shot caller might or might not feel because the man who usually has everything and everyone in control, is at loss about it. Being a poster child for Stockholm Syndrome is less than flattering, but this is more than that.

There’s nothing Tully can really save him from that death isn’t a much more reliable solution to and there are plenty of far easier and more acceptable options of punks, even willing ones, for a shot caller who’s a pro at appearing as a nazi, only shit at actually being one.

Tully’s chest and arms are even more comfortable now than before. He’s like a soft, cuddly teddy bear and holy shit, that’s just one fucked up image, but still the most accurate one, strictly physically speaking. A teddy bear with soft arms, horribly dangerous fists and scars that wont fade with time, crying without a sound. Why even try to hold onto logic anymore?

When the clock finally is close enough to light’s out to make ready for bed, it’s a relief for both of them. It takes a lot of effort to keep up appearance like this and Juice hurries to get down under the sheet, waiting for Tully to follow. He can soon feel the mattress shifting and the man forming up behind him as usual but the body is so much more relaxed than Juice has ever felt before and he can’t help but smiling into the wall, safely hidden from Tully’s still wet eyes.

“You okay, Ron? Did… did I hurt you?”

He’s not sure why he’s not using the petname, or the last name. Maybe it’s simply not the right moment for any of them. There’s a pause and Juice starts worrying he might’ve crossed a line, but then he feels Tully’s arm coming around him in the usual way and the man aligns himself with Juice, face bent into the nape of his neck.

“Quite the opposite, baby. Just… not what I expected.”
“Chiro stuff is pretty intense. Glad to help though.”

There’s a small huff, a small stain of wetness.

“You have any idea what you just did?”
“Cracked your bones in place.”
“You fixed a twenty year old problem.”
“And all I got was green tea…”

The shot caller’s laugh is soft and genuine, almost bashful and Juice leans further into him.

“That shit been hurting all the time?”
“More or less.”

Another quiet chuckle, a sigh and the wetness is still there but not increasing.

“You didn’t have to… help me like that, Juice…”
“I know. But I wanted to.”
“Well… Can’t imagine why.”
“Just like I can’t wrap my head around why you’re keeping a spic in your bunk.”
“You could’ve snapped my neck…”
“So could you, as you promised Jax. I’m a rat, after all.”
“Always seemed more like a kitten to me…”

Now it’s Juice’s turn to laugh, turning his head to look at the man who’s probably the best actor when it comes to public face that Juice has ever seen. The cheeks have streaks of tears but there’s a small, lost smile twitching the soft mouth. It doesn’t look like the shot caller at all, just Ron and Juice decides to challenge his luck, leaning up and so close he’s touching nosetips with the man, but not looking him in the eye.

“You fooled the cameras, papi, but not me.”

The eyes widen a little and Juice can feel his own heart speed up like that of a hunted rabbit, but there’s no way to pretend this wasn’t said. His throat is thick when he swallows, sips air.

“You hated every second of it. Not because I’m half black, or a Puerto Rican or a snitch… or a guy.”
“Is that so?”

Tully sounds calm, too calm and Juice decides he’s pushed his luck too much. He turns his head back down, breathing faster and after a couple of stuttering heartbeats, he can feel that large hand rubbing soothingly against his back.

“Aint asking you for forgiveness.”
“Because I didn’t fight you…”
“Because I don’t deserve it.”

Chapter Text

The psychiatrist evaluating him so long ago, claimed there was no normal empathy to be found. That he had shallow emotional reactions, lacked remorse for what he’d done and showed no sympathy for his victims. That he had a charming façade and would manipulate anyone he could to get what he wanted.

He wasn’t wrong, just completely uninterested in looking into possible reasons.

Tully can’t recall a time after his first stint when he cared much about anyone or anything but himself and his own survival. No human at least. He’s always liked dogs and cats. Yes, he’s shallow as a puddle on the street but that first year inside he pretty much clawed onto the surface because the depths, his own or others, would’ve killed him.

He’s alive because he got shallow. He rose from the kind of bottom most people in this country can never imagine. They know nothing about the absolute shock that first sentence can be, how you’re suddenly not just locked away from everything you know and care about, but put together with people who’re dying for a change in the routine, any kind of challenge that makes them feel powerful or just puts some color to the grey prison walls.

Something like a shy, scared and thin teenager without connections, who you can dress up in lingerie and parade as your personal fuck toy with the guards turning a blind eye and a family being too ashamed about the sentence in the first place to come and visit. When Cutler, after a long period of trial, decided Tully was no longer just a low servant and former used hole, there were no emotions left but the survival instinct – and the goal of never ever being used again.

He’s been called a lot since rising, first to a little helper, then an enforcer, after a while a member, a second and lastly a shot caller, among other things a freak with clout. Yes, Weston wasn’t the first one using that description, but it’s no less true.

And he’s not gonna ask for forgiveness, not just because he doesn’t deserve it, but because he’s not even sure how it feels to be genuinly remorseful anymore. He knows he could once, but he was so young then, just a kid and he’s not that kid anymore, just a survivor who knows every trick in the book but doesn’t remember a time when he wasn’t playing a game of power. And it seems like he’s finally met someone who doesn’t fall for it.

His boy’s eyes are almost bright in the darkness, his breath warm and sweet, skin too soft and too dark for the mask Tully is wearing. It’s such a strange feeling not to be in pain like usual, to be movable again and to realise how a literally crooked spine became normal because why fix a shitty punk when there’s always another one to claim if your current one wears out? No one really addressed the rapes, or did anything to stop them for real, not the guards, not the warden, not the doctor.

Juice looks so pretty, but he’s tense and why wouldn’t he? If this had happened a week ago, Tully might’ve turned violent or at least threatened him. There’d been no admittance of wrongdoing, no remorse shown and certainly no comfort. The big brown eyes are sad and so is the smile.

“I hurt people too, Ron. Innocent people. I mean, completely innocent.”
“Of course.”

Tully smiles, stroking the soft cheek.

“You’re a gangbanger, baby. I know what you’re capable of. But you’re not me.”
“And who are you, papi?”
“A very bad person.”
“You sure about that?”

Tully closes his eyes, sighing.

“I know who I am, baby, and we both know it’s not a gentleman.”
“Thank God.”

Tully raises his eyebrows in surprise and sees a grin in the darkness.

“Too many gentlemen think they want a big bad biker, but they can’t take the heat, papi.”

Despite it being lights out, Tully can’t stop a laughter and he quickly chokes it into his boy’s warm skin. He’s rarely laughed out of being genuinly amused by something that doesn’t involve someone elses pain or defeat in years. His boy is still smiling and it’s warm and kind, not a twisted grimace lost in self-hatred and emptiness.

A hand onto his hair, soft pets, a thumb running down his temple.

“Truth is, Ron, pathetic as it may sound, you make me feel better than I’ve done in years.”

Oh, God. Jesus fucking Christ.

“It does sound… fucked up, baby boy.”
“Would you prefer if you made me feel worse?”

The boy knows the answer to that and this conversation has already turned too dangerous but one of very few virtues Tully possesses, it’s the fact that he never straight out lies to his boy. It seems unworthy ever since Juice offered himself as a sacrifice for the club that kicked him out.

They’re so close now their heartbeats almost touch the other chest and Tully forces himself to look at his boy’s huge, grief stricken eyes.

“I counted down, boy. In PC. I counted every single one to keep from screaming. It doesn’t make it okay, I know that, but I hated it, not you, not your goddamn heritage, just… what I had to do…”

Chapter Text

He used to believe this overthinking shit started when he ended up in the mess that was partly responsible for fucking the club up, but since being locked away with Tully, the distance from it all has given a wider perspective. This anxiousness when being alone, the way his thoughts tangles up and make no sense, sending him down the hill to a pit of suffocating chaos, came far earlier and the first time he actually tried to put words to it, was that one time with Gemma:

I don't like bein' alone. I'm not good on my own. My head gets so loud. And shit doesn't make... Nothing syncs up. I start thinking about my thinking. And getting lost in the details of nothing. Nothing can pull me out of it.

Until now. He doesn’t love Tully, that would be sick and he’s not so depending on the man’s comfort he’s able to ignore the pain he’s caused. But fact is, Tully is the only one ever who’s pulled Juice out of that awful, exhausting spin of thoughts and feelings. Mom couldn’t, the club couldn’t, Chibs couldn’t, meds and therapy couldn’t. That’s the awfulness of it, the deepest reason to why he betrayed the patch.

Because he’s simply not a person who can stand strong in a storm of paralysing thoughts under the threat of isolation. Unless there’s someone there to take his hand and help dragging him out, he’s lost and ends up doing stupid shit, sometimes to the extent of complete madness, unless he can find the way – and he so, so rarely can.

No, he most certainly doesn’t love this man who’s actions in their time together sums up to more good than bad ones, if anyone’s counting, but he’s relieved. Strangely, probably unhealthy and highly unfairly relieved for the way Tully accepts all of him, weaknesses and strenghts – the few ones existing – and just looks at him like something else than a prey or a thing to pity.

Their legs are tangled under the thin, coarse sheet and it doesn’t matter how it came to Juice not missing pussy or women anymore, how he loves they way Tully’s hard cock presses onto his own or how almost reverent the so called nazi’s kisses are. He’s not denying what happened in PC and it’s not easy to forget and even harder to forgive but if he’s to be honest with himself about the awful things, why can’t that be the case about the few good things too?

Is it really that wrong and weak to find a little bit of ease and comfort in the whispered confession Juice already had discovered? To feel just that sliver of respect and acknowledgement, small as it is, to get some sort of resititution?

You’re a human being with a heart, body and mind and I hurt you, caused you harm because I could and because it gained me at the time. I didn’t care about your feelings, only about my position, my reputation and my own needs.

I hurt you and I don’t expect forgiveness, but I am genuinly sorry, baby.

I know. Still wont forgive you for it all, not now, maybe never, but you have to live with that, papi, just as I live with being unforgiven too. As you live with your wounds and I with mine… Can’t we just be good at something else than hurting and hiding in order to survive? Is it possible to, not forget, but maybe put the rat and nazi, the traitor and rapist aside for now?

It’s the fall from their respective grace that binds them together. So what if they’re making the best of it? So fucking what?

