#fascism fic

[labcoatsaresexy]

Nate’s mouth scrunches up. “I was wondering if I could come stay at yours. For a little bit.” EJ honestly doesn’t know what to say. “A little bit?” “Yeah.” “Like… how long?” “Not that long.” “So, a day or two?” “Longer.” “Uh-huh,” EJ nods, exaggerating, “So, coming to stay for some indeterminate length of time. In Denver.”

Erosion, my FTH Erik Johnson/Nate Mackinnon retirement fic, is available to read now!

Featuring: Retirement, horse-racing, reconnecting with old friends, Gabe being Swedish, a work-wife (and few actual wives), dinner parties, general contractors, and water use restrictions.

[nomsfaultau]

[opening excerpts from the sbi scp au au where Philza is a Foundation worker] Philza was a loyal employee.

His job was important, and he excelled at it. He did good in the world, saving lives in his own way. He wasn’t particularly high ranking, but had built up a decently respectable position over a few years at his site. When higher level employees butted into his work, he usually got along with them as long as their decisions were logical. Quality work, accountability, and a general easy rapport with coworkers all led to him being a good employee.

That wasn’t what made him loyal, though.

There’s a difference between a job and a duty, or simple capital concerns and moral obligation. There’s another distinction between being private and being secretive, and another again between a man who doesn’t discuss his professional life and a man forbidden to do so. A rift between a man scarcely 25 who was worried he may need a will and one who knew he did. A line between observation and experimentation, a thin one he’d seen many cross to join him. 

Afterall, there’s a difference between humans and monsters.

Oh, Philza knew the moniker was SCP, but he held no delusions to what they were. At the end of the day, Philza was a loyal employee because he knew the danger, knew he stood between it and the safety of the world. Philza worked hard to protect humanity from the threat it knew not of. How could he not?

Philza was a loyal employee.

(The operative word, of course, being ‘was’.)

————————————————

Anyway if you want tiny Tommy, reluctant dad Phil, cute moments between Philza and Kristin (gasp! I can write romance!?), deconstructing how the Foundation utilizes fear, surveillance, and weaponization of anomalies against their own employees to maintain its fascist regime, and Tommy giving Philza ptsd for a change, this one shot is for you.

[folerdetdufoler]

i finally deleted twitter! it sucks that i’ve lost that little corner of the fandom, but it didn’t make sense to maintain once it was in musk’s hands, so this was long overdue. i will always credit the skam fandom that i found over there back in 2017 for shaping me as a writer, as well as for inspiring me to travel. i know it was considered a toxic place for the fandom even back then, but it was a platform i grew up with and could communicate on, which meant i connected with some very lovely people. i was devastated when my original account was suspended back in like, 2021? because i had lost a lot of early writing and some friends who had moved on to other fandoms at that point. but i tried to take screenshots of what i had left. a lot of my links to twitter won’t work now, either, but that’s what you get when you depend on someone else as an archival tool.

anyway, a couple of years ago i was thinking about even’s notebook and that became these tweets below the cut. my shorter ideas might end up here now, or on bluesky.

[beepbeepmfkr]

Read Blood of the Wardens (on Wattpad) https://www.wattpad.com/story/376555223-blood-of-the-wardens?utm_source=web&utm_medium=tumblr&utm_content=share_myworks&wp_uname=beepbeepmfkr 

“Humanity seeks protection against the Chimeran scourge. 

Or at least, that's what the Homeland tells him.

 And for twenty four years, Aiko Colony-Born has accepted that fact without question or hesitation.

But now that childhood Indoctrination training has ended, and his status as a rare Colony-Born amongst the Homeland military caste has earned him the laughable first assignment of liaison to a faraway mining colony, Aiko find himself struggling to keep his resentment contained.

In Sector Nine, childhood friends Veera and Kent find their worlds upended. Twin Mercenaries are on the attack. And what's more, the weight of their bloodlines seeks to wedge them irreparably far apart. Shattering the only moors they'd known since youth; leaving them scattered and alone.

Humanity seeks protection against the Chimeran scourge. 

But is that even true?

Has it ever been?”

Read the prologue of my original fic “Blood of the Wardens” on Wattpad!

Blood of the Wardens is a Queer, blended sci fi & fantasy story that touches on colonialism, fascism, nationalism, and culture in an attempt to ask “what does it really mean to be human?”

