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 anything but your kind [18+], complete
abbey
 Posted: Dec 14 2011, 03:59 AM
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WARNING: World War II, slightly alternate history. War crimes, propaganda. Torture, humiliation, sexual assault, death. Racism, classism, misogyny, homophobia. Narrative from a Nazi.


CONTINUED FROM HERE.




Later, he promises not to think of kissing the man again.

A week passes that feels like a year, and the post-snowfall world is deaf to the ones who fall namelessly into oblivion, their blue tongues frozen to their teeth. The dead have the nerve to make everyone else wait in line while their bodies are found.

The letter comes in a pearl white-yellow envelope, as carefully picked as if it were a wedding invitation, and embossed with tiny flowers and slippets of lace. Once the courier has delivered it to him, Schaefer opens it where he stands, with the snow settling like salt on his shoulders. His gloves and the luxuriant thickness of the paper keeps it from moisture. As he scrolls his eyes from top to bottom, the letter is iced in black drifts of ink and the scent of her perfume, sweet and cloying on his fingers.

He doesn't bother trying to rub it off, but places it back in the envelope and the envelope into his inner coat pocket—his winter coat, thick and warm. Schaefer doesn't stop to see Officer Jäger on his way through camp; the rotting abscess above his shoulders is unappealing, and the infection has eaten away the parts of his brain that could appreciate sentimentality.

On the heated inside of the office, Kammerjäger warms her belly on Reese's feet.

Schaefer doesn't look at them when he comes in, making a beeline for his desk where he pauses with his back to them. There is the soft, leathery slpp of his piece being unholstered, then the push-click of the chamber opening and his silent count of the bullets, like there might be some missing. "We should go for a walk," he says, and he is looking out the window when he says it, out beyond the fences.
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XANDER
 Posted: Dec 14 2011, 04:03 AM
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It is a long time. It -- it surprises Reese, that he can feel the time, that he feels hunger return with a sense of foreboding and irritation, and he becomes impatient. His own attitude bewilders him, as he struggles to understand where and how he lost the threads, where he really -- really accepted the way his little world turns, where he began to believe this was not a way out, but a way through. Forced back into the ranks of fellow prisoners, he is conscious not of relief, but of a sense of deprivation; somehow the abuse has crossed the threshold of not so bad, because Schaefer is predictable, because rewards are as calculated as punishments. The fear of random violence is greater than the fear of violence itself, and there's some peeling of insulation when he doesn't see the Kommandant for some time. No one touches him, but Reese sees them. He sees them watching.

And so it comes as a comfort, as a return of normalcy, when he gets his office summons, and he reacquaints himself with Kammerjager and settles against the wall for his nap. When Schaefer arrives, Reese looks oddly at peace.

Of course, that changes with Schaefer gets out his gun and proposes going for a walk, which has never happened before, which can only be happening if it's never going to happen again. Reese has lived too long now to die quietly. He says, "But Kommandant," and his voice is a silky sneer, "It is so cold outside." He can shoot Reese in his office and clean the blood off the floor, and let Kammerjäger sleep in the stain.

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abbey
 Posted: Dec 17 2011, 09:01 AM
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The day following Jäger's facelift, Schaefer is taken to the kennels. He tolerates it, and even passes his eyes over a few of the dogs that the instructor introduces by name and temperament. There are smells that he doesn't enjoy, wet fur and hay and bedding that needs changing, the rank water under marrowbones. Something scrawny in the faces of the shepherd mixes makes him dislike them, and too much grey in the coat. He can dissect their bloodlines down to the wiry bitches that came before them, before Man shared his fire with Ancestor Wolf, when the first dogs were gasps of smoke letting their howls shape our nightmares.

Sitting in the back, its velvet nose to the gate, is the most stunning beast. A real soldier, with a saddle and executioner's hood of black that swallows most of the gold, but not the long golden legs or underbelly. The eyes are young with intelligence and velveteen too. He can't be more than two years old.

