Disclaimer: See initial chapter.
A/N: References episode 4.07 – "Fruit for the Crows," but is by no means an exact replication of the scene in that episode (by a long shot), though some of the dialogue is used (bastardized). Also, the events are skewed.
Warnings: Foul language; dubious-consent bordering on non-con and broaches the theme of incest as Clay is kind of (at least in my 'reading' of the show) a father-figure to the younger members of the club.
Clay isn't sure what it is about Juice that gets him going, his body thrumming in ways that doesn't happen when he's with Gemma. He loves his wife, her body. She's beautiful. When they come together as man and wife, it's amazing, but, it isn't all that he wants. She isn't nearly as submissive as he needs, and Juice, as much as the boy puts up a fight at times, is.
He wonders if Juice has bewitched him, because he can't seem to stop thinking of the boy. Even when he's making love to his wife, sometimes it's Juice he's thinking about – of all of the things he can do with the young, nubile man that he can't with Gemma.
First there's the mouth – warm, wet, and cavernous. A supple tongue and wide, full lips. Teeth that can scrape and tease an orgasm within seconds.
Then there're the hands ending in long, agile fingers with calloused pads. A talented thumb and rough, uneven skin that makes him hard even when he's just thinking about Juice's hands wrapped firmly around his dick. The way they move fast and sure over his hardened shaft, thumb and index finger bantering in foreplay, contriving to make him hard as a rock until he begs and screams for release.
And then, there's the boy's body- hot, tight, and writhing beneath his, an entrance slick with only blood, spit and pre-cum. And, oh fuck, the sounds, sounds he could never engender from his wife – guttural, animalistic, and pained – are like some kind of primeval music. It speaks to something primitive within him, calling forth bestial urges which are often his undoing.
When he's deep inside the boy, not quite old enough to be a man in Clay's book, he thinks he understands the Greeks and why they love men so much. Because, fuck all if he doesn't love Juice in a way he could never love Gemma or any other woman for that matter.
Fucking Juice is Nirvana. It gets him high, and makes him want more. The kid's fucking addictive. Fuck, fuck, fuck. The kid, his ass, the way he moans at the back of his throat, his back arching, hips bucking, taking him inch by fucking inch until there's no more left for the kid to take, it's all so fucking beautiful. A god damn hot, sweaty masterpiece.
He knows that if he keeps seeking out the boy's company, the guys are going to suspect that something's up, but he needs this. He needs Juice. He hasn't felt this alive in a long time. Fucking Juice gives him an adrenaline high that not even killing can produce.
Even pulling the blinds, shutting out the rest of the club, has become a part of it all. Something integral to the making of love. Darkness to keep out the light.
And tonight, it was Chibs' idea for him to have a talk with Juice about everything that has been going on. He'll have to figure out a way to assuage Chibs' concerns, let him know that he has a handle on Juice.
Juice's soft protest of, "Stop," when he approaches the younger man almost gives him pause, but he moves forward, steady and sure of himself. He wants Juice. Juice wants him, even if he doesn't realize it.
His need overrides everything else. He's the leader of this 'pack'; Juice is his in a manner of speaking. His to do with as he pleases. And this? This is what pleases him. It should please Juice as well, all of this attention from his leader.
"Please," Juice's voice is but a strangled whisper that stirs his dick.
Clay almost begs to hear the plea again. There's something about the plaintively spoken word – a prayer of supplication that makes him feel like a god. His hands, aching, fall on Juice's shoulders and he squeezes gently, demanding.
"Not here," Juice's protest is perfunctory.
Juice isn't saying 'no' when his hands travel down the boy's arms and he rubs up against him.
Juice wants him, needs to feel him deep inside, pushing, thrusting, pouring his body, soul and seed into him. The kid just doesn't understand it yet, but he'll teach him. He's got all the time in the world, and yet not enough time.
He cuts the younger man's further objections off with a kiss, swallowing the boy's words in tongue and teeth. They haven't kissed before. Not like this, and fuck it's good. Nothing like kissing Gemma, or any of the other women he's kissed over the years. No smooth, soft edges. The roughness of barely there stubble along Juice's chin – like super-fine sandpaper – is stimulating on a number of different levels he would never have dreamed possible.
His fingers dig into Juice's hips. He needs this. Juice needs this. The kid's been aloof, spooked, unlike himself. Clay's going to remind him of who and what he is, not only to him, but also to the club.
"Love you, son," Clay murmurs against Juice's lips, reminding the boy that he belongs to him.
"I'm proud of you," he says, and smiles at the look of confusion that crosses Juice's face at his words.
Juice's eyes darken, and he's reminded that the boy's had to kill someone, a traitor. Killing someone takes a toll on the body, the soul, and Clay will do anything to take the pain of that away from Juice, to ease his conscience. He's never been good at words, though, has always relied on actions and the notion that the past is the past.
"You did what you had to," Clay says, "with Miles," he adds when it seems that Juice doesn't understand what he means. "You've got to put it behind you now."
Juice swallows, nods, and his eyes fill with tears. Clay doesn't know what to do with crying women let alone a man. His heart skips a beat and the blood seems to go directly to his dick, stirring it with the need to offer comfort in a very practical, physical way.
He presses his forehead against the younger man's, resting there, willing the boy to believe him, to trust him, to love him as a son his father, a lover his master. And then he kisses him again, chastely at first, but then roughly and demanding. He wants to erase the pain, the tears.
Clay ignores Juice's grimace, the way he tries to pull away from him, and the comfort that he offers. The slight movement is ineffectual, weak, hardly a move at all. This is what Juice needs to pull him out of this funk, the reminder of how important he is to his family, to Clay.
"Need you," he says, and he works the zipper of Juice's jeans with palsied hands, overeager in their rush.
