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 anything but your kind [18+], complete
XANDER
 Posted: Jan 4 2012, 08:36 PM
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The pointlessness of Leon's struggle is almost charming. To Reese it smacks of denial, of rejection for its own sake, and he says, "You know that's no use," over Leon's thrashing, which he smothers as determinedly as its precursors. Reese meanders from whim to whim with little justification, because Leon is to blame. Leon is to blame for everything. He deserves this abasement, debasement, and Reese deserves the truth. But he has already guessed; his suspicions paint his face with a sensual darkness that would suit a uniform.

And because Reese can do whatever he wants -- because he has been hurt, and abused, and dehumanized -- because Leon was going to kill him, and throw him away, like Reese has been used up -- because he saw it in Kammerjager's eyes, and smelled it in Jager's blood -- he grips Leon's throat again and then slaps him hard across the face, hard enough that the air cracks, hard enough that his palm stings. He wonders if it's the first time someone has slapped Leon while he's worn the title 'Kommandant.' He wonders what other first times are left. "When's the last time someone split your lip?" As he asks, he pushes his thumb hard against Leon's lower lip, smoothing it from left to right, disgust masquerading as desire, or grading into it.

Kammerjager cannot speak to put down the madness of Schaefer's other pet.

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abbey
 Posted: Jan 6 2012, 09:49 AM
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Smack.

"Ahh!"

The sound of it roars through his jawbone and into his ears, exploding in white and yellow starbursts and a meteor shower of hurt on the black of his eyelids. He doesn't know when he shut his eyes, or who could be crying out when it's just the two of them; his own voice is a mystery to him, double-coated in shock and the sugary good-badness of being struck full across the face. Separation of sex from violence occurs at a higher level, one which the fall of a heavy hand against him brings him down from. Fireworks in his head fade into heat between his legs.

Someone barks, some animal that used to be his.

Someone quizzes him about a split lip, and he reflexively tongues the inside of his cheek, checking for cuts and swelling. Leon opens his eyes at the push of thumb against his mouth, dragging the fullness of his lip from one corner to another. He is humiliated, not because Reese hits him but because he is hit like a woman—he is slapped—and it shows in the slope of his eyelashes, the look in his eyes.

A glowing red handprint photo-develops on the left of his face, the fingers reaching across to his temple. It radiates heat, and when he moves his lips to answer, Reese's thumb slips in a little against the wet of his teeth. "I was only young..." Before the war and his medals and his title, when he was still a half-foreign boy who could get his lip bloodied. Leon thinks he doesn't mean to close his lips around the thumb, that it happens without his meaning to, but it does happen such that he sucks it into his hot mouth with enough enthusiasm to hollow out his cheeks.
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XANDER
 Posted: Jan 6 2012, 02:03 PM
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It is stupid. Reese is being stupid, cultivating an addiction like this, and so quickly. The extraordinary pleasure of hurting Leon continues to delay his death. He snaps, "Schweigen, Kammerjager," not even glancing over his shoulder, his gaze locked on Leon's closed eyes. Closed in pain.

God it's good. Too good. He is humbling Leon, humbling him on his back, and it breeds dumb animal hunger. He tastes violence and wants more. He makes Leon cry out, in pain and need, and wants to hear it again.

He shouldn't want these things. He knows he shouldn't want them. But he has been denied so much--so much--and he can't practice asceticism now, even if it would save his soul.

Leon swallows his thumb and Reese pushes it up to the second knuckle, the rough pad of his finger pressing the blond's tongue down, slick against his teeth. It makes him look like a SLUT and the word roars in Reese's ears, snaps more tethers of self-control, and Reese draws his thumb back as he lowers his head, and kisses Leon on the mouth. He closes his eyes when he does it.

He kisses for too long before his teeth close around Leon's lower lip, dragging back to grasp a thin enough section before his jaws cleave together, splitting lush flesh open and bringing out blood, which he sucks into his own mouth as he keeps kissing. He tells himself he's kissing Leon to demean him further, and maybe that's true. But it's only part of the whole truth.
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abbey
 Posted: Jan 9 2012, 08:50 AM
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Some memories can only be preserved in half of their former glory, flowers dried and pressed into books and curls of hair in lockets. Grandchildren will believe all but a few things, and the marime of these stories makes them untellable anyway.