"Oh, this Blitz. He is beautiful, deadly function. Meant to be yours, Kommandant."

But I already have a dog, he thinks. It sounds petulant in his head. She was small, squirming white in his hands, blind and fat like a larval worm. He hadn't accepted her immediately; bitches were known to have worse moods than dogs, and white was a non-standard colour. But he had come back for her, months later, and by then she was little more than a pile of bones and hatred.

*

"Cold?" He isn't listening, not really. Schaefer has moved to the window, the gun dead in his hand like a blackbird with its neck wrung. They could walk to the woods and have their footprints covered by the next morning's snow, an erasure as complete as the pyres of books burning in the squares. Without the ashes, Reese could be gone by tomorrow, although his smell would linger and Kammerjäger would take to staring at the corners of the room in which his ghost stood.

"I'll bring you a coat," says Schaefer, not unkindly. Bring it and bring it back empty from the woods. He turns, finally, from the window and from his thoughts. "Will you come?"
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XANDER
 Posted: Dec 17 2011, 08:51 PM
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It's too much now, just too much. Schaefer is cold and calm like the snow; Reese is unraveling. Outside? Outside? He is anguished and furious at a false betrayal, livid because they had a deal -- didn't they? But there has never been any agreement; there were never any real bargains; this has all been a game, and Reese was betting against the house, selling his soul to buy time, mortgaging piece after piece because he and Schaefer had an understanding. They understood one another. This is not how things are supposed to go. He can't be dying. He can't.

There's hatred in his face, not unlike the way Kammerjäger has looked at the other officers -- barely restrained loathing, aching violence. His hostility is bare and comes off him in waves; maybe he's trying to channel it to the bitch too, with the way his fingers are knotted in her fur. Maybe Reese thinks he doesn't have to die alone.

The first time he looked Schaefer in the face with this much contempt, he set his own fate in motion. Maybe it is how he ends things as well.

His voice is the tolling of a great brass bell, "No."
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abbey
 Posted: Dec 18 2011, 08:47 AM
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It can be painless. One shot and his brains will steam on the snow-covered ground, will turn it to red slush. Or he could attempt to run and have his kneecap blown into tiny constellations, shards of bone and white-hot stars. Isn't this proof enough that Schaefer cares? The ritual of walking Reese out, past the smokehouses from which the bodies are pulled and stacked like firewood, past the gates and JEDEM DAS SEINE—God bless, he must have thought he would never walk out of here.

Their contracts have been written in blood and spit and semen; the final missive is inked across his forearm, in one letter and four numbers that mark him for death.

No breath fogs on the glass from where Schaefer stands at the window. He stays cold and looking at Reese with his milk opal eyes, until the bitch breaks the silence when she goes to pull away from Reese and growls at his fingers catching in her fur. "Kammerjäger, nimm ihm." The command seems to come from a separate universe, and she swings her head around as if to double-check with Master. When there is no counter-command, she bares every one of her teeth at once. Only Reese can see the spark of ferocity is gone from her eyes. She is almost smiling at him when, with all gentleness, she seizes his arm between her many teeth, and tugs.

Schaefer comes within point-black distance and aims for the heart.

"Up. Time to join your wife in Hell."
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XANDER
 Posted: Dec 18 2011, 05:59 PM
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Every nightmare is crawling up from beneath the floorboards, their fingers oozing through the cracks and digging into Reese's ankles, and his mind is melting within his skull. He stands up without being wholly aware of it, rejecting the floor and self-reduction and curling up and hiding, he is blind with hatred and rage. Kammerjäger clamps down on his arm and Reese just doesn't get it, this is unfair, this is wrong, and without any reflection on his position he looks at her and orders, "Lassen Sie mich gehen." What he doesn't do is raise his hand, or shout; he looks her in her black eyes for perhaps the last; I thought we were the same, you and I? It was not Master who saved her. Has she forgotten? The dog could rip his face off now and he could die slowly, awfully, like Jäger. And yet--

