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02 October 2003 @ 11:06 am
My dropping-off-to-sleep fantasy last night was a kinkfest where...

Just kidding about the dogs.

...a kinkfest where Spike, Riley, Lindsey, Xander, Wes, and Gunn--Angel being absent for a reason--all get sucked through a portal to an alternate universe into which Nazi forces were siphoned off decades ago when it seemed the war was going bad, and since then they've built up this whole independent culture, etc. And they've got work camps set up, not death camps, because even in politically incorrect fantasies, stark realism is a turn-off, so it's kind of a "Kiss of the Spider Woman" toned-down melange of grim details--shoddy quarters, mud everywhere, factories where the workers toil, and there are occasional cruelties and random deaths but no butchery en masse.

So the guys are dragged into camp and lined up naked in the chilly muddy courtyard and eyeballed by the guards to decide their disposition. They put collars on them, magical collars that keep them from acting up, and they recognize Spike as a demon on sight (in my AUs the cruel humans can always recognize Spike as a demon on sight). A solider has this stick-like thing with a loop on the end that he tosses over Spike's neck, and it tightens like a noose and he snaps it hard and drags Spike forward and twists him onto the ground, flat onto his back. Spike snarls into game face and the other Nazi, the officer, takes what looks like a cane and touches it to his neck and he screams and arches up off the ground, devamping, nose bleeding.

The officer tells him never to show his filthy, grotesque demon face again, and Spike sort of gives him that vicious, twisty smile of ultimate defiance with a look of rage in his eyes, but he says nothing and can do nothing. And the officer stares at him with the point of his cane against Spike's throat and then it sort of slitherily refolds to reveal a sword; he holds it there for another moment and then abruptly plunges into through Spike's gut, just below his ribs, and Xander yells and pushes out of line with some ill-advised outrage, and the guard lifts his pistol to shoot him, but Spike lunges up along the sword and knocks the pistol aside before slumping back down.

And Riley and Lindsey yank Xander back and the guard is going to shoot again but the officer waves him off. The guys just have to stand there in line, witnessing this horror silently, twitchy as hell and shock-eyed. And then another officer, higher in rank, wanders up and says, what have we here. They trade a few rude comments and the new officer steps up to Spike where he lies on the ground and considers him, then he lifts his boot and uses it to turn Spike's jaw to one side to get a better look. He makes a comment that with such pretty lips he probably gives world-class blow-jobs. Give him to the men, he says. And the sword is yanked from his gut and they kick him unconscious and drag him off through the mud by the yoke around his neck.

The officer tells the others that consorting with demons degrades them and makes them morally suspect and that he should kill them all right now. But after drilling fear into them he lets them be taken off for processing into the work camp. They get fitted out and housed and put to work in one of the factories doing tedious routines of assembly and fabrication, and they're given near-starvation rations and only the thinnest excuse for clothing against the cold.

Meanwhile, Spike is taken to the lowest form of rape hut, chained to a wall with a mix of human men and other demons to be used by the rank and file. There are, as you can probably imagine by this point, no women in the camps. Spike learns the ropes as well he can from his few fellow vampire whores, who are vacuous dolts and not what you'd call the best company, but the unchained humans are on the far end of the room and don't consort with demons; the groups are segregated. The vampires get only a meager ration of blood to survive on; on this, Spike has to try not just to heal and survive, but to find enough strength to distinguish himself. He's scheming to get a better place than this, as the vampires have confided that some of the prisoners get moved up to officer service.

Thus follow a lot of truly excruciatingly dedicated, world-class blow jobs, weeks of kneeling and pretending to love every minute of it, until Spike is apparently being talked about enough to catch the attention of an officer, who starts coming to see him. Within another week or two after this, Spike is moved from the stark, miserable bunkhouse and into smaller quarters, shared with only three other men, all human. He's kept chained up in one of the rooms, segregated, because they still think he might hurt his fellow prisoners--he's a demon, after all--but he's unchained during visits by the officers who use him, and eventually he's allowed to move freely. He strikes up acquaintance with the suspicious, unfriendly humans who gradually open up and accept his company, and when they've got time to themselves, they sit around and play cards to pass the time, and exchange camp gossip and survival lore and talk about others who used to be there but who got moved on or just disappeared one day. There's the expected bonding of prisoners in a terrible situation, who are glad to be better off than those suffering on a lower rung of the ladder. They have a pathetic subculture of whoredom, and the human men cherish what few protections and benefits it affords--more food, better clothes, rooms of their own.