Juice isn’t passive in this, he’s a force as well, gravitating towards a man of flesh and blood, with warm skin tainted with symbols of a hatred he’s not carrying. He turns before the shot caller initiates it, rubbing his ass impatiently like a cat in heat and instead of a teasing chuckle there are strained little moans and when Tully grinds in kind he can feel the wetness of precum smearing his lower back.

The shot caller is generous with the lube, as always, and he’s entering slowly, practically leaning his forehead onto Juice’s shoulder, as if he needed support. It’s sweeter than ever when he slides in, not to hurt or even just get off, but carefully and with clear effort to not hasten the pace. The strong arms cradle Juice’s once broader body, legs in tandem and they both moan between teeth as Tully settles, pulse already throbbing through their bodies slowly starting to move in sync.

It’s more than the mere feeling of being alive and held, more than the clenching reaction and how he shudders everytime Tully hits his prostrate. It’s not just how he’s being peppered with kisses on his shoulder, how the arms rock him and one hand slides down to get more lube before closing around him. It’s not just the heated, half-choked groans or how Tully’s fingertips are nimble as feathers when brushing over his skin.

It’s not just the way his own cock weeps shamelessly over Tully’s hand and the mattress but the cadence of this dirty, hopeless and haunting longing for someone to feel you, to feel for you…

It’s the oldest bond known to life between two people, a momentarily hypnosis, paralyzing yet releasing, raw and fragile and therefor so often shielded from the one you’re sharing it with. Juice feels his entire body stirring, limbs getting shaken out of numbness and his spine curving like a crescent as he comes with a cry mercifully buried by the bend of Tully’s protective arm. It rattles through him all the way down to his feet and up again, this sense – false as it might be – of being one and whole with someone.

“Yeah, baby… that’s right, my love… Fuck, I’m gonna… Juice… Juice…”

Tully whispers his name, clings onto him like he’s the one who needs saving from something, anything, maybe everything and most of all the monster he became in order to protect the boy he once was.

And Juice can’t say the words he means, because he doesn’t yet have them and even if he did, Tully wouldn’t know how to translate them. So as he whimpers and pants through his orgasm, Juice simply leans back and up, ghosting lips over damp and stubbled skin where the pulse is in sync with the desperate thrusts behind him and the other man’s cry that might have been heard if they’d been different people in a different place in another fucking lifetime and alternate universe, dies to muted sobs in his hair.  

Chapter Text

The silence isn’t the numbing or threatening kind and his boy isn’t tense or pulling away. Tully is softening inside him and even if Juice has come too and they’re both satisfied, Tully kind of misses the warmth when he slips out of him. He holds onto him still, resting a hand on his hip and keeps kissing his neck in a way that just isn’t safe.

They’re sticky and Juice raises to remedy that when Tully gentles him and kisses his forehead.

“I’ll get your cloth, baby.”

Juice gives a dreamy smile and leans back against the pillow. Tully silently washes himself and then grabs his boy’s wash cloth, soaks and wrings it out before slinking back to bed. He does what no shot caller should do to anyone and cleans his boy off, padding back to the sink to rinse the cloth and bring a cup of water back.

“Drink some.”
“Thank you.”

Juice has a few mouthfuls and then pulls his pajama pants back on. Pity, but there’s always a risk there’s a random search at breakneck dawn and parading naked is never fun. Tully redresses too and smiles at his boy snuggling down like a cozy cat.

It’s a very new thing, someone actually being a little bit happy around him and not just clinging on to keep from drowning. Juice is looking at him, not like he hung the moon, thank God no, but like he’s more glad to see him that not. He’s moving to make room, face not turned away to the wall in fear or sorrow or insecurity and the softness in his features isn’t of the breakable kind.

Tully lays on his side, facing his boy and the smile on Juice’s lips is reaching his eyes, making them glimmer in the darkness. It’s such a strange thing, to see himself mirrored into something that has nothing to do with fear or respect, submissiveness or even protection. Tully isn’t where he is due to a difficulty to read people and he can interpret the look well enough, foreign as it is, especially in here.

His boy is happy. Tully knows because it’s a new feeling, entirely fucking new on the inside and one he’s not seen before with many people. A bit of post-orgasmic bliss, sure, but Juice is just fixed lazily on Tully’s eyes, his face, a hand travelling up to Tully’s stubbled cheek, just laying there, wanting to touch just for the sake of it.

The smile gets wider and Tully raises his eyebrows.

“What?”
“Nothing.”

Juice keeps petting his cheek, thumb brushing.

“Just… I feel for you too, Ron…”

So dangerous is that other word, that none of them will say it but it doesn’t matter. This is a game they both know equally well. No queers allowed, no pussies, no softies, no poisonous love that might blow your world into pieces and with it your very existence. It’s not just in front of cameras in a visitor’s room that you gotta speak in code.

Tully feels thickness in his throat and it takes all he’s got to not lower his eyes or turn away when he speaks:

“I’m sorry, Juice. For… what I did.”

There was a time and it wasn’t even that long ago, when Ron Tully would rather die than giving himself up like this, but it’s a festering wound he’s no longer able to ignore or repaint in a less ugly image. It’s not much and in any reasonable world it wouldn’t be enough by anybody’s standards, but it’s more than Tully ever thought himself able to give. He’s not sure what that says about him.

“I forgive you, you know. For as much as I can, at least.”

Since when did these things matter? Since when was a punk anything more than a toy, a tool for pleasure and powertrips? Since when did it make any fucking difference that Tully raped someone despite not wanting to? Juice takes a deep breath, looking like he’s in between the bliss and the pain.

“You know what I wanted, more than anything, papi?”
“What, baby?”
“For them to forgive me, even if I didn’t deserve it. Still don’t and what I did was worse than what you did to me, ‘cause I killed a brother to protect myself and then had a prospect killed for the same reason.”

He sighs, these are clearly still very painful memories and unlike Tully Juice has never been able to push the regret away. It bleeds through him, he’s carrying it with him in every step and it almost killed him. Not the sins, but the guilt.

“You know, papi, there’s no worse feeling, at least for me, to be unforgiven and alone. T’wasn’t what you did to me that made me so angry when you didn’t… go through with the rest, but the idea of having to live on, all alone, being hated and despised and just… nothing to anyone.”
“Being my punk was better than nothing?”
“I was never really your punk, Ron.”

Juice looks steadily at him right now.

“I heard you count, you didn’t enjoy it one bit and I knew when we were being watched. Just because I was numb and hated it, doesn’t mean I didn’t understand you hated it too. And since leaving PC, you’ve never forced yourself onto me again.”
“Doesn’t make the rest unmade, baby…”
“No, but it counts, papi. This aint some Stockholm syndrome shit speaking and I know fully well who you are, who I am and what fucked up and evil shit we’ve done, but… as soon as no one was around to see, you stopped. And you tried to make it as painless as possible and… yeah, that shit counts. Call me crazy if you want, but it fucking counts.”

Chapter Text

He’s not sure when the numbness decreased or why, only due to whom. These pale arms covered in ink and scars have caused him far more comfort than pain if you count the moments and actual deeds, but of course that’s usually not how you count these things. Juice knows fully well how he shouldn’t long for their embrace, how he’s a textbook example of Stockholm Syndrome and how the feelings he has for Tully all come from a poisonous vell.

He knows all of this, he’s not naïve anymore, just unsettingly in love with a man who raped him despite not wanting to. Could Tully have avoided it? Probably. Nothing’s black and white, ironically not even a nazi. After all, Juice once stole from the club, then killed a brother, then covered up Tara’s murder and still, stupidly,somewhere harbored this longing for forgiveness and that’s why he ended up here. He shouldn’t have trusted Jax that time, but he had nothing left, nothing to loose and he’s been dwelling in the self-hatred for so long, in the acceptance of the punishment that he can’t tell when he started to long for smiles and soft touches more than death.

Tully, in this horrifyingly comical way, mirrors the forgiveness Juice knew he’d never get but couldn’t stop hoping for. A chance to explain to Jax and Chibs and all of them, that while he was a coward and stupid as shit, he just never ever meant to hurt anyone. That he loved them all and the only thing he ever wanted was to remain a Son, a brother. That all he ever did was in the name of that love, only the fear of loosing it due to the color of his father’s skin, a man he’s never met and didn’t even have a photo of himself.

That the knowledge Roosevelt had, dug so much deeper than the idiot cop ever realised and that to threaten Juice’s entire world was like placing a bomb ready to detonate directly in his hands. Roosevelt played with his mind, made him distrust his brothers but of course, that wouldn’t have happened had there not been this fear already festering.

People leaving him alone has always been the nightmare of Juice’s life, ever since he was a kid. The classical bad dreams at night when he was little, but even when he got older, he’d wake up panting and sweating, wondering where mom and his step father were. He’d leave his bed and sneak to the doorways to their rooms, just to make sure they were still there. They always were and then he’d go and make sure the frontdoor was locked before going back to bed.

He’s not the kind of guy dreaming of his father coming back. He learned early on that grown men weren’t exactly people to trust and when mom got pregnant with one of them and his baby sister was born, Juice was already in his late teens, ending up in trouble and the last time he saw his mom and sister was the day his then step dad kicked him out. Juice wasn’t a very nice kid, that’s true, but he wasn’t violent, didn’t do drugs and to this day he’snot sure where he’d ended up, had he not been fortunate enough to get both his beloved laptop and one of his sted dad’s guns with him before walking out the door for the last time.

Perhaps that’s when the numbness really started. Juice doesn’t miss his mother or sister anymore. It’s like he accepted that loss was for real and then tried to move forward, spending some years doing both illegal and legal work, getting really good with tech stuff and then getting his first bike and discovering a new passion. He didn’t end up with the Sons due to a passion for living the outlaw life, he’s not even a violent person unless he needs to, but the friendship, the way they were family despite most of them not sharing blood at all, was pushing on every mommy and daddy issue button he had and his love starved, stupid heart was stuck.

He pulls in the scent of his bedmate he’s no longer sure what to call beyond the nickname. He can’t understand rape, never will, but he can understand crossing an unthinkable line when your whole being is threatened. He can also understand how being molded into seeing awful shit at normal, will fuck up your mind. Hell, he’s killed a lot of people and still he can’t think of himself as a killer. Happy is a killer and proud of it, Jax was a killer and didn’t care and Chibs is a killer who does it when it’s necessary, to deal with something that simply can’t be dealt with in another way.