It's the bitch's grip that keeps him from really whirling on the Kommandant, a living anchor that weighs him down. But Reese is alive, stupidly alive, fully human and a man with his passion in his face. He draws himself up to full height and spits, "This is Hell." There is nothing left.
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abbey
 Posted: Dec 23 2011, 09:31 AM
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Buchenwald has no rites or rituals for those on the eve of being laid to rest. No last meal, no priest to say the rosary, and nothing of last wishes. A lamb is not brought out to have its throat cut in place of Reese; enough sacrifices have been made, and Sitz in the floorboards is sobbing at Reese's ankle. The little Sinti girl with her eyes and heart stopped by needle puts her small hand in his, and were the Polish whore dead, she would join this moth-eaten group, this funeral procession of ghosts who can't go farther than the fences. From there he must face the chill alone, rounding his shoulders against it and going out into the snow, where the trees are tall and dark as sleeping giants and where Kommandant Schaefer will give him a shovel, with which he digs his own grave. What is fair about any of this?

Schaefer will probably fall upon the remains with a hunger, demon that he is. He has been waiting to peel Reese open, to crawl inside of him while he's still hot.

It only takes a moment, like anything worth happening. Reese clears six feet at his full height, or if not he comes very close, but Schaefer has seen worse. He indicates the door with a tilt of his gun, they should leave now, and it's then Kammerjäger chooses that worst of bad moments to listen to someone else. She lets go—

It must only take a fifth of a moment for Schaefer to turn his eyes to her, and look away from the one man he shouldn't look away from, and in that moment his pearl-white throat flashes beneath his collar, a pennant for the bloodthirsty.

Outside, a snowflake becomes part of the bank on the windowsill.
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XANDER
 Posted: Dec 23 2011, 03:53 PM
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And Reese falls upon him.

It is madness at its height; he gambles against the house with something he no longer has -- his life. There is muscle on him now, and fat, and it is not a skeleton that rises up and twists the gun from Schaefer's hand and leaps. He has grown, thickened, a fungus has bloomed inside of him, he throws his weight forward and sweeps the Kommandant's ankle from under him by knocking his heel into it. His fist slams into Schaefer's gut for good measure, and they go down, Reese crushes him like justice.

The joyous righteousness of the moment gets caught up in detail, like pinning Schaefer's arms to his sides with his knees, and covering his mouth and squeezing his throat. He breathes deeply through his mouth and presses his weight down, and keeps his balance and control through the struggle, he has struggled so much to have this. Only fragments of thoughts form with Schaefer underneath him. There is suddenly something fair in the world. And—

He decides not to examine the something else right now.

When there is stillness and silence, he breathes to his muted captive, "How does it feel?"

"Leon?"
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abbey
 Posted: Dec 26 2011, 11:16 AM
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How could you?

Surprise is not the word for what comes over Schaefer. A liquid bubble of blackness bursts in his brain, turning everything within his skull the colour and consistency of oil. His thoughts are a frigate of beetle wings, his arms are rotten branches, his stomach is a sandpit; it sucks Reese's fist into the cavity of his body, the soft and livery part under switchblade ribs, and into the air he coughs out. Breathing is painful, but the hand that goes around his throat helps him by cutting off his air supply and squeezing. He wants to vomit white blood, milky with his own failure.

They fall together, and the blue of his eyes are at melting point, he is full to his eyeballs with rage. His mouth is covered so he cannot breathe fire or scream, guard! guard! guard! this Zigeuner is getting his germs on me! Schaefer's dragon breath is left to steam in his lungs with the carbon dioxide, and he chokes.

They (the Masters) would have him never give up his weapon, and so his wrist is almost fractured and the fragile bones are grinding together when he lets go of the gun at last. It bounces away from him across the floor and out of reach, and he has never hated his prisoner more than when the man gets on top of him and sits on his arms and straddles him, and keeps pushing him flat on his back and not letting him get up, not letting him escape from this unwanted and unnecessary contact. It's awful when it's someone else doing it to him. It feels— He feels too much.