I have part 1 mostly done, so I’ll be editing and posting it slowly over the next few days or so. Part 2 will be started during Novella November which is the NaNoWriMo alternative started by @novella-november !

[odo-apologist]

Smegtober #16: Future

     “No.”

     “Look, Lister–”

     “Sir–”

     “C'mon, buddy–”

     “No, absolutely not! The fact you're all even considering it is crazy!”

     Though that, perhaps, wasn't far off. They'd definitely gone a bit crazy over the past few years, cooped up on Starbug. Stir crazy, space crazy, likely some combination of the two. Tensions frayed more than ever before, Rimmer's temper erupted with growing frequency, The Cat had practically reverted to his early day habits of slinking off alone, away from the group like a stray–as much as one could on a vessel as cramped as this, and Kryten fretted and hovered with an energy bordering on obsessive.

     It's your fault, whispered a small part of Lister's mind he was forced to push down more and more frequently these days. After the accident when they found the time drive, Lister was no longer able to take shifts in the cockpit, no longer able to go along on derelict raids (and neither was Kryten, who was adamant about staying to look after him), no longer able to do much of anything. He regretted any callousness he showed Rimmer before the hologram had become hardlight; he now could empathize with the feelings of helplessness and frustration that came from the lack of a body. Perhaps that's why it was Rimmer waiting to explain things to him once he regained consciousness. That, or Kryten was too hysterical and The Cat would never be an ideal candidate to break bad news.

     But despite that, now that they recently found a faster-than-light drive on board another ship and got it running, the other three had turned to him as the last word on this proposal, even though they all seemed set on convincing him.

     “It's not like we're going to be dining with Adolf and Eva!” Rimmer exclaimed.

     “No, but it'll be close! In some court of Elizabeth where they'll be looking down on the rest of the country and saying, ‘Let them eat cake.’”

     “Wrong royals, Listy.”

     “The attitude's the same though, eh? I thought you learned that after your 600 years by yourself–selves.”

     Rimmer grimaced, but it was The Cat who continued. “You don't have to worry about taking care of a body anymore, man, you already lost yours. But what about me? I've still got to eat. Some of my favorite suits are getting baggy, and that is a greater tragedy than anything they’ve done.”

     “I'm afraid, Mister Lister, that the recent raids haven't provided much in the way of a food supply.”

     “Haven't provided much of anything, really,” Rimmer cut in. “The faster-than-light drive we found was a miracle, as well as the only useful thing we've come across in ages.”

     Lister did notice then, through the optical equipment to which Kryten had hooked him up, that Cat's jacket was hanging a little loose, that the outfit itself was not as pristine as it would have been in years past. There were deeper lines in Rimmer's face, some slight graying along his temples. Kryten looked the same, but he could guess that the stress and effort of their time on Starbug (of caring for Lister) had taken its toll on his internal wiring.

     “So we're going to go up to some crazed dictator for help? That's the solution?”

     “What would you have us do? Go up to some peasants’ hut, knock on the door and say, ‘Sorry there, miladdo, we know you're starving and probably dying of the plague but could you spare us some fresh fish?’”

     “What about a later time, our time?”

     Kryten and Rimmer shifted uncomfortably. The former replied, “It might be best, sir, to try to avoid a time when JMC and Diva Droid are operational. Not to mention that, in such times, we'd have more advantages.”

      “Technological?” If Lister could, he'd sit up straighter. “Are we gonna threaten to blast people out of existence?”

      “No!” Rimmer replied hastily. “...Not unless we really had to. But–” he continued quickly before Lister could speak up again– “we were thinking more along the lines of financially.”

      “Turns out some of my shiny things mean a lot to some of those old monkeys.” Another warning sign. The fact that Cat was open to the idea of trading away some of his stash of trinkets meant things were dire.

     “They could buy us food, good food, something other than weevil and moss.” Taking in Rimmer's look of longing, Lister wondered, under these circumstances, if he had eaten anything recently. He didn't need to, but now had the ability to. And he knew, from the incident when they'd swapped bodies, how desperate he could get to sate his hunger.

     “And materials for new clothes. I haven't been able to make a new vest in years and that is way too long!”

     “Yeah, food and cloth only possible through the suffering of the people under them.”

     “Was our period any different, Lister?” Rimmer shot back. “You think some of your t-shirts didn't come from people slaving away in some sweatshop on Titan? Do you think JMC was a humanitarian effort? Of course not! That didn't stop you from buying those shirts or working for this company. You benefited from that, and we can do the same thing now. Or would you rather we wither away here in this crowded scrapheap?”