The half-sob that the boy utters makes his dick twitch in anticipation.
"Gonna fuck you raw," he says; his voice low and throaty.
It's the only thing he can think of to do in this moment, the only way to reach Juice, and show him, teach him, that he loves him in a way that no one else does or can.
Juice's jeans are tight, and the boy's hands are in the way, but Clay is stronger, even with his arthritis, and soon Juice's ass is bared. The hard muscles twitch beneath his rough caress. It takes little effort to turn the boy around, bend him over the table, and pin him, arms over his head. Chest to back, Clay loosens his own zipper and his dick springs free.
There isn't much time, though they're out of prison and there aren't any guards around, Clay still feels the rush. Any one of the guys could return, there could be an emergency, either one of them could be needed for something. Time is of the essence. Clay feels like there's never enough time.
He bends over Juice, presses his lips to the back of the kid's neck and then, whispers in his ear, "Shh," as he pushes himself inside. He relishes the initial resistance as Juice's muscles tighten in an attempt to protect and to expel the intruder.
Juice's gasp, his moan of pain is almost his undoing, but he closes his eyes, breathes through his imminent orgasm, and concentrates on filling Juice as slowly and completely as he dares. The boy needs this, he needs this.
A sharp rap on the door causes him to start and he hisses at the interruption. His hips jerk in response, and he pounds hard and fast into Juice, heedless of the boy's need to adjust to him. He knows that whoever is on the other side of the door can only be kept at bay for so long, and he can't not finish this now that he's started.
"Shh," he whispers, and there's just the hint of warning in the command.
His hands on the back of Juice's neck, holding the kid in place, are an unspoken threat. Juice whimpers, and wriggles, his hips jerk backward, inadvertently taking more of Clay's hardened length. His whimpers turn into harsh, uneven pants and then reluctant, throaty moans of pleasure when Clay hits his prostate. The resumed hammering at the door establishes their new, irregular rhythm as he tries to ignore whoever is attempting to disturb them.
Harsh and quick, he fucks Juice, feels the boy's muscles tense around him in a way Gemma's never could because, no matter how often he's asked, she's shot him down when it comes to the discussion of anal sex. With a final thrust and a grunt, he spasms and shoots into Juice, riding out his orgasm inside of the younger man, and then he pulls out, wiping himself on the inside of Juice's bare thighs.
There's no time to clean up, the pounding on the door has gotten louder, more insistent, and whoever is on the other side of that door had better have a damn good excuse for interrupting them. He tugs at Juice, helps the boy pull his jeans up and straighten himself.
Clay feels a moment's remorse when Juice shakily brushes a stray tear from his cheek and avoids his gaze. But the boy takes a deep breath and musters a smile as he turns to face the door.
His step falters a little, and Clay knows that the boy's sore from their quick fuck. It makes him smile, knowing that he's the one who did that to Juice, that he is the one who caused the pain, and the only one who can comfort the boy.
"What is it?" Clay growls when he throws the door open.
The moment's been ruined, and he doesn't even look at Juice, but can feel the boy standing just behind him. He finds it heartening.
It's Chibs, but the man's not looking at him, his eyes are trained on Juice and all Clay can think is, Shit, and then, I've got to fix this.
"Need a word with Juice," Chibs says, jutting a chin in the boy's direction.
Clay can feel Juice tense behind him; the boy's standing that close. He doesn't like the way Chibs is looking at Juice, as though he can see what's happened, as though he's the boy's father.
"In a minute," Clay says, and he moves to shut the door, but Chibs stops him, and Clay sees red.
"It's important," Chibs says.
"So is this," Clay says and he whirls around, almost knocking Juice over in his haste.
The boy steps back and Clay stalks over to the metal box where he keeps the patches. He pulls one out and slams it down on the table. He shoots a glare in Chibs' direction, but immediately softens his look when he sees Juice flinch away from him.
"Here you go Juice," he says, passing the patch over.
Juice eyes it warily, but doesn't take it, and Clay frowns.
"Go ahead and take it," he coaxes.
Juice fingers the patch, a peculiar look crosses his features, and then he turns away, looking at the floor as though ashamed.
"You've earned it," he says, and then pulls Juice in for a hug.
This is the least he can do, hug the kid. It's something that has always worked with Gemma, with any of the other boys. He wants it to take away the sorrow and pain that he sees lurking in Juice's dark eyes.
"I love you son," he says, and claps him on the back.
He can hear Juice swallow, feels the boy stiffen in his arms, and then the breath, hot on his neck when Juice says, "Love you too."
His voice breaks, and Clay frowns, wondering if maybe he hasn't done enough, but with Chibs hovering there isn't much else he can do for Juice that won't make the other man question him. So, he pulls Juice close, squeezes him tight once more and then releases him.
"Thank you," Juice says and he gives him a brief smile before turning to leave. "I'll talk to you later," he casts over his shoulder at Chibs and then he's out the door before either of them can stop him.
"What do you need to talk with Juice about?" Clay asks, but Chibs isn't looking at him, he's looking at the door as though trying to will the boy back through it.
"None of your business," Chibs says.
Clay wants to argue that everything is his business, but the look on Chibs' face when the man pulls his gaze from the door and looks at him quells him. There's a cold fury within the man's eyes and his jaw is clenched so tightly that Clay can almost hear it creak under the strain.
"Might want to give the boy some space," Clay says.
Chibs nods, but turns away from him, and without another word, the man walks out the door. His gait reminds Clay of a prowling lion biding its time, waiting to make a kill, and he shakes himself to clear the image from his mind.
Please review and let me know what you think, as it is rather helpful and lets me know whether or not I should continue writing. Aloha and mahalo