But Juice… He’s never killed with a cold mind, he’s always had a sliver of his heart in it and with that, the regret, the sense of crossing a line that leaves a piece of him on the other side, lost forever. The numbness was the only way to keep him from going insane and now it’s not needed as much anymore, which is terrifying on its own.

Perhaps this strange, fucked up bond between him and Tully, is due to something as simple as honesty. There was never a point where Juice felt the need to pretend with him, he could just pour his weakness and sins out because Tully was only supposed to be his executioner, not his judge or prosecutor, attorney or jury. He was just the man with the ax, waiting for the sentence and then swing the blade. Only when Juice laid down his head, Tully refused to play his role and turned into something else.

The hold around his back isn’t choking, but protective and it’s scary as hell and probably unhealthy to the point that it could make a shrink wanting to change profession, that Juice can’t remember anyone, not even his mother or Chibs, who made him feel safe and wanted like this. Tully is a sociopath, yes, and a very dangerous and manipulative type, but he’s not a psychopath void of empathy and emotions. There’s no fooling himself though. Juice knows he’d never ever come close to him had this been on the outside, but this is the inside and rules are different here.

Rules that a man like Tully will break and bend too. Jax had no fucking idea who he was dealing with.

Thinking of Jax gives Juice a sudden shudder and as always, the arm around him starts moving a little, pulling him closer in an automatic attempt to comfort. Juice curls further into the chest and the steady heartbeats under the warm skin and he wonders how that heart is still there and who the name – or names – were of those fucking up it’s rhythm so badly.

Tully’s regret counts, if Juice can’t consider what he once asked of Chibs and Jax and the whole club, then he’s truly lost. He’s not there yet, not by a long shot, but he’s aware of the risks this whole situation means to someone like Tully. The nazi has no reason to be this protective of someone who’s just a punk and if anyone finds out, Tully has so much more to loose than he ever had to gain on this arrangement, and above all, way more than Juice.

And no, Juice sure as hell doesn’t love him, but he most definitely doesn’t hate him either. He feels for him and as things have turned out, those feelings aren’t of the numbing or even fearful or despising kind. The shot caller doesn’t make Juice hate or shame himself, he’s not making him afraid or hurt. It’s so bizarre but right now Juice never wants to leave these arms and for the first time he’s not ashamed of it and there’s no numbness needed to keep him sane.

Chapter Text

There’s no such thing as fluffy dreams on the inside and Tully is pleasently surprised at how easily his boy goes from cuddly lover to steal faced con as they, together with the rest of the block, stand outside the cells during one of the random searches for contraband. Nothing, not even a hint of the vulnerability is at display, unless you count Juice’s still too thin frame.

He stands like the rest, hands behind his back, wide-legged enough to be steady but not to appear cocky or challenging. He’s looking at nothing, straight ahead without smiling or sulking and when one of the younger hacks pushes him aside in an obvious attempt to provoke, Juice just wobbles a bit and then finds his footing. The hack gets nothing for his little show and Tully sees how Leroy bites down a grin.

The search is messier than usual, meaning this is more likely a little outlet for bored staff rather than an increased suspicion for contraband. Bedlinen and clothes all over, toiletries as well and of course, the joy of “accidently” tearing down posters on especially Leroy’s and Marty’s walls. No need to make a fuss though, since even Marty knows that if they’re short on cash, Tully will replace the posters out of his own pocket just for the sake of fucking with the hacks.

One of the hacks manages to hit his head into the bunk in Leroy’s cell and the second makes a whistle sound.

“You should go easier on the caffein, Young. S’only five thirty.”

The whole block laughs and it’s an innocent joke even the more easily offended hacks would let pass, but not Young. He walks out, looking around the chuckling parade and then he walks straight up to Juice.

“You laughing at me, Ortiz?”

Juice immediately looks impassive again.

“No, sir.”
“No? You looked like you were.”
“I wasn’t, sir. Was laughing at Leroy, sir.”

Good boy.

Young is right in his face now, close in a way the other guards avoid when it comes to inmates with PTSD or other mental shit that may cause sudden explosions. Furthermore, Juice is a punk and not one who needs increased intimidation techniques to put in place. Somehow Young seems to have forgotten that.

“You think it’s funny when your nazi pals make fun of people? Think they’ll forget about your skin tone then?”
“I think it’s unlikely that anyone will forget about my skin tone, sir, less they all develop blindness and dementia.”

It’s not really rude and absolutely not defiant. But it’s still a comeback, polite and accurate or not, and Young’s sense of humor clearly doesn’t extend to jokes on himself. The proof of that comes the next second when Tully’s boy is thrown against the wall with the hack pushing him and God, Tully wants nothing but breaking line and attack the asshole, but he can’t. His position and Juice’s lack of it, their different color of skin and all the people watching, are in the way.

“You had something to say, biker boy?”

Biker boy? Really?

Juice doesn’t get provoked, though. He looks entirely calm, despite the baton onto his throat.

“No, sir.”

Looks, yes. But he isn’t. Tully can feel it, he’s gotten to know the man for months now and he can almost touch the tension, can picture the way those ribs are strained, heart speeding up and how that mind gets all messy with whatever catastrophic thoughts coming at it in lightning speed.

Yet, he’s standing firm. Until the push onto what must be his kneecaps folding him down to the concrete floor with a small sound but not from his mouth and Tully’s had enough. He opens his mouth but remains silent due to an interruption.

“Kid didn’t do nothing, Young.”

Hugh might be the tallest and broadest of the AB here, but he rarely speaks up. Doesn’t need to, so everyone, including the hack, looks at him with raised eyebrows. Well, except for Juice who’s struggling not to tremble on the floor and Tully looks at his boy with what he hopes is a calming gaze. Maybe it helps, maybe not, but what’s more important is the fact that Juice looses balance again and in the completely wrong direction.

Tully can only watch as his boy’s head falls into the legs of Young and before anything can be explained or the guard cares to look, he’s smashed his fucking baton into Juice’s shoulder and then his upper arm.

“Hey, what the fuck, man?!”
“You serious, Young?”
“Move, Young. Now.”

That’s it. Tully doesn’t think about his reputation or anything else but Juice when he goes between the now seriously hurt boy and the soon to be dead guard who suddenly finds himself separated from the weakest link of the group by Tully, Leroy and Hugh. The men don’t do anything more though, waiting for their shot caller’s orders and that’s when Linch shows up, hair in a firm bun and her most non amused face.

“The hell’s going on here, Young? What’s with the kid?”
“He got in my face, Linch, he…”
“Bullshit.”
“Fucking liar!”

Normally, Linch wouldn’t trust Tully or his men further than she can throw them, but she knows Tully doesn’t hurt his boy. Right? Tully stands still when she lowers to the floor, impatiently shoving the men off.

“Move, you slugs! Hey, Ortiz? Ortiz, you hear me?”

He doesn’t answer and Linch grabs her walkie talkie shit to call on people for help. She pushes Tully away when he attempts to lower.

“You stay where you are, Tully.”

In all his life, Tully has never felt hurt by not being able to comfort. It’s a new feeling, horribly fresh and one that must be contained at all cost. So he remains still, ignoring the need to ignore Linch and get down to his boy and check. He freezes the image of that thin trail of blood coming somewhere from the head on the floor because he’s survived for this long by keeping himself in check, by being blank and unreadable, uncaring and riddling.

He stands silent, not giving them another reason to come at him or his men, not showing anymore signs of weakness and while he watches Linch checking on Juice’s unconscious figure, listening to the lock-down signal and waiting for the medics, Tully counts his heartbeats again, every single one of them, until they block out that piece of humanity he can’t afford to show – or loose.

Chapter Text

“You awake, Ortiz?”

Is he? The light is too sharp, his head hurts like shit and he’s laying on something softer than his bunk. Slowly he peeks up at the face he’s not immediately reckognizing. There’s a hand onto his arm, smaller than Tully’s and he squints at the person again.

“L-linch?”
“I’m afraid so.”

She gives her small smile and Juice feels a tug in his mouth as well.

“Wha’ happened?”
“You had a date with Young’s baton and some concrete.”
“Sounds… romantic…”

He laughs but that pays off poorly with a sharp pain in his head and he hisses.

“Fuck…”
“Concussion and a cracked upper arm. Gotta walk around with a sling for a while. You should thank your guardian angel that I happened to step by when I did, or you’d end up in solitary once you’re out of infirmary.”

Juice swallows, that hurts too, and he looks up at the guard again, sitting there on a chair with her muscled arms leaning onto her thighs.

“Look, I’m not sure what’s going on between you and Tully, but you need to keep this on the downlow.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Linch shakes her head, smiling.

“Men… You’re all idiots when it comes to this crap, you know. The others may not notice, at least not yet, but as a woman, I know how to read you idiots.”

She snorts and it’s a more incredulous and amused sound than dismissive.

“In all my years dealing with you shitheads, I’ve never seen a shot caller that close to, well… break protocol.”
“Tully’s okay?”
“Jesus… You two…”

Linch rubs her face, exasperation written all over her.

“Look, Ortiz, I don’t necessary like Tully, but he’s polite and reliable. I have no reasons to make things harder for him in here, you understand?”
“Yeah…”

Of course he does. Linch is a crooked hack, but not in a way that’s bad for the cons and she needs Tully’s money. She has her principles but she’s a good person. In here, that is. Juice closes his eyes again, the light is stinging.

“I’m not particularly fond of you either, but you’re no troublemaker and for some reason you and the nazi seem to be doing each other more good than bad. Which is fucked up, but I’m not one to judge. I just want this cell block to be in order without unnecessary shit storms.”

Juice swallows, he shouldn’t be this easily affected, but he’s in pain and pumped with both painkillers and benzos so his emotions are more or less out of control.

“Don’t… don’t move me. Please?”
“Ortiz, you know that’s out of my hands, but…”
“Please!”

A whisper scream, tears suddenly appearing but he’s not able to care about anything other than the terrifying aspect of being separated from Tully indefinitely. He feels her hand on his own again, squeezing it a little.

“Ortiz, listen to me. I’ve been here a long time and I know how shot callers like Tully work. I also know it took some serious effort for him not to… put things on display today. No decision about you staying or moving has been made and, just between us, I know Young is an asshole and just went on a power trip. I’ll do what I can to calm this shitstorm but for now, you need to rest and not ask for Tully or do something that makes you a case for the hole once you’re cleared.”
“How long will they keep me here?”
“I don’t know, but use that time well. Rest, eat even if you’re not hungry, take the meds and don’t bitch and moan.”
“Okay... Thanks, ma’m.”