     If Lister still had a face, it'd be twisted in disgust. Not just towards Rimmer, but towards himself: a bit of him could see a logic behind what he said. “What about you, Kryten?” He turned to the mechanoid for some support.

     “Mister Lister, you know that I'm programmed–”

     “Don't give me that ‘programming’ smeg, Krytes; you've broken from it for years now.”

     Kryten, with the decency to look apologetic, said, “Human morality is a very fluid thing, sir. What was permitted one century becomes reprehensible in the next. We can't change that, but we can do what's best for the crew.”

     “Exactly! I don't care what your dozen-greats grandparents did, bud. I hate to say it, but I agree with Goalpost Head.” They all agreed: a rare thing to see from them, especially these days.

     Lister, who always thought he was a decent man, who thought he could do the right thing, felt something in him relent. If he didn't, he'd have to live with the guilt as his crew–his friends–wasted away, and that was something he didn't think he could endure. Taking a first step into their new future, Lister agreed. It's not the worst thing they could do, the most immoral people they could turn to. Of course, they knew better than that.

[ghostinthegallery]

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

I see four stars so four quick fic commentaries!

1) my spouse came up with the title for The Silence and the Storm. He is very smart, not even sure this fic would exist without that kickass title 🤣

2) I've only written one Horus Heresy story which was accomplished over a few hours in a cloud of rage after reading the ebook sample of Vulkan Lives. My confession is that I still haven't finished that book. I hope Vulkan got to punch Kurze for real (if he did, someone tell me and I might actually read the rest 😅)

3) It is embarrassing how many things that I forget happened/exist in the canon that commenters accidentally remind me about. I totally forgot about Orikan's run in with the tyranid hive mind and thank goodness @beril66 mentioned it because it ended up becoming a major plot point in TSATS

4) My first fic, The Warrior, originally did not have the little scarab buddy. I wound up adding it because I'm not great at writing characters being totally alone for long periods. I need to give them something/someone to play off of. Which in this case meant a cute scarab and frankly that robo bug is my favorite character so hooray for the discovery writing process.

[a-very-sparkly-nerd]

someone get soren to put karim in his place please. the man doesn't even realize he does it- he just calls things like they are and that asshat will have a SHITFIT

[convoloutedinjoke]

I was trying to look up the various “political alignment!Harry” tags but got distracted by the single funniest tag combination I’ve seen on ao3 in the full 12 years I’ve been using the site

[snailpaste]

Project 2025 is seeking to ban abortion by reviving an old anti-obscenity law called the Comstock Act.

The Comstock Act would ban "Every obscene, lewd, lascivious, indecent, filthy or vile article, matter, thing, device, or substance".

Not only does that have profound repercussions for women, women's rights, and the autonomy of everyone, but it could ---and very likely will--- be used to persecute anything remotely LGBT-related.

[lefemmerougewriter]

My latest fic is out, featuring Korra and Asami going to Beach City so they can purchase the Beach House after a fascist is elected as the leader of Republic City... and they meet Lapis, Pearl, and Garnet along the way... Hope you enjoy it!

[ricardian-werewolf]

Ruleth England Under a Hogge

Chapter 3: Thus Saith the Lord

Summary:

Richard is forced at knife-point to come to terms with what his reign has meant for his only surviving child. Ensconced in the safety of engagement, Cecily finally gets associated with Ravka, its people, and the king's mysterious ailment that has come to her through unofficial channels only.

Notes:

TWS: Discussion of Eugenics, Fascism, murder, domestic violence, serious mental illness.

Tagging: @lordbettany @dreadbirate @rovinglemon

Waterloo Station.

Richard could only watch in wide-eyed horror as his daughter’s train pulled from the station without him.

Blood - from such a small cut! - spilled from his chest in rivulets. The armor had shattered the blade’s tip, yes, but the wound had still been made. His facade of indomitable strength had collapsed. Yet, only slightly. He had to make this a rallying cry, a declaration of war against Cecily and her household-to-be. Rubbing his forehead, Richard stepped into the shade of an alcove as his blackshirts swarmed to protect their king. Ripping open his shirt, he grimaced. The armor that his daughter had so assumed was merely an undershirt. The blade she wielded had been rusted by years of Flanders soil and so cracked when plunged into his flesh. Richard examined the wound a moment more then buttoned his shirt and tightened his tie. At once, breaking through the crowd, James Tyrell - a rat faced man with wicked eyes, came to his side. “Should we stop the train, your Grace? Have Cecily hauled back to London and tried as a pariah ought?”