So it's their secret, how Leon looks spreading under Reese like butter, still bundled up in his winter coat with his winter hair hand-swept and his lips wrapped around the imposure of Reese's thumb. He takes it into his mouth and lets Reese pry his mouth open, like he is inspecting the quality of Leon's teeth before use, and Leon takes it like he has practised for this, all the way up to the second knuckle. The world doesn't fall away at the first taste, but he can feel the grit between his teeth and the callus from too much work, texturing his tongue with thumbprint grooves.

If he means to spit it out, the dirt and the dirtiness, he is kissed too soon.

And the world does fall in pieces, crumbling whole walls that took decades to build, Leon is in dust and the artefacts of an emotion that kisses back. By some cruel design, their lips fit very well together. The tug on his lip is a promise, I'll split it for you, and it is fulfilled when he's bitten into, and the shudder that starts from the kiss has him shaking for days. Where it paints his chin and before it gets licked away, his blood is so bright and fresh and red. It's never that vivid colour in memories.
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XANDER
 Posted: Jan 9 2012, 07:19 PM
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To share a story is to at once dilute and preserve it, washing it from one's own memory and sewing it into others'. Secrets like these are embers that burn hot forever, their glow dim, but their heat permanent and scalding. Given tinder, they make fire.

There is no longer sense to his motions, no explanation, no thought; there is impulse, as his fingers undo the belt over Leon's greatcoat and then its buttons. It happens in the terrible seconds that they kiss, his fingers still wet from Leon's mouth. They are surprisingly nimble fingers, for how overworked and broken they are.

Too much is in Reese's eyes when he draws back, just enough for Leon to see his own blood on another man's lips. Reese wonders what Leon would look like with bruises all over his body, with more fingers in his mouth, with fingers— The red handprint on one cheek calls for Reese to leave other marks. His fantasies play out across his face and through his body, in its ever greater tension and wildness. He is dizzy with the unspeakable things he is doing. He is thumbing away more buttons without looking.

Reese presses his hips down harder, though it is unnecessary, though Leon is already immobile. "Do you have any scars?" Like he's going to look for them, or make some. His words are a hot cloud against Leon's lips.
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abbey
 Posted: Jan 12 2012, 08:13 AM
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The evil in Schaefer does not like to be kissed. It switches its hundred scales in a kaleidoscope of nausea, flashing poisonous colours and fake jaguar eyes from the backs of certain butterflies.

But Leon kisses back like Reese is the land of milk and honey, and from his mouth flows amrita and all the very sweetest of things. Leon drinks the warmth from it with long, famished pulses of the throat, swallowing saliva and the coppery treacle of his blood as it smears between their lips. He shoves his tongue and its capable muscle into the lining of Reese's mouth, and this time it isn't a violation.

When it pulls away from him, Leon follows by arching his svelte back, so their lips are millimetres apart but neither one of them are kissing. He draws a blue line with his eyes and connects the dots, from the red on Reese like a scarlet letter, down to his fingers and the undone buttons. His coat is open, when did that happen? and with that wickedness, he describes an O around Reese's lips with the tip of his tongue, going over the ring of blood. "No," he breathes hot on the moisture, and the important words are stressed with little licks between each, "I'm faultless, all over."

A diamond has no faults, is hard and transparent all the way through.
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XANDER
 Posted: Jan 12 2012, 08:00 PM
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Then what in Schaefer likes it? What in Reese? A short hum — 'mmm' — passes from Reese's lips to Leon's tongue. Then it is too far gone, in too deep, to claim that spite is their only passion. There is something good here. Something chemical. There is no moment, no world, beyond now, beyond this spot of floor.

Leon talks like an arrogant whore. He says All over. and Reese hears Undress me. The truth comes unbidden now, as the buttons of Leon's shirt pop open and Reese smooths his wifebeater up, baring skin so pale it could reflect the sun: Leon Schaefer is a dirty slut in a fancy uniform who wants to get fucked like a woman on his own office floor. And Reese knows that he intends to indulge that desire, knows it as his eyes hunt for blemishes in all that whiteness and find none, only the rosy pink points of Leon's nipples. Reese wants to put his mouth on them. His tongue runs absently over his upper lip.