Linch smiles and she pats his hand again.

“Anything you wanna bring along to Tully?”
“Tell him… not to worry. Okay?”
“Sure.”
“And… not to do anything stupid?”

Linch chuckles and Juice smiles as well, both of them knowing fully well no one truly controls Tully.

Chapter Text

Vengence is a dish best served with a huge side order of ice and patience, both of which Tully has plenty and while his usually equally cold heart fights with a heat he’s not able to bask in, he’s shoving the feelings for his boy aside and dives right into what he does best: planning ahead.

With Linch back and showing her colors like that, the increased raise for her is a given, as long as she’s following orders, of course. Unfortunately, she’s no wizard and can’t make Young’s complaints disappear, especially not with other hacks as witnesses. It sucks, yes, but Tully can’t fault her for not going on the defensive for a con, no matter how powerful. And a few days in the hole aint something he’s not dealt with before.

Aside from not being able to get hold on information – and being close to his boy – the worst thing about the hole is the smelling bucket and the fact that he’s naked. Once, this place or more exactly a similar one in another prison, was a refuge to him. The equally stripped walls lacking windows protection from what happened in the cell at night. And as long as it wasn’t in the midst of summer or the air condition once again had broken down, it was almost peaceful.

Tully sits leaned onto the wall, knees up and arms loosely folded over them. If he closes his eyes he can almost imagine the sweet smell of cinnamon and butter cutting through the desinfection, body odors and despair.

He remembers the way he would curl up on the floor back then, back against the wall and face into the bend of his arm, not to cry but to give his eyes some time to get used to the industrial light and his ass the rest it could only get in isolation.

Linch brought him down here this time, playing her role as good as ever and she’s promised the updates when she’s able to, which of course is some of what Tully’s paying her for, but apart from the money, the woman has something as unusual as some actual fucks to give about the lot she’s paid to keep locked up and in line. And she’s not staring him out when he’s undressing.

It’s not often he sees himself in the full nude outside showers these days and it’s not a pleasant sight. He’s pale in the wrong way, the one speaking of too little fresh air in general and he’s gotten fat around the middle. He’s not shaved properly in a while and the dark hairs on his groin and legs make him look even more ragged and old, skin sagging here and there and the scars mercilessly on display in the sharp light.

He needs to put a leash on himself. On Juice as well, but before he can do that, he needs to get his head straight – no pun intended.

Ortiz ordered you not to do anything stupid.

Linch is good, she really is, and Tully knows what she meant. That Juice wants him back and soon. There was no order, that was just Linch teasing and with another guard it would worry Tully, but she’s in need of money and not stupid, which are much more reliable tools than kindness.

Or maybe not.

Young must be punished and for that, kindness isn’t needed. And furthermore, Tully needs to know exactly how Juice has been treated in his absence – and the AB in general, of course. Leroy knows how to handle situations with Tully temporarily away, but you can never be too paranoid in prison. It’s not just the threat of violence against his boy that worries Tully, but how he’ll deal with the nightmares, if he’ll have panic attacks or flashbacks when no one’s there to help.

Tully isn’t capable of introspection right now and maybe that’s good, because he’s not supposed to worry about how about the extent of his punk’s injuries, if he will get enough sleep, if he’s gonna eat properly and keep up appearance such as it is. If Leroy will do the second’s job and keep the wolves at bay… The fuck is he doing?

This isn’t good, he’s gonna make himself crumble if he carries on like this and if there’s no way of not thinking about his boy, Tully needs to put some more managable pictures in his head than those of Juice curling up in another panic attack in the hospital bed. Only when he tries to, they’re not turning into him unhurt and panting on all four, but to a younger version of himself, barely more than a kid, laying in fetal position in that bed.

A Ron who’s found pride in not crying at night for a while, only to break down completely in the sick ward when the nurses stroked his cheek, fluffed his pillow and made sure he had enough painkillers.

Ortiz ordered you not to do anything stupid. He asked about you, Tully, and he was more worried about you than his own stupid head.

Juice is worried, wants him back and Tully has to curl his hands around his knees to keep from punching the floor and add unnecessary injury.

What if the boy only worries because he’s not protected without Tully around? Sure, the AB wont let anyone close to their boss’ pet, but that’s only out of concearn for Tully, not Juice. Maybe Juice is actually relieved to be left alone? Nightmares or not, Tully is still a part of them and no feelings for him or possibility of forgiveness he’s not earned can change that.

If that’s the case, then Tully has caught himself up in a serious emotional trap he should be the first one to see through, but not this time because the naked walls in the hole can’t distract him from the horrible fact that he’s not just fond of, but madly in love with his Puerto Rican rape victim and that he’s not enough of a sociopath to protect himself from the truth and pretend he doesn’t hate and despise himself for what he’s become.

There’ll be no planning for vengence in that kind of heat. It’ll all just burn to dust. And if Tully had a heart, he’d start counting the beats.

Chapter Text

No cards this time, only visitors. It’s almost comical in a way, how the vultures assemble around him and all seem to think they’ve rescued him from something – or rather someone – and now expecting gratitude for treating him like he’s a human being. They can all go fuck themselves, maybe save for Sr. Pete who just drops by a little while to keep him company and talk about anything from the weather to her cats. Apparantly, her convent has three outdoor cats called Frank, Myrrh and Goldie who’re on diets do to the nuns spoiling them too much.

The other visitors aren’t coming due to godly vows or the goodness of their hearts, but to grab the chance of making the willingly mute rat open up again. His shitty lawyar talks about PC and maybe even witness protection if he can give up something about either Tully or Chibs, the AB or the Sons – preferably both.

Mr. Fitzgerald, the warden, talks about moving him to another cellblock – threat – getting another job – offer – and overall swaying between offering protection and painting pictures of a darker future than the hole. One of the male docs laps with blunt comments about how it seems like the old rape injury has healed better than expected and after prodding for far too long in Juice’s ass with gloved fingers, obviously thinking the stupid punk knows nothing about standard procedures with concussions, joking about how it must be good with some rest.

He shouldn’t care, wouldn’t have the last time he was in here when he’d actually been raped by guards – and before that Tully and the Chinese – but he’s no longer numb, doesn’t hate himself like he used to and the offers/threats are insulting and honestly more than a little pathetic after such a long time. One afternoon when he’s just had a nap, his nausea not as bad anymore, an all too well-known figure comes to the half-empty ward and by that Juice just can’t hold himself anymore, cracking up in an insanely sounding cackle.

“Oh, you gotta be shitting me…”
“Nice to see you too, Juice.”

Juice snorts, glaring at the cop who sits down on the small visitor’s chair.

“Bringing in the heavy but soft artillery, huh, Jarry? Let me guess how the discussion went? Yeah, lets send a woman, that’s less threatening and Ortiz gotta be grateful for any visitors now, right? Oh, and use his nickname too, that’ll make him feel like he’s being cared for and then you just use your motherly charms since you’re a woman and he’s starving for affection.”

Jarry just looks like she’s forgotten what she was there for and there are scattered applaus and laughters coming from the occupied beds, even the odd “way to go, Ortiz!” and Juice gives the now blushing cop a crooked smile, cocking his head.

“You still soft for my old pres, Althea? Wanna treat yourself to some Scottish shortbread, feeling a little adventurous…?”

No, he wasn’t around when that happened, but people talk and rumors reach Stockton and spread like pubic lice. He’s not interested in hurting Chibs, oddly enough, but Jarry knew about what Tully did and did nothing to stop it despite being able to. She knew about Juice getting raped even if she doesn’t know the rest, and now she’s coming here for information. It feels good to call her by her first name, mocking the way she tried to come at him with pretended care.

Juice shakes his head slowly, grimazing from the pain, and squints at the cop.

“I know I’m just some no good trash with shit for brains, but come on, Althea. Who’s brilliant idea was this ‘cause it sure as hell wasn’t Chibs’ and you aint stupid enough to come up with this, I hope. Or did riding MC dick fuck your brains out?”

He’s getting onto her, but she’s professional enough not to show it to the rest. Juice only sees it because he’s close enough to notice how her eyes widens a little with the mention of Chibs’ name and the color on her cheeks is of the angry kind.

But she rises from the chair, plasting a fake calm smile on her face, the professional smile you show to cons or psych patients or obnoxious kids.

“I’m only here to offer my help, Mr. Ortiz.”
“Of course you are, sweetheart. And now you can run along back to the feds and get your gold star sticker for being a good girl and then to Chibs and cook up some good story about how you put the rat in place or something. Oh, and don’t forget to accidently slip a comment about visiting me to the right guards, okay?”
“Wow, you really grew a pair, didn’t you?”

Juice smiles.

“Not as big as yours, baby.”

Chapter Text

“And he told me not to be stupid… Jesus Christ…”
“I wish I’d heard it first hand.”

Linch chuckles as she politely keeps her eyes above Tully’s chest. It’s a small gesture of respect and not really necessary, but still appreciated. Sure, you get used to the lack of privacy in here and especially in the hole, but you can’t deny there’s an immediately increased inbalance when you’re naked and talking to someone who isn’t.

“Rumor has it that Lieutenant Jarry left the sick ward with everyone, including the medical staff, laughing at her. Your boy has a sharp tongue sometimes, it seems.”
“Apparantly so. Thank you for keeping me in the loop, Linch.”
“Don’t thank me, just pay in time, Tully.”
“As always. You keep an eye on him.”
“As always. By the way, you may or may not get out of solitary tomorrow.”

The crooked guard with a heart and more spine than most, leaves and Tully is alone again with the walls and the too humid air and the lack of decency and company. He used to long for it, now it’s almost torture and the news about his boy’s little show of a backbone and openly dismissal of that pathetic attempt to throw him off balance, is more of a solace than it should be.

Tully lays down on his back onto the floor because concrete or not, he’s just not young enough to remain sitting against the wall for too long anymore and the floor is the only even remotely coolish surface in here.

Juice not only not betraying him, but openly telling that cop cunt to fuck off, is more than a relief, it’s a turn-on and finally, the worry and even the thoughts on revenge, take a step back and give room for Tully’s boy to worm out of his clothes, smiling.