If Tyrell had been expecting a yes , he was shortly and sorely mistaken. Richard gave him a dark look and then, backhanded Tyrell across the cheek. The silver of the signet ring on his pinky slashing a cut into the soft flesh. Before the man could think to cry out, Richard leaned yet closer and grabbed Tyrell’s collar.

“She will be allowed the decency to escape. Let her survive in a court where she knows not the language or customs. Soon, the errors of her sins will have her kneeling at my feet. With luck, I’ll have the foresight to cleave her head from her shoulders.” Chewing on a hangnail, Richard adjusted the lapels of his cape and strode across the station to his waiting car. He’d stood here just a few years ago, welcoming the young princes from their safe-havens. Then, he’d murdered them himself and the throne was his.

Settled in his seat, only then did Richard realize that Jeeves had fled. Seemingly operating on other orders, the long-suffering valet had rid himself of Richard’s pins, protection, and all honor. Sniffing, Richard lit himself a cigarette and watched the city-scape of London roll by. He had an upcoming dinner with the German ambassador to worry about. France’s attempts at Fascism had been so poorly accepted with the February 6th coup d’etat that Richard’s hopes of seeing a 4th Republic France bearing the Fasces was dashed. He had put money and hopes into L’Émeute des vétérans succeeding. But with this counter-revolt fought back by the anti-fascist parasites popping up all over France, fear began to coil in his gut. Maybe he would have the East End torched again. Another round-up of the new immigrants. Go about breaking down doors and hauling out dissenters. The camps in the midlands needed more…

Labor . Opening his briefcase handed to him that morning by his private secretary, Richard skimmed through telegrams, missives and more pieces of statecraft. However, his hand paused when he settled on a simple cream folder of manila titled simply:

Gnadentod.

England had a long history of Eugenics worming its way into the lexicon of the society, bolstered by Social Darwinisim, empirical superiority and blatant racism. Yet, this was more insidious, beneath the surface. And Richard had been the one to ignite it. Not to save his own wretched, twisted soul, but for Cecily’s. If the government and the state came for others, maybe they would overlook her. Maybe the deaths of thousands of other feeble-minded children and adults who weren’t adding much to the gene pool - more so polluting it - would save Cecily from the surgeon’s scalpel and reaper’s scythe. 

He could live with it. Perhaps he would even go and witness some of the roundups. Make speeches. Every word spoke to rile a hungry crowd of animals who wanted these people dead. Dissenters would be crushed. He could do that. All of it was just actions. Death took and took, distinguishing not the sinner or the saint. But as long as Cecily breathed, he was content. He would look the other way when mothers screamed at him to return their children. Let them take that grief unto their shoulders, a burden that would no doubt crush them like fine glass.

“Where to, your Grace?” His driver asked.

Richard grimaced. He could go after Cecily, break her into pieces no bigger than his thumbnail and feed her bones to his pigs, or he could stay. Staying behind meant continuing to drag England kicking and screaming into the era that it deserved. Losing Cecily meant that she could be easily corrupted by the Eastern influences of Communism. Yet, she was already far too mired in that mindset. He hadn’t been blind to her childhood training sessions in the East end, nor had he raised a brow at her reading The Daily Worker and The Communist Manifesto . What had come to a head was the General Strike of 1926, which Richard had brought out the police to crush. The army had given support, and veterans once more tore one another to pieces with bullet and bayonet. Cecily had been 26 at that point, and he’d spotted her amongst the strikers. A misplaced bullet to the spine would have cut her down. The shot misfired. The shooter was killed publicly outside of Saint Paul’s, and Cecily had been packed off to Middleham for the rest of the year. The public had howled hopelessly for their beloved Princess’s return, what with Edward’s death still so fresh-

Richard flinched . He’d not meant to kill his son. But the urge to, the sight of him so drunk and so stupid , had guided his hand. He regretted it, but not in the way a normal father might. He regretted killing such a fine piece on the chessboard of power. Edward had been set up to wed with one of Heinrich Himmler’s daughters, and that alcoholism had developed as a result. Something simply had to be done. Richard had taken the blade and the action. It would have been perfect only had Cecily not been there to see it. The shock of it, thank god, blotted out the incident to mere hazy fragments. Combined with the affects of her constant morphine usage to wipe out the memories of the trenches, she was in no place to remember much of anything . She’d been packed off to bed and in the morning taken up to Oxford as a surprise. There, she’d been stuck in Saint Hilda’s College and given the option to Read History.

