Joe Roberts realizes the stupidity of this, even as he does it.
Williams could have his head for this, easily, and neither Harris or the M.O. could do a damn thing about it. That schlop of a Commandant would continue to not do a damn thing as well. About this and everything else.
Stevens however, has dug his dirty nails in. The bloody fool should have never joined the Army, should've never sworn his life away to a dead queen.
Should've never begged Joe to be here.
Joe swallows as Stevens heat engulfs him. He worries about his weight crushing Stevens, about the cot collapsing beneath him because really, the thing barely holds him alone, let alone both him and Stevens. But it is, and he is still above Stevens, pulling out slowly even as sticky hot skin pulls against his own.
Joe thinks about the others, about waking them though he damn well knows they're all already awake, all listening, he's pretty sure Bartlett's fopping himself off right this moment.
A growl starts building in his throat but he holds it down, bites his tongue because he's afraid biting Steven's will have his teeth go straight through.
And Steven's is below him, a whimpering crying mess that is clawing a Joe's back and neck, gasping his name and begging. Joe can't tell what he's begging for- more, less, an end, a beginning- it doesn't matter either way, Joe can't give more than he already is and he is giving all he can, he is giving everything.
Stevens bites on Joe's hand as he slides home. Joe can feel the blood slicking his hand and it's wet and almost refeshing against the flush of his skin. There's a new slick of sweat down his back and he focuses on that coolness, on the heaviness of his cock, on the tightness of Stevens, of the hot rub of skin on skin instead of how he got into this. Stevens is still crying in his mind, begging Joe to help him, to not let them take him and it's so goddamn vulnerable and needy that Joe gets harder at the thought of it.
He thinks maybe he can help Stevens, help him stay alive unlike those boys he lost in the war.
He's thrusting in earnest, panting heavily and wondering how Steven's wife is going to feel about having a husband who's been fucked by a man, fucked hard and thorough in a fashion that is somehow far more brutal than anything the Hill can throw at them.
When Stevens clenches and there's hot mess splashing the cot below, Joe thinks of how they're going to have to scrub the floor raw to clean the mess. When his own balls tighten and Stevens ass is too hot and he's coming harder than he has in awhile, he tries to ignore Bartlett's pitiful moaning. Joe thinks of how this room is hotter than the sun right now and how he feels like he could double over that mountain forever. He thinks of how alive he feels and how he could easily go another round. He thinks of how much he wants to fuck Stevens into the floor until the man is begging because it's so good.
But that is something that will never happen.
Instead, Joe thinks on the warm feeling he's got that Steven's is sleeping the night through now, because of him, because he's worn out and more comfortable than any of the rest of them.
When Stevens dies the next day. Joe thinks that he should've done more. He thinks that it's his fault because maybe he wore Stevens down too much, took what strength the man had. Then he thinks about how much of this is Williams fault, because Stevens, to have bgged for Joe the way he had, was already done, broken, dead even.
That hill killed him.
Williams murdered him.
Joe just made the whole process a slight more comfortable.
He's not sure it was worth it.
And he wonders if maybe they had all stepped up for each other, in whatever way they could, if he'd be screaming at them to stop as Jacko and McGrath beat Williams into the ground. They'll muck it all up, but maybe this was going to happen anyway. Maybe he's meant to offer comfort to those within this prison as much as he can until he's buried in The Hill.
Maybe that's just how it is.