Behind closed eyelids, Tully sees how Juice takes his shirt off, then his pants and shorts and how he leaves the slightly too long tanktop on, covering his ass almost all the way and then looking over his shoulder with not at all innocent eyes.

Like what you see, papi?

Very much, baby boy…

Juice lowers his eyelashes, not submissively, but bluntly seductive and Tully strokes himself loosely in the naked room, filling it with his imagination.

Just had a shower, papi. Shaved some too and you know what…

Tell me, sweetheart.

Got some real lube. Wanna feel?

Tully bites his lower lip, the last days’ stress making him react faster than usual.

Come here, baby... Come, sit on papi’s cock…

Juice climbs up to sit on Tully’s thighs, that sopping hole placed perfectly over Tully’s leaking cock. He lowers slowly, whining as he’s getting used to the stretch and Tully feels how tight he is.

Go easy on my hips, baby…

You’re getting old, papi…

Brat…

The gentle bickering, Juice’s eyes wide and bright, lashes fluttering as he sinks down, letting Tully fill him up.

Wanting him to.

Consent is such a strange thing for a career criminal like Tully – or like any shot caller or why not MC pres in these kind of social circles. The moral codes are harsh and often involves a death sentence when broken. You insult someone openly, you might loose a limb or even your life. Killing someone? Well, that depends. Sometimes it’s an eye for an eye, but often you can get away with some good negotiation.

And once a shot caller has deemed you worthy of the green light, you’re pretty much a free meal served to the one who wants to show his loyalty.

Papi…? Where are you?

Damnit. Tully curses as he strokes his half softening cock back to it’s rigid state. He’s shit at focusing when he’s in love.

What did you say, papi?

He can almost picture those eyes going wider, incredulous but soft and how the muscles ripple under smooth skin which color Tully never cared about in the first place and his free palm moves as if he was touching it, up up up from the thinned out waist to the chest with hard nipples and still beating heart.

I want you, baby…

That’s not what you said…

Pouting lips, a hand added to his own and in his mind, Tully has Juice leaning over him between his legs, stroking them both together, hands intertwined and in this hole of hopelessness, there’s no one to see through him, not the boy with brown, grief ridden gaze – or the one with hazel eyes who died so long ago.

Perhaps that’s why Tully’s hand drives him faster, making him hiss a bit, almost mewling when spilling and behind some closed but no longer locked door in his mind, he leans into the side of that beautiful neck, whispering words he’s never, not once, not even in a mockery way, said to anyone, man or woman, before:

“Papi loves you, boy… I… fuck… I… love you…”

Chapter Text

Rest, eat even if you’re not hungry, take the meds and don’t bitch and moan. Fuck-ups and cowardice or not, Juice has always been the one to fall in line rather than looking for a path of his own and he’s no different right now, maybe because the advice isn’t a treacherous one and he has no alternative that would be better. The meds work well enough and the food is useless but close enough to edible that he can manage it.

He swallows porridge, margarine on too much white bread, orange juice and even coffee for breakfast. The lunch goes down as well, with the overcooked veggies and processed meat, sloppy carbs and quivering jell-o. He takes the added nutritional drink since his weight has been plummeting since he arrived at prison and one of the nice nurses insisted on it. Usually cons aren’t the clientel to waste too much energy on, but there are always the odd people insisting they’re humans as well.

Yes, Juice is a good patient – for this lot – but sleep is difficult and comes late, not deep enough. Sleeping pills only make him drop fast and wake up with a headache and numb sensation, body heavy like a clumsy sandbag and at dawn, he often starts crying softly because he’s longing for arms that aren’t there. If anyone hears him, they’re polite or just disinterested enough not to comment.

He hears nothing from Tully for a couple of days and instead his head gets filled with the past outside these walls. The club he betrayed, the friends he lost and the enemies he made. People he loves, fears and should but can’t hate. It seems as though he somehow grew the spine he needed when Roosevelt cornered him and the clear sight he should’ve had when he stepped right into the blood of Tara over Gemma’s hands.

Pity there’s no use for it now.

So many things are too late to change and that shit hurts. When thinking about them, the dead as well as the living, Juice finds himself missing them all, but mostly Chibs. The Scot was his sponsor, his friend and brother. He loved him and Chibs loved him too. The Scot always was the one who seemed to, contrary to his own advice, put his heart into everything. He loved every brother, there was no pretending, no hidden cynism or selfishness, like with the Teller-Morrows.

Thinking about him is somewhow a little easier now. The guilt isn’t as crippling, the shame blissfully numbed out with meds and, which probably is most important, he’s no longer alone with no one to call him by his stupid nickname in a warm voice. True, Tully isn’t here right now, but it wont be long until Juice gets back to the unit and their cell and he longs for it like it was the actual release day of his sentence.

How did it come to him being happier of thinking about coming back to Tully, than sad of not having Chibs’ forgiveness? Is it just the Stockholm Syndrome talking or the fact that he’s in love with the shot caller for real? When thinking about it, it’s really the main theme of not only Juice’s but several of the Sons’ lives. This shaky line between love and violence, choking closeness and crippling solitude and the black and white moral code you’re doomed to smudge into some kind of grey.

Yes, he’s longing for the future – for the first time in forever – and can think about the past without getting stuck in it. Not like before, at least. So, he rests despite wanting to get up, eats despite not being hungry and swallows the pills instead of cheeking and spitting to punish himself.

He’s not sure how much of what he longs for is due to Stockholm Syndrome, how much is about his life long fear of loneliness, how much is the simple fact that he’s used to being with Tully now and how much is genuine longing.

Tully never asks him to proof what he feels, or show it and of course, had this been a punk/owner situation, that wouldn’t be necessary, but that’s no longer the case and Juice is unsure about how much it ever was, considering Tully never wanted to use him like that for any personal gain further than survival. You stay on top by constantly proving you can dominate others and if you no longer can, the wolves will be flocking around you – and not to protect their leader.

It’s thoughts like that occupying Juice’s mind as he heals and counts the days when he’ll be back and when the day finally comes, he’s not showing how much he’s longing, how he’s practically bursting with it and that’s good, because after breakfast the warden shows up with a smug smile he’s not even bothering to hide.

“Glad to see you’re looking so much better, Ortiz.”
“Thanks for your genuine care, sir.”

Juice doesn’t bother hiding what he feels either and Fitzgerald’s smile disappears.

“You’re moving to cellblock D.”

What? Away from Tully?

Juice freezes and the warden chuckles.

“Looks like you’ll miss your nazi cellmate.”

He shakes his head, now disgusted.

“You punks… When there’s finally a place open for you to get away, you’re too far gone to appreciate it. You’ll be picked up after lunch.”

Chapter Text

“I didn’t know until now, Tully.”
“I understand. Thank you for the heads up, Linch. I appreciate it.”

He means it, but he’s too angry to give even a fake smile with it as he gets dressed. Cellblock D… That’s not good at all. There are plenty of MC guys – not necessarily Sons though – and Spics over there, and Juice is a half-breed ex-communicated rat. Tully has connections there too, of course, both guards and cons, but damn it! Fucking hell and cunt shit bastards!

He’s staying calm while walking back to the cell. Tully doesn’t show weakness, doesn’t show emotions to guards or useless cons and when he passes the warden “accidently” in the hallway, the man gives one of his smug smiles – Jesus, he must feel so powerful now!

It honestly gives Tully true joy not to let himself be provoked by it and he maintains his usual impassive face he knows the staff hates since it’s impossible for them to read. Fitzgerald is no exception but he still holds onto the now slightly souring smile.

“Tully, glad I could get hold of you so quickly.”

Tully cocks his head just enough to make it clear he’s literally looking down on the short man in a suit, smiling softly.

“I’m a busy man, but I always got time for you, warden. How can I help?”

It’s not a victory, only a nuisance, but the little pinpricks count as well and sometimes better than a single blow from a sledgehammer. Running a prison is a game for the long run and if Fitzgerald thinks he has more than a temporary hold of power over Tully and his boy, he’ll end up disappointed.

The warden does his best not to show how he’s feeling a little insecure now and he smiles again.

“Helpful as always, of course. You have a new cellie.”

When that doesn’t make Tully loose any cool, just waiting for more, the warden snorts.

“It’s one of your own, Tully. Thought you’d appreciate not being paired up with a lesser kind.”
“How thoughtful of you, sir. When can I expect this new flatmate? I would like to dust the furniture and put the kettle on.”
“Oh, he’s already making himself at home. He’s a first timer.”

Tully keeps himself calm as a cucumber despite the rage and worry now flooding through him. Juice has been moved. His boy has been taken away and that lowlife little dictator making it happen is not only dying to see Tully react to that, but has put a goddamn fish with him.

Fitzgerald just earned a place on Tully’s naughty list and usually you’re only leaving that in a body bag. Tully tilts his head a little, giving a smile that he knows is right out predatory.

“Yeah, that’s kinda your thing, isn’t it, warden? Putting lost boys with warm father figures like me. Don’t worry, I’ll keep him real close, sir, making sure no one breaks his little heart.”

The warden turns red and saves whatever pride he thinks he’s got left, nodding at Linch.

“Take the sheet clown back to his cell.”
“Move along, Tully.”

They walk to the end of the corridor and when they make a turn, Tully speaks.

“Did he pull my visitation rights?”
“No.”

Good. Yes, that’s really good.

“I need to make a phone call. Before I go back to my cell.”
“I’m not sure I…”
“You get the double.”

Linch sighs. She needs the money and Tully’s always good for his monetary promises.

“Okay, but make it short.”
“Thank you. Who’s handling D?”
“Avery.”
“Avery, huh…”
“Don’t even think about…”
“Can you make that phone call happen or not, Linch? Or did you win the lottery?”

She snorts.

“Would I still be here if I had? Come on, then.”

Chapter Text

A pawn. Once again he’s reduced to just that, a pawn, a bait, an object to be moved across a boardgame he’s not even playing. He didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye, or anything else, to Tully. When entering the new cellblock that looks the same as his old one, his little bag of belongings is already on the bottom bunk and the unit manager, a slightly older black guy, nods at him.

“No cellie, so you get to pick the bunk.”
“Lucky me.”

The numbness is back, spreading easily and it should worry him but it’s also his main protection against breaking. The unit manager nods againg, looking strangely… sympathetic.