She’d sprung at the chance. Richard had doubted that Cecily would survive her first term. She’d come out with first class honors in modern history. He’d hoped she would have failed her first year examinations. Yet, somehow… she’d not. Perhaps it was just stubbornness or anger or… His gaze turned to the window, which beyond lay the empty platform that’d borne the train to Os Alta via Berlin. Some part of him, that old fear, rose its ugly head. There was another reason for her survival. Something that had carried her through the years of pain, of misery. Nursed her wounds when everyone else had turned their back. Lehzen hadn’t been brought in until her breakage in 1929. This wasn’t some sort of childish affection, nursed between two young people. Love. True, affectionate feeling between two people who’d never met, yet written letters of a sort for years . The letter Nikolai had written to Cecily as an official opening couldn’t have been her first. Somehow, they must’ve figured out how to write while ignoring the censors. Richard gritted his teeth so hard that he heard the golden crowns of his back molars crack . Shaking his head, he pressed a hand to his brow and sighed. His driver waited with wide, expectant eyes. He still hadn’t given an order on where they were to go yet. Grumbling, he spoke:

“The Senate House.”

“Right away, your Grace.”

The car leaped at once into motion. The procession of armored cars, Rolls Royces and a motorcade all followed swiftly after their king. It was, he noted, uncannily close to how a hunting procession closed in on the prey. His fingers fiddled wordlessly with the wedding band. As the car moved silently through the streets of the City, he thought hopelessly of a woman with striking ginger hair and blazing green eyes that could arrest even the fairest of souls. However, within that love and longing, burned a hatred and a hunger to see her again. She’d once held a knife to his throat when the darkness had begun to whisper sweet words in his ears, and he’d laughed her off.

Now, he wanted her like some sort of starving animal. He’d exiled her to the furthest reaches of the empire, a place not even where his best spies could reach. She’d gone too, with his own lady mother. Good riddance to both of them, he’d cried to the air at the time. But now? 11 years had passed since he’d killed the princes. Cecily probably didn’t remember her mother nor her Grandmother. He hoped she didn’t. Desperately. How he hoped with all his heart that Anne Neville had met a painful ending on some foreign shore. How he hungered for their confirmations of death.

His fingers rubbed over the wedding band again, and he tugged it off. Holding it in his palm, he regarded the inscription. Loyaulte Me Lie. Richard rolled down the window as they were roaring over the Tower bridge, and tossed the tiny ring with its emerald jewels into the roaring swell of the Thames. Let some mudlarker find it. He would not let the past bind him to his sins. 

He settled back in his seat and uncorked a hip flask of malmsey wine which he sipped. The honeyed sweetness settled easily on his tongue and he sighed. Such was the life of a king.

Death followed him, sinking its claws into his shoulders and twisting his spine. Leaning back, Richard closed his eyes.

Not even sleep would bring him the peace of the virtuous.

Arriving in Ravka by train was an experience Cecily wasn’t used to. 

Her father’s diesel monstrosity pulled in at the central station inside Os Alta’s modern expansion sometime after the 10th morning bell. Cecily found herself being swept through crowds of passengers and tourists by two well-dressed army soldiers. Her trunks and bags weren’t torn apart for illicit items, instead gently inspected by two purple clad fellows that she knew were Grisha who were able to meld materials and chemicals. Refugees from the expanses of Ravka dealing with some sort of blight crowded the cow-pens, snarling at the customs officials about what the king was doing to address these issues. Cecily struggled to not clap her hands over her ears as the noise reached a deafening pitch.

“Your papers were pre-cleared, Moya Tsarevna, ” One of the soldiers murmured as he lifted a velvet cord and passed her off to his partner, who brought Cecily through a wooden side door. Quiet murmurs followed in her footsteps as the general Ravkans cast words over their new queen’s attire and hesitancy. Cecily turned to look back at them, noting the gold-work and architecture of a station built on the blind hopes of the Sun Summoner tearing down the Fold. The waiting refugees noted her in more detail, seeing the stag emblems on her coat and the armband at her arm. Some crossed themselves and murmured the royal prayer of Ravka, while others made signs of warding. 

