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 anything but your kind [18+], complete
abbey
 Posted: May 3 2012, 05:28 PM
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Oh, not there. Anywhere but there, on the ticklish patch of skin behind his jaw, where if Reese hummed while he kissed, it would vibrate through all the china bones of Leon's face. Luckily it's winter, and he can turn up his collar to hide the bruise above his neckline, which might otherwise draw attention from his men. Should they doubt themselves, they will look for spotlessness in their Kommandant, something as rooted as the naked oak in the courtyard. His cruelty is pure because it is incorruptible. A love bite would be bad for morale.

But no one thought to touch him like this. And when they do, there shouldn't be a spark between him and a— a— The sentiment fails him when Reese cocks his hips, and Leon swallows his tongue with nastiness on the tip of it, and finds some other place to put his mouth. He opens it in the crook of one brown shoulder, sucking on a familiar week-old scar. He gets bitey, like a frightened animal, when invisible strings pull his muscles taut and he can't coax them back to normal. Whatever he thought he knew was happening, it combusts when the prisoner stops hitting him and goes touching him like a lover. Reese's hands, hands that have been deliberately scarred and disfigured, explore the body that the Kommandant has kept for himself, on ice. It's a nice body, honest and hungry. Leon should really learn how to share.

And then Reese says that, a toxic whisper in his ear, as if it's the real reason behind the Nazis' reign of blood. Reese does him harder and tells him it's needed, it's a necessary evil, who else is going to fuck Leon and give him this attitude adjustment? He says it like it could fix things that are fundamentally broken, and the last licks of control are exhaled in hot little puffs of breath as Leon starts to come.
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XANDER
 Posted: May 4 2012, 06:08 PM
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Does it fix anything? Is any problem solved? Maybe. Maybe not. Leon is the quintessential Nazi; he is a prince of dehumanizing others, and he has reigned over this kingdom of blood and bone and misery since before Reese ever stumbled into it. And yet he has failed, because there is a very human man on top of him, hissing dirty things with chapped lips, memorizing his body with broken fingers. Reese fucks Leon like an animal, but he isn't one, and he isn't a prisoner, not right now. Leon is his prisoner, his captive, and the joy of it breaks as much as it mends. For once Reese is not property. For once he owns someone else.

And then he feels it, feels Leon tensing up from the inside out, it is that good for him. This is getting him off, making him come, Leon will have to remember for the rest of his life the way Reese's dick broke him open and then into fragments, stardust, color, blood. It is the thrill of power just as much as Leon's body that brings Reese over the edge with him, his head tilted to press their foreheads together, his eyes open, burning gold.

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abbey
 Posted: May 7 2012, 08:56 PM
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With bliss, is vulnerability in the absolute. The white-hot flame of his spine, that tempered glass in the arc of his back and its jewellery of sweat that drips between his shoulders, isn't made for strength. It could be dismantled, he could be crushed and ground into blush-coloured powders, the breath escaping his body like a ghost exorcised by the fullness inside him. A rainbow beads in his eyelashes, iridescent with the sweat that's kissed from his face, the closest thing to tears he has.

Why doesn't Leon like to be looked at? What makes him try to shut his eyes, and have them open with the next swell of chemical emotion, his pupils huge and dark with their heat death? He sees stars and licks their dust from his lips, breathing their names and something hotter into the space between them. "Come—"

And just the thought of it, the furniture fucking him and filling him with sticky disease, must be such anathema that it curls his mouth into a little snarl, but his disgust is coated thickly with desire, a strawberry swirled through chocolate.
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XANDER
 Posted: May 8 2012, 01:14 PM
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Leon is vulnerable and Reese is king, the Kommandant's heart beating wildly beneath his palms, his pretty nakedness no longer his own, all of it stolen to burn forever in the back of Reese's skull. There is no escaping his eyes, so alive, a whirlpool sucking everything in and down to depths no one can touch. He shimmers with exertion, this has burned up so many calories he would usually preserve, but Leon is calling for him to come, come inside him, and it sickens Reese too, for a moment. But he does it, of course, pounds in more heat and wetness to smear around Leon's insides. He pushes deep like it will make his cum stay there, like it won't come oozing out of Leon sooner or later. It's not like anything else they've done before, not an orgasm born from half-hearted surrender or sadistic demand, but something real, and maybe that's Reese's edge of vulnerability.