“If you get any problems here, you can always come to me, Ortiz.”

What?

It’s beyond bizarre and Juice can only look back at him, answering in what he hopes is a neutral voice.

“Thank you, I’ll… keep that in mind, sir.”

A few months ago, this would’ve been appreciated. Or maybe not, Juice is no longer sure about where his fear of loneliness ended and the fear of unwanted company began back then. He was already dead, so dead inside everything were just minor objects to pass on his way to Mr. Mayhem.

This cellblock literally holds no gang members what so ever. It’s the leftover wing, so to say, where those without connections, friends – and spines – are put. Not mentally unstable enough for the psych ward, but too weak to be thrown into any other part of the gen pop.

The door is closed behind him but the unit manager still stands by it and Juice raises his eyebrows.

“Anything else, sir?”

The man sighs and comes closer, the look in his eyes almost one of pity.

“I was against putting you with the nazi, Ortiz, but we were short on suitable cells and when we had two parols and one death here recently, your name came up. I spoke to Mr. Fitzgerald a few times but…”

Juice swallows, balling his fists and he takes a deep breath.

“But he hoped I would come begging for a move after a few weeks with Tully and when I didn’t…”
“Look, Ortiz, I’m…”
“Don’t you dare!”

Juice snaps, getting close to the bars now, staring right at the man who thinks he’s one of the good guys, as if it fucking matters.

“Don’t you fucking dare say you’re sorry, sir. Just… if there’s nothing else you really need to say about your little turf here, I would really like to start making my bed.”

Maybe this man isn’t one of the rotten ones, because he actually nods and takes his leave and Juice starts with the sheet, back to the bars and eyes brimming with tears he should save for the dark but can’t.

Tully should be looking down at him from the top bunk, hair falling in his face a bit, smile playing on his lips and a book in his hands.

You want me to read to you, baby? Treasure Island? Or some Blind Guardian…?

It’s been more than a few months now and Juice isn’t the same person he was when he first got moved to Tully’s cell. He’s no longer indifferent to how he’s treated or if he lives or dies. He’s no longer just an asshole, a pawn or a treaty. He’s not desperate to belong, his guilt isn’t crippling him and he’s smiled genuinly more in the last couple of weeks than he did his whole last year as a Son.

Who’s hand is beyond this move? Is this really just the warden’s idea of a punishment or has this something to do with Jarry’s visit? Is this her way of retaliating or was she there on Chibs’ behalf?

Or… No. No, that can’t be.

Juice sits down on his bunk, looking at nothing on the concrete floor, feeling his chest tightening in that way it hasn’t for weeks.

Air gets stuck halfways, only passing through a straw wide pipe down to his lungs. He can’t breathe, his heart beating too fast, every single throb echoing through his body and he can’t count them, can’t rise and walk around, can’t move at all because the panic is back with a vengence and there are no badly cut arms cradling him, no big hands stroking in slow circles over his back and no calm, raspy voice whispering soothing words:

It’s okay, baby, it’s just a panic attack… Shh, sweet boy, I’m here… Papi’s here, baby, I’m not leaving you alone… It’ll pass soon, as always, just try and hold onto me, okay?

But you’re not here, papi. You’re not here…

Chapter Text

“Lord almighty…”

Tully’s muttering isn’t picked up by the kid and that’s probably just as well because of all the fish caught up this morning, of course Fitzgerald would throw this one in with the AB shot caller. He eyeballs the thin, too tall kid with blond hair and blue eyes, betraying how fresh he is with every anxious look across the cell.

He stands with his load of sheets, blanket and toilet paper in his arms and Tully sighs. The warden must’ve planned on going fast as hell with this, making his move before Tully was even back from the hole.

“Bottom bunk, kid. Right side of the closet. You a sleepwalker?”
“N-no, sir.”
“Good. How old are you, by the way?”
“Eighteen, sir.”

Eighteen. Just a kid and obviously not from the supremacy movement. No ink, no attitude, nothing that says he’s used to this at all. Tully looks at him.

“What are you in for?”
“D-driving under influence, sir. H-hit an old lady… I didn’t mean to…”
“And the judge decided to make an example of you, as did the warden and I assume you’ve already heard about how the AB shot caller eats little boys for breakfast.”

No answer, just that scared gaze and Tully snickers.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Look, lets make a few things clear. One: you’re not my bitch so don’t fucking call me sir. If you have to call me anything, it’s Tully, okay?”
“Yes, si… Tully.”
“Good. Second: I don’t want to fuck you, or touch you in any way. Keep your distance and I’ll keep mine. Is that clear?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Third: air condition sucks here and I appreciate good hygiene. Use soap and toothpaste and change clothes regularly. You piss your bed, there’s potato starch under the sink.”

The boy looks lost and Tully explains:

“Starch neutralizes smell. Sprinkle on still wet stains and it helps with shitty smells. Got it?”
“Y-es.”
“What’s you name, by the way?”
“Bill Kent.”
“Jesus… Well, Bill Kent, that’s about it. You stick to your spot, I stick to mine. And whatever you hear about me, I have no interest in fucking you. You may be eighteen but you’re still a goddamn kid.”

And you’re not Juice.

Whatever game the warden thinks he’s playing, he’s not realising at all whom he’s chosen as a toy. Tully misses his boy, worries even more and if anyone finds out that, he’s dead not just as a shot caller, but quite literally. And so is Juice.

Juice…

The kid trying to make his bed doesn’t know the reason why what he’s clearly already been threatened with wont happen. It’s not only because Tully isn’t interested in anyone but Juice, but also due to the fact that he’s sick of playing the role of a predator he’s finally admitted that he hates.

He’s always hated it, there’s never been actual pleasure involved, only a settling of roles. The predator and the prey and nothing ever in between.

Tully closes his eyes, trying to shut the new kid out of his mind, the fact that the warden had no problem with throwing him in with the AB shot caller, a known sociopath who’s had punks by the dozen over the years. And why not? It’s a threat that obviously works, but how much does the warden actually know about what Tully does and doesn’t to them?

Finished with the bunk and lost to what to to next, the new kid looks around again so Tully grabs one of the books he owns but rarely reads from the shelf, handing it over.

“Here.”
“What… what’s that?”
“Catcher in the Rye, a classic. Should keep you occupied.”
“I don’t read… much.”

Tully raises his eyebrows.

“You plan on sitting alone with your thoughts all day or did you bring an embroidery?”

No humor, clearly. Tully has forgotten about that first shock, at least some of it, and even if he hadn’t, he’s not survived for this long by tending to anxious kids. He misses his boy more than ever and the thought of this little shit taking up his baby’s space, making the scent of him disappear…

Tully turns to his desk, hiding his face from the bars and the new kid. It’s not that he’s crying, of course not, but the muscles in his face hurt, his cheekbones too and he can hear every heartbeat of his own now, echoing lonely where there used to be another one falling into the same rhythm.

And now that the call to the bank is done, he has more things to plan for.

Chapter Text

He’s become good at this. Not feeling shit. It takes a little while, and apparantly several quiet panic attacks but when it arrives, the numbness is familiar and almost soothing.

Juice doesn’t know he’s actually in a state of mental shock. He’s cut off the capability to feel, to think about what just happened, to rationalise or make plans. He’s just laying on his bunk in his lonely cell made for two, his body shaking but he doesn’t feel anything. If he was able to think rationally, to listen to someone talking to him and actually take in the information, he’d been helped by someone explaining to him what’s happening.

Only he isn’t.

His brain is protecting itself, shutting down the parts that will make him scream and cry. Instead he just stays completely still where is is, apathy taking over every inch of him and he doesn’t react to sounds, to voices, not even talking directly to him. It’s just a low, distant noise he can’t make anything of, just like he wouldn’t able to answer if anyone asked him how the bunk feels, if he’s hungry or thirsty, awake or asleep.

Bars are opened, hands touching, lips moving but he’s not reacting to any of it. Heartbeats are mechanic, lungs slow and he’s not warm, not cold, not anything. Just a lump of flesh pinned on bones. Dead meat on sticks.

If he was aware of what’s happening, he’d know he’s reached a point where his body and mind finally can’t handle the mere idea of isolation and another human bond cut off again. If he could, he’d tell himself that he’s shutting down in order to not feel abandoned. He’d explain to himself that the shock of being suddenly removed from the only comfort he’s had in months, without a chance to say goodbye, without understanding the reason for it, who’s behind it, is too much.

That that’s why he’s not responding in any way to the guards finding him, or the medics arriving. His body is touched, moved to a stretcher and an oxygen mask is put over his face, but he’s not there. He’s unaware of how his pants are soaked with urine, his lips turning blue and eyes unseeing, ears unhearing, pain unspoken.

He knows nothing about the IV needle, the heart monitor or thermal blanket, is unaware of the angry doctor growling at the guards about unnecessary mental strain, asking for the unit chief, the warden and then barks out an order for the guards to clear the room and let her do her fucking job.

He has no idea at all, because he’s simply too good at dying little by little and there’s a machine counting his heartbeats now. There are more than eleven.

Chapter Text

“Two days?”
“I’m so sorry, Tully. I thought they told you.”
“They removed him…”

He’s not sure whom he’s speaking to, maybe the nun who doesn’t seem to mind a gay nazi visiting his prison punk, maybe the man who looks so terribly small in the hospital bed. Tully is allowed by his side for one hour this afternoon, not due to his own money, schemes or connections, but thanks to a nun and a bodybuilder guard, two women who apparantly know something.

An hour.  

Tully sits down on the stool next to the bed and despite not being alone in the room, he takes Juice’s hand. He can’t not. The nun is still there and Tully turns halfways to her, without taking his eyes off his boy.

“Don’t tell anyone, sister. Please…”
“My lips are sealed.”

She’s sitting down too, rosary in her hand, it must be a habit by now, and despite not wearing a veil, she really seems like a nun. Tully holds the slightly cold hand in his, he wants to say something but an hour ticking down isn’t enough time to say something meaningful to a man in a catatonic state. Holding just a part of him isn’t enough either and maybe Tully’s out of fucks to give, because he removes the shoes under the cuffs and lays down next to his boy.

He can’t hold him, his hands are cuffed too because he’s considered a dangerous inmate, but he can feel him. He hopes Juice can feel him too.

