#fascist language tw

[positivelybeastly]

Is it to late to say that the X-Men have essentially lost any humanity they had?

"The X-Men are human, just as much as they are mutant - that's the way it's always been, regardless of how much anti-human sentiment various malefactors may wish to stir up.

The separation between human and mutant is minor, a variation in chromosomes, and to proselytise that the X-Men have lost their humanity is, frankly, offensive.

My name is Henry Philip McCoy, I was born in Illinois in 1986, and I'm just as human as you are, regardless of what I may look like and what I can do."

"Humanity is a babbling, screaming broth of prejudice, violence, lesser intelligences - it's only by the foolish grace of soft hearted mutants that they survive. Divesting ourselves of what made us human was merely a divestment of what made us weak.

Freedom from their irksome, cruel laws; total separation from their squabbling, their illogic, their weakness; the assertion of our genetically assigned right to succeed them as the inheritors of this planet, this is what makes us strong. This is what makes us mutant."

So, like, X-Force Beast is a raving fucking lunatic, and I don't feel it's out of character for him to spout this kind of rhetoric - in his reinvention of himself as the necessary bastard for Krakoa, in his process of becoming a born again, hardline mutant rights 'champion,' I feel like it makes sense that he'd be very aggressive about being seen to be a separatist from humankind. It makes 'sense' from a security viewpoint, and it means less emotional ties to potential vulnerabilities, such as old friends, old colleagues - his parents.

That being said, I also do it because I want to remind everyone that Krakoa is very much a dystopia, no matter how pretty the palm trees are and how idyllic the life seems, and there is some fucked up shit that just crept in there. Every single time I heard a character say, oh, that's so human of you, or some variation on that theme, I wanted to start punching the X-Men in the head because fuck you.

But in a good way, to be fair, like, in the way that you hear an obvious cultist say a culty thing and you're like, wow, bro, you're in a fucking cult, maybe you should un-cult yourself before you wreck yourself.

I also feel like it bears pointing out that a lot of the X-Men did NOT do that - people like Jubilee, for instance, whose kid Shogo is just a straight up human, and I very much fuckin' doubt that Jean-Paul Beaubier got away with that kind of shit in his household. And as time went on, I think a good few of them stopped chugging the Kool-Aid and started to realise, hey, did we just become the baddies?

Like, that's the thrust of why Scott and Jean restart the X-Men proper after the team was disbanded, was that feeling of, we need to go out there and save people because regardless of what people can tell us about who or what we are, every mutant had human family that they cared for or loved at some point. Scott's parents were both human, as were Jean's. Hank's parents were two of the loveliest humans you could ever meet. Even Magneto had Anya Eisenhardt.

Most of the X-Men are still very, very human, regardless of how much they might want to occasionally pretend otherwise - hell, you could even point out that the 'least' human among them, people like Magik, aren't even inhuman because of their mutant gifts necessarily, but because of entirely OTHER things that happened to them to change the way they are (though, granted, in Illyana's case, it was at least partly related to her gifts, but you know what I mean).

If not for the Hellfire Gala Massacre, I'm pretty sure a big contingent of people, led by Scott and Jean, were going to plan a breakaway from the Quiet Council led structure of Krakoa and form a new government, or at least push for a reformation of society that was less. Gross. Which means it'll be interesting to see what bearing those trajectories have on what comes after the Fall of X arc is done.