She was a pariah and a Queen in one moment. How the tables turned. 

“W-what’s he like?” Cecily asked as she was nudged into a motor-car. The taller of the two soldiers, wearing a uniform more ornate than the other, asked;

“Who?”

“His Majesty, The Tsar.”

“Ah.” The man’s eyes glittered. “Eccentric. But, I sense you’ll be a good match.”

Cecily’s stomach twisted into knots as the car lurched forward in a cloud of blue smoke and roared through the streets. Cars hadn’t come fully to Ravka yet, and as such many peasants and nobles alike preferred horse and carriages as transport and conveyance. 

“The capital is set to get trams by the new year. See, Moya Tsarevna .” 

“Really?” Cecily breathed, craning her head. Her hat, affixed with a simple peacock feather and tilted brim, was clamped tight in her hand. She didn’t want it to blow off, and muss up her hair. She leaned out of the car and noted the cobbled streets that were being laid with tram-track. Her eyes widened in joy and delight at the blatant communist hammer and sickle draped from an apartment building and she looked out again for any signs of fascism. 

She finally remembered the officer’s name at last - Dominik Vertov, and turned to him, asking innocently: “Has fascism made its way to Ravka?”

“Not before you, your highness.” 

Cecily’s lips thinned and her hand slipped to the silver boar pin on her lapel. Of course. She wasn’t here just for marriage or to escape. Fascism had to spread to the people in order for this to work. But Nikolai must’ve had to know of her dissidence…

Unless he too harbored ideas of fascism? That thought made her shudder with barely contained fear. Returning her gaze to the window, Cecily watched walls of white stone rise up around them. They clattered through a former portcullis, over a stone bridge of the same dazzling white, and entered a whole different world. Where the outer ring of the city was similar to many of the villages her train had passed through, this was a city of well-paved streets, gardens and parks. Fountains gushing clean water marked central squares and she could see the signs and advertisements of department stores in the corner of her eye. No telephone poles reached skywards, nor telegraph lines, and she saw many homes with quiet mews behind their houses to store cars and buggies. 

“The palace gates are just ahead.” 

“Is this a Vauban construction?” Cecily craned her head up to regard the walls of this older city, noting the structure and almost star-like shape of the outer wall. Dominik’s gaze slid to the driver, who blinked in welcome surprise. 

“Yes, Moya Tsarevna. It was constructed sometime in the late 17th century, before Vauban died.” 

“He came this far east? Remarkable.” Cecily adjusted her cape’s collar. At her side, Lehzen squeezed her hand forcefully. Cecily smoothed over a yelp of pain and shot her governess a dark glare. She had been behind Cecily since they’d stepped off the train. She had no idea where her two friends from Berlin had gone. “I thought you were supposed to stay in London.” She murmured softly. Lehzen’s eyes glittered as she leaned forward and tapped Cecily’s chin with a clawed finger. Forget the dragon of a nursery story - Lehzen was a Goliath creature that would drag Cecily-Anne kicking and screaming into this Fascist idealization of a wedding. What was worst of all, however, awaited her in her trunks.

Staring down at the black uniform, Cecily bit back nausea. At her side, the two people she’d made the stop in Berlin to collect regarded the uniform with varying levels of disgust and horror. The man at her left lit a cigarette and tugged it from his lips. The woman to her right knelt before the trunk and fidgeted with the birch-wood edging. 

“Did… you pack this?” 

“No.” Cecily shook her head. “I didn’t ask for this. It’s…” She sighed and pinched her nose-bridge, causing her glasses to fall to the floor with a clatter . The man bent down to pick them up and Cecily smiled.

“Thank you, Gereon.” She murmured, wishing for the ability to speak German with no one able to understand them. Yet, Lehzen did, and her maids that she’d brought for Cecily did too. Gereon gave her a half smile, and returned to smoking his cigarette. At Cecily’s side, the woman - Charlotte - lifted the uniform from the trunk between her thumb and forefinger. 

“Well.” She examined the jacket and the skirt, noting the collar points on the jacket. Disgust marred her face. If any of them had their way, this would be kindling in the fireplace. Cecily longed to throw it there, but she knew exactly what would happen if Lehzen found out. Her back hurt enough already. More wounds would only worsen the mess that this was.