His boy smells like panic and exhaustion, he’s very pale and Tully isn’t sure if this is helping, if Juice’s shut down mind knows any difference at all, but the idea of not being near is unbearable to Tully right now.

Jesus, they were parted barely two hours before Juice broke down and ended up catatonic. A state that can lead to death, hence the move to hospital, the IV needle and this highly unusual exception from prison rules. The bed is small, but compared to prison bunks luxurious and Tully lays comfortably next to his boy. Officially he’s here for a heart problem and he has no idea how the administration pulled this through or how it’s being kept a secret from cons as well as guards, but right now that doesn’t matter.

“He’s been like this the whole time?”
“Yes.”

Tully swallows. Two days in this catatonic state with no one to touch him unless to provide strictly medical care.

“He can’t handle loneliness well, sister…”
“I know, Tully. I don’t have any… opinions on your relationship.”
“What relationship?”

The nun rolls her eyes.

“I’ve worked with cons for more years than you’ve been locked up, Tully. If I thought God had a problem with love, especially in prison, I wouldn’t work for Him.”
“Who said anything about love, sister.”
“You did, the moment you agreed to visit.”
“Not officially.”
“Well, the numbers speak for themselves.”

Tully scowls.

“What numbers?”

The nun nods at the heart monitor.

“It’s only been a couple of minutes and Juan’s breathing has already improved a little.”

Tully swallows. He’s not gonna cry, that’s one of the things he’s not doing anymore, but he can’t stop himself from putting his cuffed hands onto his boy’s chest, his forehead against Juice’s.

“Who else knows? I mean, on the outside?”
“No one related to Juan.”

Sister Pete sounds sad.

“He doesn’t have anyone close who cares, as far as we know.”

On the outside, no. Tully thinks about his own contacts, on the personal level, and no, there’s no one he can think of who’d come laying down like this had it been his hospital bed. Sit next to it, maybe, ask for updates, surely, but he’s a business man, that’s how he’s made himself a name in the movement. The calm, deadly puppeteer who doesn’t make tie the knots of close friendship, who doesn’t marry and most certainly doesn’t have kids.

Not the spider in the webb, but a freak with clout and sometimes that’s better. More hidden, less of a target. Fewer moments of acting requiring a strain that sometimes can be too much. Tully is stronger than most, has to because otherwise he would’ve been dead a long time ago, but this is the first time that strenght is used to keep someone close like this and for this reason. He’s read somewhere how newborns who don’t get body contact will die, even if provided with nutrition and kept clean.

His boy isn’t an infant though, he’s a gangbanger biker guilty of murders that will never go to trial because even an ex-communicated brother or a foe, must be kept away from courts as much as possible not to bring the still loyal ones down with him. Mostly, a shot in the head or a shiv in the neck is the best prevention. Yet he’s still breathing, heart still beating and for the first time in more years than Tully can remember, that shit matters.

He looks up at the nun again, sitting in the chair with her rosary, praying or pretending to.

“How did you pull this through, sister?”
“Well… lets just say that forty years of working with con artists leave an impression.”

She gives a little smile and Tully can’t help the tug on the corner of his mouth. The nun puts down her rosary, hands now still and she looks serious again.

“I’ve seen plenty of different cases of severe mental breakdowns, Tully, and one of the most vital parts of immediate treatment, is to make the patient aware of the surroundings again. To make him or her willing to stop shutting down. And the right kind of physical stimulation from the right person might help with that, which I explained to the warden.”
“In other words: it wouldn’t look good for him if an inmate died from isolation.”
“Officially, yes, but to me it’s personal.”

To Tully’s great surprise, the nun reaches out and pats his swastika emblazed hand. He can’t remember the last time anyone from the outside world touched him without either a practical, forced reason, or in order to hurt.

“Don’t think for a moment that I can be manipulated into seeing you as unthreatening, Ronnie, but no matter which symbols you’re wearing or what gangs you run, I still know you’re not a soulless monster. I’m too old to fall for that trick and I grew up in what was known as Boston’s Combat Zone, but that doesn't mean you're not both still children of God.”

She takes up her rosary again, smile a little sad and of the kind you see on people who’ve seen more shit than most but only got hardened by it, not callous. Tully suddenly realises she used his given name.

“We can all do with a little more kindness, you and Juan both, Ronnie. If you didn’t need it too, why would you be here?”

Tully doesn’t have an answer to that and the nun looks at the clock.

“I will stay in here to supervise, but it would be good if you spoke a little to Juan for the remaining time. Even if he’s not answering, he might still hear you. And unless you start talking about crimes, my lips are sealed. That’s a vow before God.”

Chapter Text

He doesn’t remember, not in the usual sense, but there was a body, a warm, big and known body laying next to him again and while he’s still lost to the world consciously, his skin and nose took notes. A soothing touch, a familiar scent, a shape his body is used to curl back into.

Neither does he know anything about the heated argument between his doctor and the warden, where the former tried to explain the increased chance of improvement Tully’s presence showed and the latter argued about tax payer’s money, ridiculous demands and gangbangers who don’t deserve special treatment.

He has no idea that the reason the soothing scent remained a little longer, is due to how Tully, as Juice started to make a very small whine when the shot caller left the bed, asked for his tanktop to be cut off his body – it could be done even without removing the cuffs – to be left as some kind of security blanket. He doesn’t know that the doctor allowed it or how disgusted he looked when seeing the nazi symbol clear on Tully’s upper chest. How the nun remaining by his side for a while longer, later spoke some rather harsh words to the doctor about oaths and how damn (yes, she used that word) lucky he should be to have a family since loneliness kills more people than incarcerated neo nazists.

Juice is still catatonic but slowly, very slowly responding a little to stimulation, especially scents so every day Sr. Pete brings Tully’s used tanktop from the night in a sealed plastic bag to the ward since it’s actually helping. After a few days with this sparkle of improvement, the determined nun brings a recorder used for interogations, only this one contains a raspy drawl reading from Treasure Island.

Between that and praying, she’s also giving the warden a private tell-off for needlessly deciding to separate two cons who actually seem to function better with each other than without. She reminds him of how, in addition of being extremely unethical, it’s a completely pointless and also costly thing to use separation and isolation to make a deeply depressed and suicidal man cooperate, since the only thing it has lead to, is a severely ill prisoner who’s medical treatment due to severe catatonia, costs the state money.

The warden never tells anyone about their conversation, especially not the part where the nun asks him whether or not there are any signs of increased problems inside or outside, that can be related to Juice and Tully being cellmates or them being treated like human beings. If he, the warden of Stockton State Prison and also a confessed Christian, has forgotten about Matthew 25:36 where Jesus spoke about looking after the sick and visiting the prisoners? If there’s some verse she doesn’t know about where Jesus tells to isolate a sick prisoner and refuse him human contact when it’s literally life saving?

If that’s the message he wants Sr. Pete to send forth to the bishop of his and her perish, a man known for his humanitarian work with prisoners and also active opposer to the death penalty. Because she has a good relationship with the bishop and… well, she doesn’t have to elaborate any further and the threats she makes, wrapped in cotton or not, never leave Mr. Fitzgerald’s office.

Being where he is, who he is and in the state he is, Juice of course knows nothing of this, but the hospital staff can confirm there are indeed small but stable improvements in how he responds to stimulus, how his heart rate gets more steady, his blood pressure and body temperature no longer dropping as much with the little signs of his cellmate’s care.

Wornout cotton clothes, cheap as could be, smelling from comfort and even cheaper soap. Another recorded chapter of Treasure Island, a couple of single packages with green mint tea. The staff laugh behind the nun’s back for a couple of days, but when there is an actual improvement overall, the snickers and eyerolls become less and less frequent. It’s not that the staff care or understand much of it, but improvement means they’re getting closer to get a potentially costly con out of the ward way sooner than they counted on and so whenever Sr. Pete comes with her bags of strange gifts she’s not questioned as long as no harmful or forbidden objects are brought along.

Juice’s shut down mind is slowly coming back up from the worst depths, those who’re too deep down for consiousness to reach and the ladder used to rise is made of little steps of comfort, of memories that don’t come from a past lost to him, but of someone waiting a few miles and walls away.

They come in the form of a soft tanktop, washed so many times it barely stays in one piece. They come in the form of Long John Silver and Jim Hawkins on tape, of a surprisingly fresh minty smell from an unused tea bag on his pillow. And they come in the form of a nun, who begins every visit with:

“Ron says hello, Juan. I think he misses you.”

And so, some days after the visit, Juice opens his eyes again, unsure and suspicious, confused about his location but when he’s about to panic due to Tully’s absence, he feels something soft being gripped by his curling fingers.

He looks down and sees an old tanktop, ripped and washed out. It smells like Tully and it doesn’t make him cry, perhaps he’s just too tired, but he smiles. The cheap cotton will soon loose it’s scent but right now it’s almost fresh and Juice isn’t in a state where he’s capable of asking how that’s possible, so he just pulls the sign of belonging into his lungs and remembers that despite Tully’s absence, he’s not abandoned him.

Chapter Text

Telford somehow looks both older and yet less tired this time. A little annoyed, sure, but not in the agitated way like before. It suddenly strikes Tully that the Scot is but a couple of years older than him, still a lot younger pres than Clay Morrow but significantly older than Jax Teller ever got to be. Also a very different pres – and man.

He sits down with his usual unimpressed face and Tully nods at Linc who leaves without any furhter ado. The scars don’t make him look less confident, or attractive, and while he’s not Tully’s type in any way, he can see how the Glasgow smile could work as an advantage instead of a blemish with the right type of women – and men. Telford sighs and leans back this time, as if wanting to point out this isn’t an urgency for him.

“So, ye gonnae tell me why I’m here?”
“You know that already, Mr. Telford. Juice.”

A snort, less dismissive than strained.

“Ah, of course… Yer pet rat.”
“I’m a cat person, Mr. Telford and Juice has always striked me as more of a stray kitten than a rat.”
“Ye’re a sick man, even for a nazi. Anyone told ye that?”
“A freak with clout.”

Tully smiles, not his threatening one, just calmly.

“I’m very aware of who I am, Mr. Telford, and we’re not here to discuss my charming personality. No mics, no cameras so lets talk plainly, like one local shot caller to another.”
“Then talk an’ stop wasting my time.”
“I’m fond of Juice, Mr. Telford.”

Another snort, now on the disgusted side.