Leon can feel all of Reese.
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XANDER
 Posted: Dec 26 2011, 07:34 PM
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He was going to die anyways. He was about to be taken outside, and shot. Nothing matters now. Nothing matters. Buzzard thoughts circle in Reese's head; he is overwhelmed with freedom. Now he can say whatever he wants, do whatever he wants, be whatever he wants, and Schaefer cannot challenge him. Schaefer will never challenge anyone again, because Reese is going to squeeze every last breath of air from his pretty little throat, and when the guards come for him they will be faced with the corpse of their Kommandant. Leon's outsides will finally join his insides in death and rot.

But for now -- for now, there are a few indulgences to be had.

"Never once, Leon?" His hand tightens around Leon's throat, making certain he can't squeak or scream, and then the other moves to knock the blond's cap off, batting it up and away like a playful cat. "All those times you touched me--" Reese takes a deep breath in. It hurts-- It hurts to speak of it, to finally say out loud, in any way, what has been done to him, but he presses on. "--you never wanted me to touch you back?" He traces the frame of Leon's face, dragging one dirty brown finger from temple to chin, all along the jaw. "Mmmm?"

He doesn't wait for an answer in the other man's eyes, before he remembers suddenly, "You don't even know my name."

"It's Reese."

Leon can die knowing that.
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abbey
 Posted: Dec 29 2011, 09:08 AM
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Clothes make the man. Without the hat, he is like a toy soldier without the last coat of polish to seal in his paint. The uniform is incomplete, he is incomplete, and the not-uniform becomes just a greatcoat, shirt, jodhpurs, boots; nothing that should give anyone power over another. The Death's Head still sparkles from the right of his collar, and his hair is the kind of white-blond that children mature out of, his forelock grown boyishly long to the ridge of his eyebrows. Paler than his eyes is the froth of his eyelashes, and paler than those are his lips, which are going blue.

Stripped of his Walther P38, Leon Schaefer's pixie blood puts him at a fatal disadvantage. It's not with bulk and muscle that he has cut the throats of greater men than himself. Stripped of his clothes and insignia, what would be left of him?

His cunning invites Reese to touch him, but the rest of him chars and curls away like paper from an open flame; his skin burns under the inflammatory trail of Reese's finger and his words. He does not dream, but if he did then maybe there he could consent to being touched. Leon shakes his head in flittery denial of all the charges being laid against him, God knows his soul will be clean if he is sent to his death, and there are stripes purpling already in the shape of fingerprints on his neck.

It really is a pretty throat, and pretty lips that part on a nothing sound.

"...k—" Can't breathe. His deoxygenated brain swirls with that name. Rrrreese, rolled off your tongue and bitten down on the leather strop between your teeth.
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XANDER
 Posted: Dec 29 2011, 05:58 PM
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"First time on your back?" His voice lilts and picks up at the end, and his eyes -- his eyes are exploding, they are twin suns burning out, is he even looking at Leon? At his face? At the curves of his body, the lines of muscle beneath his clothes, his fine eyelashes, the now endless icy expanses of his irises? Or is Reese seeing straight through, to skin and then to muscle, to whole healthy bones, unbroken, the nerves flawless and sleeping, tinder waiting to be lit up, would Leon like the pain burned into the backs of his eyelids? Reese has lost the way to separate sex from violence. There must be a trick to it, a way to see himself as the platonic conquerer, the victor in their great chess game, but Leon shakes his head and Reese just laughs, a soft sound of vengeance.

He switches hands, covers Leon's mouth while the grip around his throat is loosened. Enough for Leon to hum hate against his palm.