[mordcore]

genshin impact... mondstadt... idk what it is about the city but it's too clean. too empty. liyue feels different. there's all kinds of people there and everyone's obsessed with money. it also has a certain lacking feeling that is probably just the limits of the gamemaker's capabilities but somehow the lack is much stronger in mondstadt. maybe because they made it the city of freedom without understanding what freedom actually means... if it was the city of freedom it would have artists. at least one... idk, gallery, theatre, artesanal workshop or market, but it's tiny and lifeless and way too clean. no one seems to have problems, except for all the alcoholics... but the game does not understand alcoholism either and seems to view it as a flaw of character and not a real problem someone can struggle with.

i mean the game has a lot of problems, like the fascist ideology that... well it's easier to ignore/overlook once i stopped reading the in-game books. but mondstadt has a lot of it actually. maybe its problem is that it's a fascist's wet dream. no brown people, no homeless nor disabled people (there's kaeya but come on), there's drunks but at least they bring money into the city ? and an endless supply of easily defeated yet never ceasing enemies to fight (hilichurls). the hilichurls get humanized and then dehumanized. they have culture and language but they are nonhuman savages who will attack you on sight. killing them isn't just okay, it's necessary and good. kill them en masse and try to exterminate them all.

city of freedom. yeah, right.

[queensnickerdoodleofcookieland]

I really despise the right's use of "illegals" to dehumanize immigrants.

They can't call them "refugees", that's too empathetic to their plight, they can't call them "illegal immigrants", "immigrants" is a word used for people, and obviously they don't consider these things as people!

No, they use "illegal", because instead of bringing to mind an actual human being with hopes, aspirations, struggles, and challenges, instead it makes one think of illegals drugs or other illegal objects/substances, or even illegal acts like murder and rape!

The right uses this type of dehumanizing language for most people they don't like. Trans people are referred to as "it" or the T-slur (Being trans myself, I'm technically allowed to say it, but it feels uncomfy to me anyway). Gay people are called "The Gays" or "Sinners" or whatever other language they use for them. They call Muslims terrorists and black people the n word!

They're dehumanizing people they don't like because it's easier to do the heinous things they do when they don't recognize them as individuals human beings.

Now, this is a generalization, and I'm sure there might be some people who are more on the right side of the political spectrum that don't say these things, but let's be honest: One who lays in bed with a fascist is implicit in their fascism.

Also, before any idiots get on me about using the word "fascist", I just want to be clear: GERMANS have called you guys fascists!!!

Y'know the slogan for the Farmers insurance company? "We know a thing or two because we've SEEN a thing or two"?

Yeah.

Not only have Germans seen a thing or two when it comes to fascism, the Allied forces (America, the UK, France, etc.) NEVER LET THEM FORGET IT!!! From my understanding, one of the largest parts of their curriculum over there is learning about WWII and the atrocities they committed, because WE made it a part of their curriculum as part of the treaty after WWII.

Anyway, there's my rant for tonight. Dehumanizing language of any kind is dumb, All Right-Leaning Voters Are Fascist Bastards, (ARLVAFB), and when Germans call you fascists, maybe you should believe them.

[spideysgeorg]

Ok we’re doing some Hobie hcs bc we need some good food around here. Tw for past abuse, sexual abuse (not on him), mentioned pet death, foster care, dystopian themes, drug use

Hobie is technically a missing person. He escaped from an abusive foster home when he was 12 and was unhoused for most of his adolescence.

He does actually own the crappy boat he lives in, only because it was given to him by an older unhoused friend who had gotten it on the cheap and had been trying to convert it into a permanent home but sadly died before it was fully finished. Hobie finished the conversion himself and has lived there since, largely undetected except by the select few people he wants to be able to find him.

He loves children and animals and is extremely good with them. He never baby talks to actual babies/little kids but hand him a kitten and he gets all mushy lol

He doesn’t eat meat because despite very much enjoying killing fascists, the PM’s smashed head looked like mince and he thinks about it all the time. He has absolutely no trouble shedding blood and guts but a bloody steak will make him straight up gag. He eats fish tho

His boat has a clan of “feral” cats that wait around on the deck for him to come home bc he feeds them even if he doesn’t have enough for himself. It’s a little bit dangerous to always have a NYAAAAAA alarm any time the cats hear him web sling in but he refuses to shoo them away. They aren’t technically his cats but when one of them dies he has to hide how torn up he is about it (because cats are smaller and more innocent and more trusting and more free than he can ever be)