“Aye, I bet ye are. Jesus…”

Tully folds his hands, smile wiped off now.

“I bet you never mentioned our previous conversation about what Teller did to Juice to any of your brothers. I heard even the Mayans pay some kind of salute to that spot on the highway. The esteemed, honorable Jax Teller who sold out one of his own to a nazi in prison…”
“An’ ye gladly accepted!”
“Did I?”

He looks straight at the Scot, locking his gaze really, and Telford might be from the back streets of Glasgow, might have been a fearless soldier for the IRA and might have the reputation of man who’s honor code can’t be swayed with anything, but it’s all too clear he’s never been in a situation of complete loneliness or numbing fear. His sacrifices have been many and cut deep, Tully doesn’t deny that, but he has absolutely no experience of genuine despair and loss.

When the man doesn’t answer, only looks away for a second, Tully scowls.

“You know what striked me the most when I first met Juice? It wasn’t cowardice or even fear. He never tried to get away and in all this time, he’s never said a word to anyone about the club. And believe me, the cops and the warden have tried hard. That’s why he’s currently in hospital and why I’ve asked for this meeting.”
“Ye wannae get rid o’ him now tha’ he’s away so it cannae be traced back to ye?”

The disgust doesn’t suit Telford considering his lack of care when it comes to a former brother getting raped repeatedly and it pisses Tully off how shallow this man is.

“I’m about to tell you something, my friend that, if it leaves this room, I swear I will wipe your club off the Earth in a way that makes Juice’s betrayal look like an act of bravery. I admire you for your work ethic, your sense of business and your heart for your brand, Telford, I truly do, but as you might start to notice with time, staying on top takes more than the usual dirty hands.”
“Ye’re threatening me?”
“Yes, I am. And since I don’t have your work ethics or moral compass or any real interests in this world except my own happiness, I have no issues with letting brands or clubs – or skin color – take a backseat if they interfer too much.”

This clearly is a way threatening Telford isn’t used to, but he’s not stupid, understanding more than well what Tully means and he throws his hands out.

“An’ ye’ve called on this visit just to tell me tha’?”
“I’ve called you here to make it clear that if anything, and I do mean anything bad happens to Juice that can be traced back to your club – and I assure you I have contacts enough to sort that out down to a single little nod – you might find yourself in a situation where your best option for survival is to crawl back to Belfast on your knees, begging for IRA to take you back.”

There’s a pause, not from shock or even incredulity because as Tully already knew, the Samcro pres might be loyal to a fault but he’s not stupid. He looks away and it seems like he’s trying to avoid showing something rather than getting off Tully’s eyes.

“Jesus Christ… Ye love’im…”
“So do you.”

Their few interactions, either in person or on phone, have all been filled with accusations of one kind or another and it’s taken a long time for Tully to reckognize his own change of heart with Juice, but the slow discovery also put a name on that frustration Telford showed during the first visit. The ever so slight sparkle of relief he probably couldn’t reckognize for what it was.

A grief as unmentionable as Tully’s longing and for a moment they look at each other in a silent understanding. When Tully speaks he’s not the shot caller anymore, just a man in love talking to someone who might or might not have a similar or entirely different sense of love for the same person they both know they shouldn’t have.

“It is what it is, my friend. None of us will benefit from any of this leaving this room, least of all Juice or our brothers, brands or businesses. I assume we can both agree on that.”
“Aye.”

Silence, not strained this time, not relaxed either, but simply just tired and a little wobbly from the sudden lack of heavy burden you’re so used at carrying around you all but forgt how it felt to walk around without it.

Tully presses his lips together to moist them and throws a glance at the watch.

“We still have almost forty minutes to ourselves in here, partner in crime or whatever we are in this particular matter. How about we get down to business concerning matters of heart?”

Chapter Text

White poppies are blossoming in Glasgow, the crow flies with the eagle and the nest is soon secured. Let him curse my name but remember the truth.

He reads it several times, wondering how this very obvious code got passed to the hospital at all and when Sr. Pete comes for her daily visit, he asks her what white poppies stand for. The nun seems a little surprised since Juice hasn’t been speaking at all up until now and when she asks to see the card, Juice hands it over.

“White flowers generally stand for innocence… or peace.”

And the crow is Samcro, the eagle Tully… Juice’s eyes fill with tears. Tully spoke to Chibs, there’s no threat from the club to worry about and in one way or another, Juice will get back to Tully’s cell. He stares at the card, reads the lines over and over, now blurried due to crying.

“Juan, are you alright?”

The nun looks worried and Juice nods, smiles and he’s still crying but isn’t sad. This isn’t grief pouring out of him, it’s ice melting and there’s a lot of it. The truth that lies beneath the frozen layers, that sometimes you must say the words opposite to those you want to say. A peace sign from Chibs is more than he could ever imagine, something he doesn’t deserve either. It’s not forgiveness, but a message that says this wont be used as an opportunity for Samcro to take down the rat who lived – and that the separation that moved him to a hospital ward, will be over.

He wipes his eyes, looking at the nun again.

“Yeah, I’m alright, sister. Just… overwhelmed, I guess.”

His voice is somewhat hoarse and frail, rosty from lack of use and he’s grateful the nun doesn’t comment on it, but just nods.

“I take that as in whatever that flower talk meant, it’s not something that I’ll have to answer for later?”
“No, sister. I mean, I understand if you’re suspicious, but… Tully doesn’t hurt me. He lo… looks after me.”

Looks after me. Likes me. Loves me?

How does one define those three and separate them?  Where does accepting what’s offered stop and actively choosing a thing desired begin? And what made Chibs let go of the chance of a closure for the wound that wont heal?

The tiny, old nun gives a somewhat smirk like smile.

“I’m a big girl, Juan, and I know the clientel of Stockton State Prison. I’m not judging kindness nor comfort and just because I’m a nun, it doesn’t mean I’m an advocate for the Vatican’s policies on every single matter. To me, Christ is an advocate for love and compassion, not blindly or without demands or responsibility, but if I thought for one minute that He’d prefer two men in prison being lost and alone, rather than having them seek comfort in each other, giving and receiving love where it can be found and become better and happier than before… well, then I’d be doing something else.”

Juice only manages a smile to that, he’s exhausted from saying a few sentences and crying doesn’t help.

The message is written on the usual letter paper Tully uses for his correspondence with people outside Stockton and it both does and doesn’t remind of that time when Juice was in the prison sick ward after being attacked by that guard and the shot caller sent him a card with ice cubes on.

He’s so tired now, eyelids dropping and he sighs.

“Si… sister Pete?”
“Yes, Juan?”
“Have to… I have to be… to go back to him…”
“I know. You have to stay here for a little while, but I’m sure the warden listens to reason this time.”
“Yeah?”

She smiles and takes up her rosary again.

“At least he listens to me.”

Chapter Text

“What happened to you?”
“Nothing, sir.”

Don’t scare him, Tully’s rational side warns him, but that’s pretty much impossible to avoid. The kid is trembling and he is… yes, he's fucking pimped up in some goddamn mini skirt and sports bra. Tully has seen this plenty but more importantly, he knows how it feels. He walks into the cell calmly, as if everything is in order and then gestures towards the bottom bunk.

“Sit down, kid.”

The boy obeys, of course he does, and Tully grabs the roll of toilet paper on his unwanted cellmate’s shelf, wets a piece in the sink and rubs some soap onto it before handing it over along with a t-shirt and pants from the boy’s locker.

“Wipe that shit off and get changed.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“The fuck did I say about calling me that?”
“So-sorry.”

Tully makes a wave.

“Just stop talking and get changed.”

He can’t stand seeing this, looking at this little punk pimped up, young and scared. There’s a part of him that kinda wants to act nice and that’s the part handing the clothes over, but he’s not in stock of much more kindness than that, not even acted.

The boy gets out of the sports bra and mini skirt, grateful for the blue uniform in a way he never knew one could be. Tully looks at him once he’s done.

“Who dressed you up?”
“No one.”
“Is this Mr. No One part of the Aryan Brotherhood?”

A head shake. Fearful, yes, but not not necessarily lying. Tully studies his tense moves. He doesn’t give a shit about this one, he’s just no longer tempted with punks in any shape or form and the way he feels for Juice has made it difficult to just throw this kid to the wolves. Let alone fucking him.

“Do you want to get all dolled up again, kid?”

Headshake. Of course he doesn’t. Tully glares out from the cell to the empty hallway.

“Then tell me who did it. Now.”
“Biker…”
“A biker? Club?”
“D-don’t know…”
“Was he white or Mexican?”
“White.”
“Did this white biker happen to have some kind of Grim Reaper tattoo?”
“Grim Reaper?”
“A fucking skull! Jesus…”
“Yeah. With a… crystal ball or something.”
“Was he tall or short, fat, slim…?”
“The skeleton?”
“The biker!”

Jesus Christ, this one wont survive in here and Tully wont shed tears. But attacking someone who presumably is put with him to replace a known punk, could be a way of trying to show off and that sure as hell isn’t Telford’s style and that new Son Tully doesn’t recall the name of, seems like the kind of cocky little shithead who’d feel tempted with that.

“He… he was kinda short, blond hair I think. Y-young.”

It would serve that wannabe biker right to get this one as his cellmate and since the Sons aren’t known for accepting the kind of prison punks like other gangs – Tully really doesn’t know why and doesn’t care – it would be better for everyone if that could be arranged.

He smiles at the kid.

“You’re not completely lost, it seems. I’ll deal with it on one condition.”
“Wh-what’s that?”

Tully goes to the shelf and picks up Catcher In the Rye.

“You spend your time in here fucking reading. What’s your favourite book?”
“I… I don’t really have any.”
“Just what I thought.”

He hands the book over.

“Get to your bunk, make yourself comfortable and start reading.”

The kid nods, takes the classic and gets to the bunk.

Tully sighs. Juice is getting back here, one way or another, even if Tully has to pay Telford money to send a more personal message to the warden. Hopefully it wont come to that, since it’s messy and takes time, but it’s always an option.

Jesus, Tully is almost as sick of bikers and punks as he is of the Brotherhood. And just because Juice – whom he no longer thinks of as a punk at all – isn’t with him right now, it doesn’t mean he’s not constantly on Tully’s mind. God, he misses his boy more than he ever thought it was possible to miss anyone – not even his beloved dogs.