"Is that so?" he says. He reaches, and runs his hand thickly through Leon's hair, from his forehead to the back of his skull, long and luxuriant, maybe Reese is just jealous. "How dull." His fingers curve around to the other side of Leon's neck. An uneven nail traces a wavy line from behind Leon's ear to his collarbone. Maybe the uniform is the only thing holding Kommandant Schaefer together. Maybe without it, he's no one at all.
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abbey
 Posted: Jan 3 2012, 11:23 AM
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One way to exorcise demons is to cremate them. Maybe Leon's whole body is a wound in need of cauterising from the disease spread by his mind, and someone should take a blowtorch to his pretty face so that it can't be used for anymore recruitment posters. He must see the conflagration in Reese's eyes, and his own reflection there in flames, and something else, the something else that is brother and sister to the black, black curse that was put on him, worse than what could be done now to his outsides. It would be better to roast to death.

The first time? Oh no, he isn't a stranger to the strangeness of men, the homoeroticism of war and military training, the being better and being on top and feeling him expire between your thighs, rifles and knives and extensions to insert yourself into your enemy, shrapnel blasts to make them stay down, blood as a stand-in for other fluids, fighting, killing, fucking, it's all one great act of cannibalism and he is hungry for the feeling. His eyes are wide like when he was bitten.

Does Reese want a taste of him too, a drink from the fountain of his carotid?

Who would have thought Leon would squirm and be so good at it, as he does when Reese touches him with more than a finger, twisting this way and that with his palms still crucified by Reese's knees and his hair more tousled than ever. Then he does too much squirming and brushes up against the wrong part of the man, and the unbuffed edge of a fingernail catches on the silk of his neck. He makes a sound like a moan, and stops breathing against the hand over his mouth.
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XANDER
 Posted: Jan 3 2012, 12:57 PM
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Leon's hips writhe up and Reese has to press down to contain him; he clamps his knees harder and the friction is sickening, a toxic grind that stirs Reese's blood in ways it shouldn't. He swallows to moisten his baked tongue, his dry mouth, this is what Leon wants, what he has always wanted, it's why he's kept Reese and why he's tried to get rid of him. This Reese cannot say aloud, but it is a truth that grows visible in the brightening darkness of his mind.

Leon moans and Reese can barely stand it.

"Oh," he says. Faintly, there is surprise and awe, that he could draw such a sound from-- From the Lion of Buchenwald, from Kommandant Schaefer, from a man who was once known only as Leon, as he is known now, with his breath stilled but his body still a hot thrum beneath another. "If you make noises like that," he says, and tilts his head, "someone might misinterpret." But he is the only one here, the only one who can hear. Reese reminds himself that he is supposed to be killing Leon, and then maybe taking his gun and seeing if he can't off Holtznecht before he's put down himself, but he can still hear an echo from the showers, an 'Are you strange?' that makes him tell Leon, "You look like you need it," without saying what 'it' is.

They both know.
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abbey
 Posted: Jan 4 2012, 09:30 AM
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But Leon is not a lion. He is a little bird, with little bones being crushed and little heart beating its wings in flightless panic against the window and his ribcage; when he dares to breathe again, it comes in arrhythmic bursts and he is too warm and hyperventilating. His breath is hot and smothered by Reese's palm, and if he stuck out his tongue he could trace the life line and heart line and the girdle of Venus and the bramble marks, lick away the camp dirt and tell the gypsy his fortune.

Fate has stitched them together, and there is no romance in the excision. It's an invisible blade; it wants to be drawn across Leon's lips until he bleeds and bleeds and can tell his lies no more. Until then, his lips are pre-chewed but lush where there are no teeth marks, where he has kept the hunger out, and they kiss the rough underside of Reese's hand with nowhere else to go. And it dawns on him, that they are pretending for each other and no one else, and he can struggle if he likes, while Reese says 'oh' like the golden doors of enlightenment are thrown open. For a moment Leon just presses his thighs together and takes all the friction for himself, smoothing one against the other until the roundness leaves his eyes and the sun sets in his eyelashes. He could start to need a lot of things.

His hips worm up, the cradle of them against the backs of Reese's legs, his boot heels skidding without traction on the floor. The muscle in him makes itself known, but it can't do anything beneath the weight of a nourished man, and Leon is pinpointing something in this futility. Some helplessness, that makes him moan.
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