Anna S. (eliade) wrote,
Anna S.


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.

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  • (no subject)

    Just posting to wave hello, I'm alive, I'm maintaining. I haven't been online; mostly, I've been pacing out daily routines, or holding onto the rope…

  • (no subject)

    The week to two-week placement I'm currently in has turned into a potentially long-term month-to-month opportunity, and I accepted the offer this…

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