He struggled with opiate addiction from a severe depression he went through during the period of time when he stopped being Spider-Man. He got clean and has stayed away from pills since (he won’t even take paracetamol) but smokes weed he grows himself in a closet to curb persisting urges. Also cigarettes. He tries not to overdo it with booze either but isn’t always successful. (If you don’t know about him having the Sam Raimi Spider-Man 2 quitting canon event, it’s in the web of life and destiny scene where all of them are looking at their respective canon events)

Hobie is extremely compassionate and it affects the way he does his work as Spider-Man. He allows certain things to happen that other Spideys wouldn’t and he’s vocally in opposition to the other Spideys’ brutalization of people committing crimes of desperation. He believes that crimes like theft are a symptom of a greater societal disease. He’ll interject in instances of violent robbery or mugging and things like that but only to ensure that the victims are safe, then determine the root cause of the attack and try to offer the perpetrator some direction. Sometimes the cause is hunger, addiction, or another unmet need. Hobie is much more willing to help them with that than have them thrown in prison. He doesn’t do that with rapists though, he kills those on sight. 🖤

Hobie has trained himself to look casual even though he’s always struggling with hyper-vigilance. He knows he doesn’t even need to keep that close attention on everything—that’s what spider senses are for—but he still takes note of all exits in a building, takes the seat against the wall, and analyzes the body language of everybody he sees for potential danger.

He’s also very emotionally intelligent. While he doesn’t show strong emotions outside of his Spider-Man persona very often, if ever, he can read everybody else’s without them even knowing and act accordingly. Sometimes he does this to prevent conflict, and other times he does it to cause conflict lol

He hasn’t cried in years but doesn’t consider that to be a “win” because sometimes he needs to cry to vent the extraordinary pressure of his place in the world and just can’t. His music is essential to keep him from completely spiraling since he has no other form of release.

He’s all for sexual liberation and consensual parties doing whatever they want. However, he doesn’t do casual sex himself. He needs to really bond with someone before he even wants to get intimate like that with anyone. This can be a problem because despite having quite a large social circle, he feels emotionally isolated in the same way that Gwen does, scared to bring anyone too close for fear of getting them killed.

His attraction and gender expression are pretty up in the air, though he doesn’t identify as trans and keeps he/him pronouns. His stance is that all that shit about gender norms was made up a long time ago and forced on everybody else and he’ll be damned if he lives out somebody else’s plan for his life.

Hobie is a singer in the same sense that cereal is technically a soup. He’s lucky his guitar skills are crazy bc his vocal range is really limited. Punk music works out for him like that—he doesn’t have to actually sing well for it to sound good. He actually likes all kinds of music but punk is the one he’s most comfortable actually performing.

He takes extremely good care of his hair and makes most of his body care/cosmetics himself because the cosmetics industry is indescribably evil. If he HAS to buy product, he only gets from black owned sources. Otherwise he mostly steals drug store lipstick and nail polish or calls dibs when his friends do their bi yearly dumping of their crusty purses and all the half-crushed expired makeup falls out with the crumbs and loose aspirin tablets lmao

[mlmxreader]

The Dead Will March | John Price x m!reader

Anonymous asked: “I promise you here and now, as long as I breathe - I won’t let you down.” Price.

summary: the dead will march again when the gas flows over the land.

tws: graphic death, graphic depictions of war, graphic depictions of chlorine gas effects, injury, trauma, smoking

support your fanfic writers by reblogging what you read & enjoy

August sixth. The fortress had endured everything from shelling and assaults on the ground through to being blown into fractions by mortars and heavy fire from tanks; yet a hundred men still stayed strong, waiting for reinforcements that they were sure would never come. The soldiers had a job to do, they had to hold the fortress and pay the price for doing what they were told; it wasn't as if it was any better guarding it than it was being on the front lines.