His free hand seizes a handful of pale blond silk and squeezes, and then Reese knocks Leon's head back on the floor hard enough to hurt, but nowhere close enough to knock him out. He hisses, "Liar," but there's no bite to it, no real accusation, his hand goes to undo the belt buckle of Leon's trousers like there will be some burn or birthmark on his hips, his thighs, some inch of his dick Reese somehow isn't familiar with. He has to rise up on his knees a little to reach between his own legs, and he moves faster now, as though reason will catch up with his madness if he slows.

Reese's own clothes are too thin and flimsy to hide his arousal.
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abbey
 Posted: Mar 10 2012, 10:29 AM
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The scent of the letter is still on him. Reese opens his coat and it stirs in the pocket, woken by their clumsy pushing and pulling at each other. A woman's perfume, something so expensive it's laughing at the poverty of Buchenwald, it flirts under Reese's nose and mixes with Leon's cologne. Leon, strange, sweatless creature, has no scent of his own but the heat of his skin, clean as the freshly fallen snow and unlike the filth of his soul. He wears his uglinesses on the inside. His blood is a potion, fused with desire and dripping from his lip.

On the inside he's trembling, wet and pink and clammed up tight with anticipation. Reese undoes him button by button, pearl by pearl, and his collarbones are an introduction to his chest and his ribcage, count them one by one under your fingers. He isn't a liar, not this time; Leon has no scars, no birthmarks, not even something in passing like an insect bite. The wifebeater wrinkles, his nipples are blushing on his chest.

His blond hair is being gathered, squeezed in a hard hand and he is already opening his mouth when Reese smacks his head against the floor, and Leon has to keep himself from screaming with rage and delight. Extra starbursts, sparkling in his skull, but he likes to be hurt like this. His body surges up with the electricity of it, and while he's arching his back, he wrenches his shoulder almost out of alignment, with such viciousness that one hand, one hand comes free. And where does it go, immediately—not to a weapon, but to Reese's cock. Leon lays his palm against the other man's hand and urges it between his legs, helping Reese to pet himself.

"You're nothing," he whispers, "but a dumb animal," and his eyes are sick with longing in his face, "that only thinks of fucking."

Undress me. Fuck me.
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XANDER
 Posted: Mar 11 2012, 12:30 AM
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The perfume, sweet as it is, is subsumed so many other stimuli. It triggers a brief moment of confusion, of wondering why Leon would ever smell like a woman, but it is the visual that carries so much of the fantasy; it is the visual that carries Reese forward. He strips Leon underneath him and is blinded by his own inner heat, a white-hot boil that was once only rage, simple and pure. Ripping the Kommandant open once only meant cleaving his chest in two.

For a few seconds Reese fears that free hand: sluts are wily. But sluts are still sluts, and there is a hugeness to his dick now that must be the difference between want and threadbare tolerance. With the Kommandant's belt open, he had pulled Leon's trousers down an inch, flashing his hipbones, but Reese takes the moment to bring Leon's gloved hand to his teeth and tug at the tips, one by one, before pulling the whole thing off. The glove is heaved in the direction of the pistol. It is Leon's bare hand that Reese uses to drag his own pants down.

In reply, he rasps, "Maybe so."

Then he wrenches Leon's trousers down to his thighs and forces his knees up and leans between them. The blond's other hand is released in favor of covering his mouth again, because the screaming will be harder to fight here, because after Reese's fingers brush Leon's hole he guides his cock to it, because there is little time to feel or understand that pressure before it becomes pain. He has to break in dry, tight muscle, has to use muscle of his own to fight it, has to hold the Kommandant's hip down to make him take it, every single inch.

It feels so good it makes his skin crawl.
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abbey
 Posted: Mar 12 2012, 08:00 AM
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There are worse things to see before death. Each new piece of Leon is lovelier than the last, and if there were headlines they would read: the Kommandant revealed, exposed without the formal severity of his black uniform and blacker looks. His stomach is flat and taut, hard with muscle from training drills and low-slung punches. His hipbones are the edge at the end of the world, pointing the way to Eden, and his dick is as pretty as the rest of him, but Reese must hate it by now. The words for Leon Schaefer are 'poster boy', but they haven't been used in a long time, not since his bullets tore through the enemy and made them not so cute.