She examined herself in the mirror as Charlotte held up the offensive uniform. She’d worn the armband before, and hated it. Yet, this… this was different. The symbol wasn’t the flash. It wasn’t blue on white.

It was black on a white circle.

There was no lightning bolt, no reassurance of the monstrous that she wore was familiar. Fear curdled her tongue. Looking at Gereon, she whipped off her glasses and pressed her palms to her stinging eyes. She wavered on her feet for a moment, then almost pitched sideways.

Charlotte’s hand to her arm caught her. Cecily fell against the taller woman, sobbing. “I-I-” She breathed. “I can’t do this.” She wept. “I can’t meet him wearing that ! He’ll think I'm a monster, already corrupted.” Hysteria crept into her voice and she pressed her streaming eyes against Charlotte’s shoulder blade. 

“Or not.” Gereon reminded. “He has been writing to you since you were children.” He lifted her face and wiped her streaming eyes with a tissue. “I’m certain that he knows deep down, instinctively, that you wear a monster’s pelt because not out of following orders or some other benign, innate excuse to uphold the status quo.” He paused to give the armband a dirty, rage-filled look. 

“But because you, until now, have been offered no other choice .”

“No other choice?” She breathed.

“You were twenty-one when your father took the throne, yes?”

“Yes.” Cecily hiccuped as Charlotte fed her sips of tea from a crystal glass. “It was a few months after you and I met.” She turned her head to let Charlotte wipe her eyes more clearly, and stared at herself in the mirror. 

“Why does the flash not invoke the same response?”

“I believe you know why.” Charlotte murmured. Cecily nodded mutely. Of course she knew why . The fact it had been the symbol of English Fascism after the white rose was derided by her father wasn’t lost on her. She’d grown used to the symbol slowly. Like being boiled alive in a cooking pot as if she was some sort of amphibious creature. Too hot, and the panic would set in. A slow boil, and she would be dead before she could even scream. 

It had taken her mother, her grandmother, and her siblings. She was the last surviving woman in her family, the last child of her father’s lineage. 

And by that record, if she died, the female Plantagenet line died with her. So, she once more tempered the rage that roared within her to become banked coals, and steered herself to be dressed. The uniform was laid at the foot of her bed and she watched out of the corner of her eye as Gereon and Charlotte beat a hasty retreat. Lehzen and her ladies came in from the dressing room mere moments later.

“Now then.” Lehzen clapped her hands together. “Let’s get this over with.”

Loyalty binds me . Cecily thought numbly as she cast her gaze to the massive gold double-headed Eagle of Ravka that stood over the fireplace. She examined its claws, which held three arrows in one claw and the Tsar’s mace in the other. She wondered if the arrows being tied with the three ribbons of the Grisha orders meant anything. 

I am the monster. The monster is me .

I have brought Ravka’s darkness upon us.

Cecily did not open her eyes as Lehzen and her maids dressed her. She felt her hair being lifted from the nape of her neck to be crimped and waved. The sharp stink of aerosol spray hit her nose and she winced. A smack to her face stilled her. Her eyes popped open. Between the gaggle of liveried servants and Lehzen’s sharp face, Cecily caught sight of a ginger-haired woman pacing the expanse of her sitting room.

“W-who’s that?” She coughed.

Lehzen froze dead. Her face turned the color of spoiled milk, and she looked at the head maid in wide-eyed fear. Speaking rapidly in German, she hastened to the other maids. “Who let her in?”

“I did.” A voice rang out, distinctly masculine.

Cecily’s eyes, which she’d squeezed shut again, popped open. Standing in the doorway to her sitting room was none other than Nikolai Lantsov. He wore a simple black linen shirt and a richly embroidered waistcoat that hugged his waist nicely. His legs were clad in black velvet breeches embroidered with fire-lilies that flowed up the sides. He didn’t wear any stockings, allowing his calves to show off nicely in the summer warmth, and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up past his elbows. Standing where he was with his hands pushing the doors of her room open, anyone would have swooned dead away.

Cecily merely grimaced.

She allowed Lehzen to button up the blasted coat and to stick her feet into a pair of jackboots. She couldn’t look him in the eye as the maid tightened the armband around her arm. Yet, she saw the way Nikolai’s jaw locked and his eyes smoldered with rage.

“Please, leave.” Cecily ordered the maids and Lehzen, who gave her a dark glare. However, amazingly, she assented . Cecily watched Lehzen reach for her sewing kit and sweep the maids out. As soon as the pocket doors had snapped shut, Cecily tugged the armband off, and kicked off the jackboots. 