Spike learns that on rare occasion one of their number has been lucky enough to be taken away, elevated to the position of private "mistress" to a senior officer. And of course he's determined to finagle this. After all, he spent twenty years on his knees blowing Angelus whenever Darla had a headache, not to mention charming the evil bastard well enough not to be killed--this should be child's play. So he exerts every effort of whorish seduction on the officers who visit, playing every one of them as best he can, waiting for his big break, which finally comes when one of the colonels starts coming more often, paying extra attention, bringing gifts. Spike at his worst has always been impatient and likely to fly off the handle into violence, but at his rare best, he's been capable of digging in and carrying out a long plot and using his powers of seduction to appease mad bastards and keep them happy, and now he has his soul, which blunts and softens all his old edges; every day finds him more and more resigned, sunk into patient stoicism and deep waiting, though when his patron comes to visit, he flips the switch and smiles and focuses every ounce of his charisma and intensity on the fuck.

And he moves up, into private quarters, plaything to a man who makes him wear silk robes and make-up and jewelry and garters and stockings and whatever else amuses him as means to ensure that the demon always remembers he's less than a man. But despite his preferences, he is also rather smitten with the novelty of his pretty demon, who is so different than other demons--less like an animal.

With some room to move now, Spike starts sneaking food to the guys; he arranges to get to the factory and bribes a guard--with yet more blow-jobs--to see Xander for a few minutes every few days, at which time he passes him a cloth belt with pockets of stolen food scraps, designed to be hidden under a loose shirt. Spike has to hide his horror at the first sight of Xander, starved and bearded and looking a wreck. Xander stares in shock at Spike--the traces of make-up, the effeminate clothes that clearly indicate what he's become. And of course the guard makes it clear what price Spike has to pay even to make this regular visit. But they don't have time for lingering discussions.

Eventually the officer finds out what Spike is doing and toys with him, saying he should probably kill these humans who are distracting Spike, and Spike has to plead for their lives until the officer relents and grants a favor instead, moving them to their own more privileged quarters attached to one of the highly sensitive munitions factories, or something like that, with more food and better clothes so that they're able to carry out the skilled, delicate labor.

But the interesting thing during all this time is the relationship between Spike and his captor, because Spike is deep in Stockholm Syndrome by this point--he mimicked real pleasure at the sex for months and now he's not sure where pleasure ends and revulsion begins. His degredation is becoming incredibly erotic and the role he's playing of grateful, adoring whore is beginning to wear him down. He's looking ahead to the next step, to do what it'll take to help the others escape, but he's half in thrall to his captor and his own fate, especially when the officer gets a twisted quasi-religious bee in his bonnet and starts forcing Spike to participate in a daily catechism of Nazi propaganda, a kind of Maoist brainwashing drill designed through repetition to counteract and eradicate Spike's demonic taint. So Spike is forced to mouth all these human supremacist tenets--from a lengthy book written in a style that's horribly persuasive and poetic--becoming more and more convinced of their truth and suffused with self-loathing for what he is.

When he finally is able to freely visit the others--Wes, Riley, Xander, et al--bringing them a basket of food one day, he can't even really meet their eyes at first. Wes tries to convince him he has no reason to feel ashamed, but Spike isn't ashamed of what he has to do--at this point he's more ashamed of what he *is*.

And then I fell asleep. But the whole point of this, as of any fantasy, is to give Spike a group of protective, chivalric allies among men who previously despised him, and then return them all home, to an audience of *other* people like Angel, who will be baffled by their change of heart toward Spike, not realizing the great and tragic sacrifices he's had to make.

Heeyeahhhhh. I am deeply mental and definitely going to hell. I lift my chin, however, and defiantly flaunt my kink...

...then lower my eyes with a flush of terrible shame, just like Spike, because I am a low, vile creature.

I don't really have a thing for *Nazis*, by the way. I just have a thing for the fetishization that surrounds imprisonment and forced sex and cruelty from the point of view of the sufferer (usually) and noble self-sacrifice and all that lovely crap. And, you know, fascism.

Right. Yes. Moving on.
LadyCatladycat777 on October 2nd, 2003 11:18 am (UTC)
Your dreams are scary, scary things. However, since we share the same kink - I'll meet you in hell, babe - I like your scary dreams.
irfikosirfikos on October 2nd, 2003 11:38 am (UTC)
you are sick and twisted.

i like that.

{nervously checks to see if my kink is still showing, then hurries off.}
Brassy Hag: ficmiggy on October 2nd, 2003 11:39 am (UTC)
I'll have you know that my dream last night was a combination of two mental meanderings of yours that you've shared. Spike-lounged-out-and-smirking/pouting (i.e., the picture you couldn't quite find) was merged with the fantasy AU Spander you've mentioned never quite being able to get a handle on.