He isn't a boy anymore, but maybe he has had some other boy down on his knees, pressing kisses into the space between hip and knee, or the smooth skin that wraps around from his waist and the small of his back. He watches with open desire as the Rom takes his hand and bites at his fingertips, clenching leather between teeth and tugging it loose, then off. The glove is one of his favourites, it keeps him from touching so much dirt, but he shouldn't care now that the dirt is all over him.

Visuals. His white knuckles on brown skin, fingers curling into the waistband of threadbare trousers, yanking them down over the muscled V of Reese's hips. Reese's cock swollen with blood, bigger than he remembers, and he remembers it big. Leon could put some mean twist in his wrist, could hurt him here where a man is most sensitive, but he doesn't. He can feel the precum wetting his palm.

It's not wet enough, not when Reese is doing it like a cur and making him do it too, knocking his knees up and out of the way and pulling his underwear down with his belt, just enough to fuck him with boots and everything else still on. In the end Leon is glad for his mouth being covered, because he does scream, and for the second time in so many minutes he doesn't recognise himself, how raw he sounds, how filthy. Something rips inside of him, something soft around all the hardness, and it humanises him and Schaefer makes a sound that is, finally, human.

Hot blood slips down his thigh.
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XANDER
 Posted: Mar 12 2012, 02:27 PM
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He wants to whisper Does it hurt? because he already knows the answer, knows that it must hurt like nothing else. It's more than pain, more than ache, more than nerves fraying and breaking open, because it is also Leon's pride that will be flayed. All his power is taken from him, and he must submit, there is nothing he can do, even screaming can't help now because then what? What will it matter if help comes, if this is what the help will see? Leon screams against his palm and Reese is glad for it. When he looks down, he can see red rolling down Schaefer's white skin. And it is good.

It has been a long time since Reese fucked anyone — since he fucked his wife, her eyes were blue too, she's dead now for certain, killed by men like the one who is throbbing around his cock. He is in no mood or mindset to be gentle, and even if he was, Leon is the last to deserve it. There is no time to adjust, or breathe, or relax; Reese is already moving again, his hips rolling back and thrusting forward, the blood slicking the way. Leon is tight, tight and hot, and until now he has been empty, and Reese goes slow only to better take in his face, every little twitch of discomfort and agony.

For the first time, Leon sees a smirk grace Reese's lips.
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abbey
 Posted: Mar 14 2012, 07:45 AM
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The last time he was gotten on his back, it was snowing too. He was young and so was the soldier, jumping him like a bloodhound getting its first chance at rabbit, and together they hit the impacted snow of the night before and rolled a little ways, with Leon on the bottom. Stunned by the success of his manoeuvre, the look in that young man's eyes was one of breathless excitement, the thrill of the kill, seconds before he was disavowed of the notion and his look became glassy, his eyes on the handle of the combat knife sticking out of his belly. And he was so puzzled, at least until Leon put his fingers through the first rope of intestine and pulled...

...and there was the same dark pleasure with which Reese smirks, watching Leon's face closely for the skewered rabbit look. Pain bleeds through, he is bleeding from the inside, and his hands come up in front of him and curl helplessly in the air, twitching like dying machinery or someone in the depths of hurt where there is only the neuron-pulse. They sail into Reese and claw at his jaw, his jaw but not the jelly of his eyes, his neck and then his shoulders, bunching up the fabric at his back until Leon is grappling with fistfuls of shirt, then skin. With crescent shapes that redden in the wake of his scratches, his nails go into Reese's back to anchor him through the next wave of bleached nerves; it comes without warning.

Reese wastes no time in fucking him, and Leon is tight and nauseous, gagging at the horror show of being fucked through his own blood and having it pushed back inside him, a dirty finger in a bullet wound. The pain is exquisite; his eyes flutter up into his head, and his eyelashes cast long shadows over the whites of them.

You don't even know my name.