Gereon’s words swam in her mind. 

Until now, You have been offered no other choice.

Looking him finally in the eye, Cecily calculated the mental load that seeing his betrothed wearing the uniform of the national socialists would cause. Nikolai’s eyes narrowed as he watched her throw the armband across the room, and his face cracked just enough for a smile.

“I had a suspicion that the portrait of you with your father wasn’t all you.” He murmured. Cecily’s eyes widened in welcome, if somewhat shocked surprise. He suspected beyond mere imagery? She was going to faint if he continued down this line of flattery that would have her no doubt throwing the engagement ring at his feet. 

“Who is that with you?” She asked as she cleared her throat to distract him from the rising blush on her cheeks. She leaned slightly to catch sight of the ginger-haired woman, wondering briefly if it was the Tailor Genya Safin or someone of the palace servants. Her gaze however, did not deceive her with created lies. As Nikolai stepped aside, Cecily found herself face to face with an almost mirror image of herself, yet with ginger hair instead of inky black, and emerald eyes instead of blue. Her face was set the same as Cecily’s, with the same small lips and fragile features, though the woman’s eyes burned with the same fire of small-sized righteousness.

“Cecily?” The woman whispered. “Cecily-Anne?” She came forward with the hesitant steps of one unsure of herself, and fell still at Cecily’s wide-eyed glance. Some part of her burned with angry tears, for it recognized the woman ‘ere her. That recognition was wrong , of someone she had not seen since her 5th nameday, a woman and name cursed never to be spoken or seen of again. She briefly remembered the sight of images of the woman before her being put to the torch, and her father’s tears over such a crime. But, then came the rewritings of love ballads containing her name, and even whole histories. “Anne Neville.” Cecily breathed wordlessly. “Mama.” The word slid from her lips without any attempts to check herself, and she startled at the sound. She’d not once cried for her mother since she had been five. Now… she was faced with the sight of her, clad in this monstrosity of cloth.

“My sweet, darling girl.” Anne reached up to touch Cecily’s face and Cecily jerked back, frightened. What was this all meaning? Had Nikolai captured her mother as a bargaining chip to ensure her marriage, had she hurt her? Had he gotten her grandmother as well? Had he tortured them? Hurt them in any way?

“Y-you monster!” She screamed, light crackling across her flesh like a whip-crack. She lurched forward, intent on doing anything, something to the Tsar. Maybe ripping his eyes out? Yes . Tear those pretty eyes from his skull and run him through with your knife . The monstrous voice within her chorused, baying for blood. The light within her surged and she rushed Nikolai, her hands locking around his throat, when the light within her exploded out in a blinding flash , and suddenly all went black. Looking down into his face, her fingers so close to the pupils she could see them dilate, her eyes widened as his eyes bloomed black , and his teeth sharpened to become jagged shadows.

What in the hell am I getting myself into? She thought hopelessly as the light exploded out of her a second time, and sent her flying through the air. She hit the ceiling with a sickening crunch , and fell back to the floor. Inky darkness swooped in on her, cradling her form with tender fingers, and she gave in easily. The pain of it all was simply too much to handle.

Distantly, she was conscious of two things - the first being that her mother was alive, and the second being that Nikolai was not all he seemed.

End of Chapter 3. 

[pleuvoire]

i feel embarrassed saying this about a fanfic writer who like, apparently helped actually found ao3 and has posted plenty of cringe on their profile, but astolat's transformers fics are some of my favorite transformers media ever, on par with and possibly even outstripping(?) mtmte, and my number one inspiration forever when it comes to writing robots. i'm always rereading them

[wild-flowerhoney]

the intense love/hate relationship i have with fics about nico that mention italy bc either there was not a single thought put into research or the italian is so confident but so wrong

the history bit is what really gets me ngl

[kendallspatricide]

ohhh i just know sophie is going to want her father dead when she's older if she doesnt already.

[deadmegumi]

well.. drop the romencken link.......

Fine. perverts

[shadelorde]

actually you know what regardless of anyone's stance on shipping can we stop comparing shipping discourse to being "fascist" or "authoritarian" because that's weird as shit. someone not liking your incest ship isnt fascist. someone even saying you shouldnt put it on the internet isnt fascist. fascism is a systemic structure.