Some magical blip had sent them to this place, and of course they were focused on trying to get the hell out. Spike was focused, certainly, but Xander was desperate... even when he found out his hometown was packed with demons, he still had the touchstones of familiar haunts and friends. Now he's a definite minority in this realm, and it's not only exceedingly dangerous, it's also draining on his spirit.

Meanwhile, Spike's realized that his chip (because we're in the first couple of eps of S5) isn't a hindrance here; the society is reminiscent of something you'd see from humans, but the race is different enough to not ping the radar. He starts thinking that it might not be so bad to stay here, start a new life for himself that's free of all that shit he's dealing with back in California. He starts integrating himself with some of the higher-ups any way he can (read: sex) to learn what he needs to know about making it in this place, and then plans to take off and disappear before they call in any of the favors he's racking up.

His plan backfires (of course), and now he agrees with Xander that they need to get back, now; Xander's pissed off at him because he was first ignoring them, and now has them hunted by the whole police force. On the run, snarking, blah blah blah somehow it all turns to sex.

This was so much better than the previous night's dream of crossdressing Cubans.
saussy7spoons on October 2nd, 2003 12:08 pm (UTC)
Good lord. Dropping-off-to-sleep fantasy? How did you sleep?
Anna S.eliade on October 2nd, 2003 12:13 pm (UTC)
Not too well actually. This sort of thing tends to keep my heart rate elevated.... *g*
needfireneedfire on October 2nd, 2003 12:09 pm (UTC)
Oooh dear God please write this. I can see this. It's just hit all my kinks smack on and its different. On my knee's here.
GinnyLSginnylovesspike on October 2nd, 2003 12:29 pm (UTC)
Heh, if you low and vile...well, I guess I am, too. :-) Cause I am dittoing Needfires comment. Please, please write this. It sounds absolutely delicious. Man, I wish my falling asleep dreams were half as good as yours.
My Beautiful Sinking Ship: the triobitterbyrden on October 2nd, 2003 01:33 pm (UTC)
you are a beautiful and twisted person. thank you for sharing, even though you shamed my dreamlife. big green spiders eating my face? PSHAW. I want Spike fantasies.

*MY* role of grateful, adoring whore is wearing me down, too. See? I relate.
Spike's Heartspikes_heart on October 2nd, 2003 03:07 pm (UTC)
Oh gods... sick, twisted... and squirming in my chair. Amazing where the mind is willing to go. I second and third the motion... please flesh this out.

**fans self, fairly sure it isn't menopausal**
Herself_nycherself_nyc on October 2nd, 2003 03:17 pm (UTC)
PLEASE write this--at least some of it. The scenes that really move you, at least--and sketch in the rest around them.

Anna S.eliade on October 2nd, 2003 03:36 pm (UTC)
You like? *grin* It's funny but at some point in the last day or two--I can't remember what triggered it--I thought seriously for the first time of writing one of these insane slash fantasied. I was kind of inclined toward one of the fantasy-land tales where Spike is enslaved and terribly tormented until he becomes a tragic mute and then Xander's slave.


But I admit this one has a certain appeal, if only because it doesn't require me to research anything about horses and field rations (no, don't ask). With the camp and its factories isolated from any real world, it could be minimalist in detail, like a stage play or a Kafka novel, full of existential routine going on the background, a simplified backdrop for melodramas of sex and violence.

Hmm. Must fantasize along these lines indefinitely give it some more serious thought. *g*
Herself_nycherself_nyc on October 2nd, 2003 03:43 pm (UTC)
Please, do, yes. Please.


Lumenara Dhahm: tiredlumenara on October 2nd, 2003 04:03 pm (UTC)
You are one of a very small number of people I would trust enough to write something like this so I could still read it, if that makes any sense whatsoever...
The Larch: masturbatorythe_larch on October 2nd, 2003 04:07 pm (UTC)
I'm a nerd.

When I first saw the thing about Nazis and dogs, I thought it was like a Resident Evil or BloodRayne reference. Yeah, that's it for me. No more video games. Your actual dream was much cooler. Can I come live in your head for a while? (It's weird in there...)
witlingwitling on October 2nd, 2003 05:10 pm (UTC)
You write the Spike, I'll write the Xander. Workshare, dude.

And get your freaking fantasies out of my head, would you? I'm running out of room for my Technicolor My Beautiful Laundrette BNP fag-bashing sequences.