Then he can hear his own breath again. The slapping of their hips isn't there to drown it out. He breathes a short while.

And then Leon is just lying there, underneath him, their bodies still joined, and the afterglow seeps away rapidly as Reese slides back. His still-hard dick is glazed with blood and jism. Mute horror writhes beneath a heavy layer of satisfaction, mental and physical. But it's satisfaction still, a victory before death, and that must be why he stays on top of Leon. He runs his tongue over his upper lip, and waits.
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abbey
 Posted: Nov 9 2012, 10:31 PM
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The room has changed once they shudder to a stop. Momentum is a powerful thing, that little whisper of keep going, you can't stop now, and without it they are two men with their clothes askew, breathing hard and sweltering into each other. A corner of the window has fogged up.

Leon's thighs are slippery with their mixed sweat, and bruised by their sexual battery; the bruises don't go in a procession from point A to B, but dapple him with random acts of violence. A bracelet of his own cum is cooling on his stomach, courtesy of gravity and their awkward angle. His knees are still partitioned up by his chest, his arms are still caught in the sleeves of his coat. As traps go, it's as functional as any bit of rabbit wire, and he twists like one, like a coney under Reese.

What small, warm breath he has coasts across Reese's cheek. "Mmh... Get off," sighs Leon, doesn't mean to sigh like that, but his throat is tired and in the habit of it, and it sounds like another invitation.

"Get off me." This time it's clearer. He pushes Reese away with both hands, pushes his face and covers his eyes and tries not to think about it, but it is still right on top of Leon.

The sign above the gates read: WHAT THE FUCK HAVE YOU DONE?
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XANDER
 Posted: Nov 10 2012, 08:31 PM
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Reese hates Leon, hates him as much as ever, maybe more than ever before. Fear, as alive in his body as any blood cell, burns from within. But then Leon is squirming, and Reese wants him again -- wants to hold him down in some new way, make him scream, make him beg for it. He is ill with insatiable desire that he thought had been amputated, replaced with and owned by simple hunger.

In his sickness, he still has enough cunning to loot the kerchief he knows Leon keeps in his inner jacket pocket, and wipe himself clean before the first 'get off' has been finished. When Reese is pushed, it is deposited with a pickpocket's grace on Leon's belly, before Reese rolls back and rises in what is almost a single motion.

Before Leon gets up himself, there are a few moments where Reese is just standing here, leaning on Leon's desk, looking down at him. And Reese's face, as hard as he fights to control it, betrays him: he does not truly regret what they have done, especially if he is still doomed to die.
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abbey
 Posted: Nov 12 2012, 09:09 AM
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The handkerchief is a plain white square, and Reese knows it's there because of the million times he has watched Leon clean the blood from his fingers. It always comes back white and unspotted; it must not be the same handkerchief, really. It's functional, it lacks embroidery and his initials. It's silky on Reese's cock when he wipes himself down, silky like the inside of the body, silky and then damp when he tosses it back on Leon's cum-stained abdomen, a used tissue for a whore. As if the humiliation wasn't enough.

Leon, poor thing, he can't get up like the gypsy can, with all grace and flames in his eyes. He has to turn first on his belly and then onto his knees, and his cheek presses into the floor as he struggles with his belt—clink, clink—and the trembling that just won't go away. When he does stand up, he almost falls back down; his useless knees buckle and he sinks a little, before he catches himself on the wall.

Those golden-brown eyes can be felt, their hatred burning a hole through his back.

"Get out."

It's whispered to no one and nothing before Leon can bring himself to look at Reese, and even then it's from under his arm, which stays propped against the wall for strength. His coat has kind of fallen off one shoulder.

There are guards outside like always, but they haven't heard. The gun has long since stopped spinning on the ground, but it hasn't gone anywhere. And Leon tells Reese to leave. He doesn't want to be looked at anymore, if he wanted it in the beginning. He can't feel this, when this isn't regret and they're both so ripe with it that death would be too good for them.

And he's still half-dressed and shaking.
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XANDER
 Posted: Nov 13 2012, 08:39 AM
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Leon has been fucked so harshly that he can scarcely stand, and he vibrates, the reverberations of their sin running through him. Reese seems another man entirely, one who, at any moment, is ready to cross the room and press Leon to the wall, tell him something sweet and dirty, act as if they are perfect equals in equal conspiracy. He can still taste Leon's blood in his mouth. The gun just lies on the floor, useless.

