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.
“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.
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.
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.”
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.
Juice has no idea what Tully really wants and honestly, neither do I.
“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.
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?
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.
TW: non-consensual as hell in this chapter
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.”
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.
The mutter is low, but Juice turns around.
“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…?”
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.
Things get worse.
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.
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.
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!”
“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.
Comfort you need and don't want to need...
“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…
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.
We get to know a sliver of Tully's mindset.
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.
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.”
Hooch, pot brownies and protected custody = a little change of mood.
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.
“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?”
“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.
And we get another peek into Tully's ideas, a little of his past and his, indeed, seriously unhealthy way of dealing with it.
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
He was young. Seventeen and already true to the cause but he’d never been to juvie and his first sentence – gun charges, assault and vandalization – 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.
Psst... I'm a sucker for comments, so share your thoughts and/or concerns with me! I'd be delighted! <3
Juice comes back from the sick ward - to gen pop and a new cellmate.
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.
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.
Tully struggles with some unfamiliar emotions.
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.
Conjugal visit. Sorta...
“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?”
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.
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.
What happens - or doesn't happen - in the conjugal room. (Oh, and thanks for the lovely comments! Please keep them coming XD I admit I'm jumping with happiness from them^^)
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.
Tully is the boss. Literally.
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!”
“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.
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.”
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.
Please, keep commenting and sharing your thoughts with me! It's a pure joy to read them <3
Night is a time for comfort and, apparantly, singing. I'm a huge Blind Guardian fan and so, I made Tully sing this one. He knows it, fight me^^
"Let him call me a tyrant so cruel, let him curse my name, but remember the truth…”
(Oh, and BG is absolutely NOT a nazi band or anything like it, just so you know.)
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.
“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.
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?”
“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.
More of Tully's damaged mind... and backstory.
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?
I don't even know what kind of consent/non consent this chapter actually is.
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…”
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?
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.
Breakfast in Stockton.
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.
“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.
Depressed Juice is... depressed.
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.
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.
“You’re coming out with us. Need some sun on that pretty face.”
“Thought you didn’t like color.”
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.”
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.
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.
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.
Juice in therapy and it's not exactly love at first session.
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.
Nightfall again and Tully doesn't feel too patient right now.
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.
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.
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.”
Don't I have better things to do on a Saturday night than posting fanfics?
Of corpse not. I'm a nerd.
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.”
“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?”
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.
Some more background story for Tully and another dipping into his heavily distorted mindset partly coming from some truly nasty events.
Also: thank you so much for all the comments and kudos!!! It's such an encouragement especially when writing a pairing that's not a good one in canon at all. (If you're interested in some more Tully/Juice stuff - and Tully/CHIBS, Juice/Chibs - that's about as far from canon as it could be, check out my "Unleash Me From My Darkness" series for some fucked up AU that's just... nothing like SoA at all.)
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.
It's a relief - and it's wrong...
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.
It's the morning after, in the yard, where Tully sees things he likes - and things he doesn't like one bit.
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.
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.
Juice gets removed...
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.
For the hole, no question. The medic checks Juice’s eyes and pulse.
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.
Tully doesn't rule all of Stockton, but enough to make a point.
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.
Shame and pride, monsters and men, hurt and comfort... It's Stockton at night.
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?”
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.
“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.
Tully's head is not giving him any rest. TW for some of the least pleasant tags.
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.
Breakfast in Stockton with so many looks...
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.
Yard time after breakfast and Tully, as so often, falls into his little contemplations.
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.
Yep, I'm totally using Sr. Peter Marie from "Oz" here, because, well, she's like the best nun therapist a con could get - even if Juice doesn't want to attend group therapy.
“…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?”
“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.
He longs for the relative safety in his cell and Tully. He wants to puke.
Tully is not going soft on his boy. Absolutely not!
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.)
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?”
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.
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?”
“My rapist reads me love poems. You really don’t see the joke in that?”
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.
“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…”
“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.
I probably find it way too interesting with introspection so here's some more from Tully.
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.
“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.”
“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?”
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.
Some more reflections in the dark.
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.
Comfort where there shouldn't be any, can fuck with your head.
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.
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?”
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?”
“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.
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 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.”
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.
The warden tries to work Juice...
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 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.”
“So, you’ve not reached out to Redwood, then?”
“Wanted to talk to you first. Common courtesy, Tully.”
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.
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.
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.”
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.