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Title: Token Resistance
Author: heartofslash
Fandom/Character: BHD, Steele.
Rating: R
Warning: Steele brings out the dark in me sometimes.
Disclaimer: I don’t mean to say Steele is a twisted guy. I’m just saying he’s complicated. Even though he has nothing to do with the real Steele, or any characters created by others.
Note: This one is owed to ixchel55, for superior movie quote knowledge.
Token Resistance
Captain Mike Steele waited patiently at what passed for the doorway to the common area for the enlisted men. There was some furniture and a television set. The men had turned it into a Spartan version of a suburban rec room, even though he knew quite a few of these boys had never had the luxury of a whole room where no on slept, and where the youngsters of the household might hold sway.
Sergeant Pilla was performing, doing his imitation of Captain Steele. Steele really couldn’t blame him for that. It was human nature to mock authority. Among young men, it was a way to assert individuality and manliness. He was the natural target for them – he was older than them, tougher than them, and he was the one, ultimately, ordering them around. He was also responsible for their lives.
And their souls, a small voice in the back of his head insisted, but he ignored that. He believed it to be true – he had an obligation to instill a respect for God and an acceptance of the Lord in not only these men but in all whose lives he touched. But it was not something to be thought on in a conscious manner. Not because they didn’t need saving; many of them were in dire need of a little scripture. And not because the rules forbade it, although, in reality, proselytizing was looked down on, even while a healthy belief in God was assumed.
It was because he was unworthy.
Unclean.
So, Sergeant Pilla could do his little act and mock Captain Steele for insisting on church attendance. (Not church. Not even chapel. More of a humble prayer meeting.) Captain Steele deserved to be mocked in public for his pious attitudes. He deserved much worse than that for his sins. He deserved to be exposed to all as the depraved pervert he really was deep inside.
But he was in a position of authority, and had to give these men their orders. Their lives depended on it. So he asserted that authority and ordered Pilla over and gave him the appropriate talking to. Pilla went back to the others, and Captain Steele’s reputation as a tough officer was maintained. All would be well.
Except…
Except Steele knew. Steele knew that later that night, when all was quiet and even the Deltas were asleep, Steele would wake in the dark. Rock hard. Full of desire and sin.
He would not act on that desire, not in the way he wanted to act on it. He would not stalk out into the jungle of cots and tarps and sleeping men to haul one of them from his slumber, to demand service from a mouth, willing or not. He would not act on his sick desire to thrust inside another body, to feel another’s sweat-slicked skin slide across his, to pit his muscle against another’s in a struggle for dominance.
There tense combat situations always brought out his aggressive side.
Instead, he would close is eyes and breathe deeply. He would not offer up a prayer for control or guidance - he had learned long ago how futile and frustrating that would be.
No.
He would slide his hand down his body and hold his prick in his hand, squeeze tight in an attempt to force it down.
It would not work.
He knew that.
It was a token resistance.
Then he would adapt a more forgiving grip, palm pressed against the side of the thick head, fingers curled around the shaft, inner wrist bumping against the tip on each downward stroke.
His other hand would find its way down, behind. He never willed it to go there, never gave it any guidance. Any attempt to hamper its progress would be met by agonizing inner debate, which his moral center always lost anyway. His fingers would inch down, over the hard curve of his ass, between, in the middle, his center, his core. One dry, rough finger against his unyielding hole.
It was easy to imagine his chosen soldier turning on him, with mouth full of Steele’s semen, eyes full of indignation. No. Fire. Lust. Much better. Rising up, taking advantage of Steele’s weakened post-orgasmic state. Turning on him, turning him over, forcing his way inside. Feeding that part of Steele that was so starved it howled in the night, every night.
It wasn’t as good as the real thing, this self-handling. Alone in his cot, he smelled only his own sweat and his own need, felt only his own muscles straining, his own prick swelling, jerking, leaking, spurting. Only his own finger probing and rubbing and sometimes moving inside him.
It was enough. For now.
He couldn’t be expected to tamp down these irrational desires when he was stuck in such an irrational situation. And he couldn’t act on them openly. So this nightly ritual would have to suffice.
And maybe, just maybe, something would happen, some day. Something shocking. Something unexpected.
And then he would learn how true these desires were, or if they were merely fantasies.
In the meantime, he would put up his token resistance, and succumb.
End
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