He does not immediately obey the order. He has that hungry look, and damn anyone who denies him, and nothing can stop him now, nothing, no one—

He turns to the door and sweeps out, the guards not even bothering to lead him by the elbows, he is such an obedient, dull pet...

*

He sleeps better than he has in months. His rest, fitful and dreamless, is observed intently, and heightens suspicion. There is new predatory litheness to Reese's movements, and the guards can't beat it out of him when they see it. They have watched his scars accrue, and delighted in the invisible but tangible rot of his spirit; he is Schaefer's personal project, fat but wild-eyed. And then, all the sudden, he is calm, calm in the way things are when they're at the top of the food chain. The guards and prisoners feel it, though neither have the words to name it. Their best description would be, There's something in his eyes...

It is the second day after their crime that Leon calls for him. Reese convinces himself that he will behave as usual, feign normalcy, and gage the situation from there. But when he steps into the room, and they are alone, he forgets himself at once. His eyes lock onto the floor, but only so he can carefully advance to just the place where Leon laid his head, where Reese had bowed his own to kiss him. He feels nauseous all over again, with the disgusting thing they've done, but he remembers Schaefer stumbling to his feet, so bruised, so used, how good it felt to make him that way. With that in his mind, Reese looks up.
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abbey
 Posted: Nov 15 2012, 08:23 AM
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It's past noon and Officer Holzknecht is having a drink and playing Skat with his friends. He draws another worthless card; he would be better off with the fucking joker, and is it just him or has his luck been black ever since he failed to cut out the eyes of that Zigeuner? It couldn't be worse.

Just then there comes the sweet-shy rapping of knuckles on the door. "Scheiße!" He hates that knock, because he knows immediately who it is, and a mouse would do better at both knocking and opening doors. Disgusted with the turn the afternoon has taken, he throws his hand down on the table and pushes his chair out. "Come in," Holzknecht grumbles, and he pours himself another long spool of drink as Diefenbach pokes his glossy head around the doorframe.

"Officer Holzknecht, the Kommandant's orders. We're to gather the work groups who were reconstituting the grounds in the northern sector."

"And why are we to do that, Diefenbach?" Holzknecht nixes the 'Officer', thinking it polite enough that he doesn't stand up and hit Diefenbach for saying everything he does so regretfully, with his dark eyes on the floor. Look up, you thin-skinned boy. Look when you say what we must do.

"I don't know, Officer Holzknecht. I only know that..."

*

...he was limping.

Grounds were too muddy in the northern sector. The work groups are disciplined.

The Kommandant's limp doesn't much affect his duties as Kommandant. He stays behind his desk for a few more minutes per day and puts his name on more paperwork, but he is still in every shadow and waking nightmare. The softest-spoken prisoners say they can't even tell which side it is, maybe he twisted both ankles, maybe he'll break his back next, wouldn't that be something?

Ehrlichmann wants to look at him of course ("it seems you pulled a muscle in your lower back, as well"), but Schaefer brushes him off. Oh, he hasn't the time, it's just a little sprain, and his field dressings are more than adequate. Thank you, Doktor, but no.

There is a day of rest, and then the day after. When Reese walks back into perdition, it's not Leon who sits at the cherrywood desk.

It's Schaefer. Kommandant Schaefer in full uniform, Schaefer who has hurt him and will hurt him again. The pen moves elegantly in his hand as it whisks off his death-mark signature. He doesn't look up from his work. But if there's any hope for no spite between them, it melts like the snow with his words.

"Those brambles you pulled out." The ones that scarred Reese's hands because he had no tools, only skin and bone for the thorns to bite so deeply. The brambles that were punishment.

"I want you to replant them."
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XANDER
 Posted: Nov 15 2012, 01:48 PM
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Reese cannot understand his own feelings. He is silent, as time and space cleave. The paper-thin moments of the present are peeled back to hours past, when Leon — Leon, Leon — told him he was faultless, all over; when the gun was first knocked from his hand; when he sighed, so softly, Get out, before he ordered it. Reese sees Schaefer sitting before him, the man who had him hung in the showers, the man who has forced him to abide self-abomination. And then, like a magic trick, he can scratch beneath that layer and see the crystal drops of sweat on Leon's eyelashes. Schaefer, Schaefer, who is Schaefer?

The blond's split lip is still healing.