In the dreams he doesn't remember— In those dreams, Z8594 is beside him and kissing an Iron Cross.
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XANDER
 Posted: Mar 15 2012, 12:15 AM
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He turns his face to bite at Leon's fingers, preferring to nip bare flesh over leather. His teeth find a fingertip and a knuckle but it's fleeting, there's Reese back to get into, there's something solid to hold onto. The muscle and fat that Leon has nourished is there, along with every scar, every mark, even some bruises dealt recently that haven't faded. The scratches do not properly register as pain. The threshold for such a feeling have been pushed back far and away.

The blood is wetness; the wetness breeds sound. Reese reads the pain on Leon's face like a novel, flipping through the pages, and when it seems like the blond has learned to cope, Reese pushes his legs back further against his body to adjust the angle, part pulling him forwards and part angling his ass up, the better to fuck him deeper. There is the slap of skin as his hips drive forward.

Nor does the slowness last. Reese is too cruel.

When the percussion of Leon's sobs stops shaking his hand, Reese finally draws it away, using his own mouth to muzzle sound instead. He eats up noises, big and small; he sucks on the fresh scab on Leon's lower lip. You are nothing but a dumb animal that thinks only of fucking. His dick reaches deep, torching new bundles of nerves. Leon has known his name for less than an hour, but Reese hopes the Kommandant remembers it enough to curse. Or beg.
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abbey
 Posted: Mar 18 2012, 07:13 AM
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This is punishment, he knows. This is the anger of the body bubbling over, of the soul mistreated and unloved. It isn't a beating, because he could take the gypsy's fists, could spit up fragments of lung and tissue and come out smiling, each broken bone a disconnection from his shining whole. What they do is worse, deeper, more decadent; it's larvae nesting in their open cuts and spreading tiny moth wings, dusting them with sex and death, death and sex, that's all there's ever been.

He can't be punished, he likes it too much. He likes it when Reese seems to see hurt as a green light, dragging him across the floor so tigerishly it gives him friction burn, to position him like a doll for the next full fuck and slam of their hips. It kills his pain receptors for a second, one second before it all comes screaming back and he gouges half-moons of flesh out from Reese's back like a fucking cat in heat, skinned layers piling up beneath his fingernails. Leon twists and gets nowhere, he kicks and connects with nothing, only the click of his boot heel falling to earth. So instead, he entwines himself with Reese and locks their legs together, pulling him inside again with secret muscles that pulse and tighten. Leon hisses with satisfaction.

It isn't that it starts to hurt less, it's that he is a slut for the pain, the TOUGH LOVE, and he bites back when Reese takes to nibbling on his lips. Blood for the millionth time and he loses track of whose it is, Leon is moaning now, breathy sex sounds that don't make it easy to stay mad at him. Being kissed, muffled, he still can't keep his mouth shut, "Ughh— Harder!"
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XANDER
 Posted: Mar 18 2012, 06:12 PM
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How many times has Reese gotten to look into Leon's face? He's been beaten for glancing, beaten for peeking, sometimes not beaten in an audacious moment, but beaten anyways sooner or later. Sometimes he could stare from his place against the wall while the Kommandant picked over his dinner or his work, sculpting the fine planes of that patrician nose and high cheekbones, mapping the skeleton beneath the skin, imagining what it would take — what it would feel like — to break it. But to look at the same face from above — the blood on Leon's lips, the dark bristles of his eyelashes, the pink in his cheeks and the sweat in his pale hair — that is different. Leon is beautiful, and he shouldn't be.

So within the punishment — the violence, the self-indulgence — there must be attraction. There is some chemistry, even if hate is the catalyst. Leon has forgotten himself; he has forgotten that he cannot want this. But he does. He does, and there is no way for Reese to mistake it. It fascinates him. Without the need to choke Leon into submission, his hands are free to wander, starting at Leon's hips, up over his ribs, Reese's thumbs brushing his nipples, the blood on their lips mixing. Yes, it is hard to hate Leon when his ass is tighter than any cunt. He moans in a way the brothel whores never would.

Reese sucks a bruise on the Kommandant's neck, right beneath his ear, and then he whispers, "What you've been needing is to get fucked." And then Leon does get it harder, so hard that he has to be held in place lest he be pushed away, and he is muzzled again with Reese's tongue and teeth.
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