Schaefer orders him to replant the brambles with his bare hands in the freezing Christmas cold. It could kill him, if the Kommandant was not careful with how long the zigeuner is outdoors, and who he assigns to keep time. Reese is being punished, and the punishment is dispensed with as though Reese's crime is among his many petty ones, like looking at Schaefer funny, or smirking, or arriving late for a summons, though he has no control over whether or not he is late. 'Replant the brambles,' as though not two days ago— As though—

He advances to Schaefer's desk, then comes around the side of it. Quick as a flash, he bats away the Nazi's hat, his hand cutting up under the cap to knock it backwards and to one side. It means a great deal more than 'fuck you', which are only words, after all. In a gesture, and with his clear, focused eyes, Reese shatters pretense, and illusion. Schaefer can beat it for him, if he likes. He can starve him, and cast him away, and somehow, the risk is worth it, as Reese remembers the plushness of Leon's lip when he smeared it under his thumb.
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abbey
 Posted: Nov 17 2012, 05:36 AM
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That didn't happen. There never were any kisses, the rucking up of shirts, or ambitious thoughts about what to lick next. Because in that reality, they died and the shame ate up all trace of their ghosts, and in this one the continuum has settled and Schaefer is back to almost killing him with meaningful meaningless cruelties. Brambles today—and not because Reese sinned so greatly with his hands two days ago—and something else tomorrow. Their walk seems forgotten, at least.

They could continue existing like this, if they really wanted to. If they tried.

Unless Reese was to, 1: touch and, 2: tear the curtain down. He does it while Schaefer's eyes are still on the forms, and for a horrifying second, the rapid blur of motion so close makes him think another attack is coming, and his muscles pull together through his back. Whatever else has happened, he can't let himself be blinded and left completely defenseless. too late for that too late too late

...Then that's it, that's all it is, the light is in his hair and his uniform is missing a piece, and it's such a cry for attention that no human person could ignore it.

Schaefer blinks a few times, his doll eyelashes dry of sweat. He glances past his shoulder, locates it, and leans over the chair back to pick it up and put it on his head. The cap goes on after he's smoothed his hair down and straightened his forelock, slipping the blond through his fingers. It's like watching him return to factory settings; he resets.

"I want it done by six o'clock."
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XANDER
 Posted: Nov 17 2012, 07:07 PM
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Had he done that months ago, Reese would have been shot on the spot. Had he done it a week ago, he would have been beaten. But Schaefer carefully sets the cap upon his head again, straightens it, squares his shoulders. He tries to pretend that Reese has not severely disrespected him. And it is thrilling, darkly thrilling, because it means that this pretending is preferable to something frightening, something uncontrolled. Every line of Reese's body hisses, I'm thinking about what we did, and he keeps staring Schaefer in the face, another thing he should be struck down for. But the Kommandant is looking at his papers.

He is still for another few seconds, then does it again, though slightly different: this time he plucks the hat off, and deposits it on the floor. Following that, he slides between Schaefer and his desk, one knee between the Kommandant's legs, both hands pulling on his collar, drawing their faces together. It happened, it was real, and for a few precious moments Reese tasted power, power over himself, and even more addicting, power over another. He is the one to put the limp in the Kommandat's step; he is the one who knows this secret; he is its other keeper. It is snowing outside, softly, and they are totally, completely alone, together.

"No," he says, the world rolling off his tongue like a fat drop of honey, rich and sticky with thoughts unsaid. If he thinks about their fucking, and their fucking again, he is raw, repulsed; when he does not think, when it is only impulse, he is intent on proving that it was not a mistake. To prove this, he must do what he's done again.
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abbey
 Posted: Nov 21 2012, 06:50 AM
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Schaefer doesn't care for it, this need to acknowledge that something happened, or that anything is other than what he says it is. He's julienned the truth in all kinds of ways and had them eating it from the palm of his hand; the thought begets a memory of Reese's tongue on his fingers, licking up meadow butter like it was liquid gold. These thoughts have been getting worse of late, and if he was a religious man, he would've asked the Doktor to drill a little hole in his skull to let the demons out.

His hat leaves the sanctity of his head again. It is, for the second time, an assault on an officer, which carries a very serious penalty for German citizens, much less gypsy trash. But Schaefer just narrows his eyes, and even when Reese comes to grip him by the scruff of the neck and lifts him out of his chair, Schaefer goes slack and malleable with only the integrity of his spine to fall back on. He ignores Reese for as long as he can, with the grace of a greater animal dismissing a smaller one.

Without the Death's Head and its veil of authority, his face can be better seen, and how his eyes are two points of ice beneath the now missing peak of it. He glowers from within, lighting up from the inside. Once the reaction starts, it's difficult to stop. Floe-eyed, Schaefer's slow to melt, but when he does... Oh, when he does.

"Fuck you and your nos."

The desk jolts when Reese is slammed back into it (by the hips and the rest will follow), and suddenly Schaefer is up and at 'em. With a twisted handful of the dog collar, his other hand is out for blood in Reese's forearm, claws out. "Remember why you're here, Z-8-5-9-4." Each letter, number is ground out like hot coals from between his teeth, and as the Kommandant spits the ashes out, he runs a thumb over their tattooed co-ordinates; feels the muscle in that arm.

Leon kisses him.
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XANDER
 Posted: Nov 22 2012, 01:38 PM
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There is no human dignity in hunger. Hunger ruled all, every second haunted by dreams of a scrap of bread, any extra mouthful, at any cost. When Schaefer kept Reese from starving, he created room for Reese to remember his own humanity. And now he has let the Rom taste something else, and he is letting him take it, again, and he must know that it will not stop now, that it cannot stop, that it must go on until the end. Reese holds him by the collar, limp with dismissal, for a precious few moments, and they come together, and Leon is a head shorter. Reese thinks of every way to hurt him.

He does not give Leon an answer, does not elucidate what the Kommandant must understand, deep down. The bait on the hook was always the chance to live; Reese could have said 'no' a long time ago, and died cleaner. Z8594 could have done a great many things differently, and if he had, he would not be standing here, against this desk, his hands sliding from Leon's collar to his hips, hips he knows have a lovely curve to them and are probably still bruised. He is here, right here, to strip Leon down and sicken him, sicken them both, with things it is shameful to even dream.

When Reese kisses him, it is without restraint. He squeezes Leon's ass in his hands and nips at the scab on his lip, wanting to open it, wanting to taste blood again. He surges forward, briefly, though only to spin Leon around so he's the one against the desk, with Reese bullying him on it, their bodies trying to melt into one another, so they are only one sin instead of two. Only one hand moves to flick buttons off -- jacket buttons, shirt buttons, he's not even looking -- and then feel the skin underneath, so warm and soft, like he remembers. It is the skin of a killer. How long has he dreamed of flaying it, bruising it, battering it, feeding Leon his teeth, breaking every bone? And how little time it took to learn that he can do worse, that he can ruin Leon for a lifetime, and that Hitler's poster boy will welcome it.
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abbey
 Posted: Nov 25 2012, 05:57 AM
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What dignity is there in this? Being human is no guarantee of it, especially when they fall upon each other like beasts loosed in the yard, Reese chasing him onto the table and Leon fluffing himself up and hissing. Reese has outgrown his dog collar; its notches have had to be opened up with the broadening of his neck and shoulders, and rather than having him take it off, because it marks the Kommandant's property, certain adjustments have been made. The D-ring has slid to the front, and Leon hooks his fingers through the metal and leather, tugging on it when he's kissed, and groped, and pushed into the furniture.

It's the worst kiss of his life. Skin parts and tears away from itself under the application of teeth, starting the healing process anew, and he thinks of Reese kissing him like this every afternoon and in the evening, after every patrol and in every quiet moment. Leon hates him for it. Papers he worked on all morning flutter to the ground or crumple under his back, and he just doesn't care.

"You'll kill us both," he whispers into the microcosm between their lips, and it's the first whisper of collusion, the first real tell that they're in this together, and this was bought with their lives.

If it scares Leon, it's not enough; he lies back further on the desk and makes room for Reese between his legs, wrapping them loosely around the other man's waist; the hem of Reese's filthy shirt is peeled up with a dedicated boot heel digging into his back, and then the rest of it is pulled off the old-fashioned way. "Mmfp—" says Leon, a sound best made by biting one's lip and trying not to make any more sounds. Some unfucked part of him—part of Leon before he knew Reese—wants to ask for it to stop now, it's too much and he can't control any of it, can't micromanage his heart rate or the flush that spreads across him like a virus. Can't remember if the door is even locked.

But they don't stop, and it's all there, every scar he ever wanted to trace with his tongue, every muscle that he helped to feed, and he wants it so much that it makes him dizzy and sick.

Why is it happening like this? He's never wanted for anything.
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