Wave after wave, the soldiers on the ground had it much worse; toxic gas, shelling, mortars dropped on them, grenades thrown under the disguise of kindness, shotguns to the head, bayonets to the stomach, rusty barbed wire clinging to their legs and tearing them open, gnawing at soft flesh and harsh uniforms. The Eastern Front was far from where any man wanted to be, and those that were in the fortress were glad that if wasn't them over there.

The task force you were working with was nearby at least, hopefully able to provide reinforcements if needed but it was unlikely; there were only four of them, it wouldn't make much of a difference anyway. Not to mention how distracting it would be to be near Price; there was no doubt that you would drop everything and risk your own flesh and blood to save him, protect him, make sure he got out alive even if it meant that he had to leave you behind.

That's what you were told by your commanding officers, at least; they told you that sometimes war meant taking lives, sometimes it meant saving them, sometimes it meant giving your own to ensure someone else's life. Conditioned into thinking as such during training, even further reinforced by what you saw going on around you. You would be willing to give your life to make sure another survived. Death meant peace, it meant no longer partaking in a war that you didn't even agree with.

One hundred men were in that fortress, including you and your best friend - Sebastian Krueger - and if you were honest, at least you weren't fighting on the fields; you had seen what happened down there, and you were thankful that the most you had had to deal with was the odd injured soldier who came begging for help. Regardless of what side they were on, a man in need of help was still deserving of it; they weren't fascists, they weren't murderers, they were just like you.

Men sent to die so that politicians could use their deaths for propaganda, so that people in their country could use their deaths as an excuse to hate anyone who even slightly resembled those that they called enemy. A flag, a language, wasn't a difference, wasn't a reason to kill them; any wounded man who came to the fortress was treated, allowed to rest in the lower sections where the soldiers slept at night. He would only ever be sent on his way when he was ready to go, those were the orders that the Lieutenant - Griffiths - had given you, and those were the only orders you had every single intention of following loyally.

There was more smoke than usual wafting over from the front lines today, when you sat on the fortress wall with your legs dangled over the edge, you could smell it; watching the great black clouds roll over the scarred lands as you lit up a cigarette. The war was approaching, and you knew it was only a matter of time until someone attempted to either conduct a raid or bomb the fuck out of the stone walls you had come to call home; it wouldn't be long until you were forced to fight. Sebastian stood beside you, arms folded across his chest as he looked out at the barren lands.

"It's getting closer every day, Corporal."

You nodded, offering him a cigarette. "If it comes, you're to get the wounded and lead them to safety."

"Griffiths told you that?" He asked, and when you shook your head, he sighed. "He won't be happy."

"Eine Rettungsaktion," you growled. "Those are your orders, Krueger. If we get attacked, you grab the wounded and run."

"Ja, Herr." He huffed, mockingly saluting you as he continued to watch the horrors of the front lines unfold, thankful he wasn't anywhere near it.

"Gas!" You both looked to the direction of the scream. König. "Gas! Giftiges Gas!"

You and Sebastian shared a look, and before the scream could be heard again, hurried to get your gas masks on; as always, you made sure his was on tight, and he made sure that yours was. Heart pounding, your hands shook as you took your positions at the edge of the wall, pointing bayonets over the edge and hoping that the masks wouldn't stop and cloud your visions.

"Ready?"

"Always."

The smell of pineapple and pepper was starting to come through, and Sebastian took off running, shouting about evacuating the wounded as best as he could; following the only orders that mattered but refusing your help when you offered it. The smell grew thicker, and when you looked around, you could see men starting to choke; the firing started, but there was no hope. The gas was too thick to see through properly with your gas mask on.

You bolted down to where your men had dug around the fortress, originally planning to use it to fill with barbed wire and keep others out, but as you raced down, the gas only grew thicker and heavier; yellowish green filled your vision, and you weren't really sure on where you were until you collapsed into that large hole. Already, men were starting to die as they advanced towards those who had thrown the gas.

Their throats burned, such a deep itch that it made them wince and whimper as they tried not to claw at their own flesh; breathing became rapid and painful in the chest, wheezing and raspy as it left their mouths. It was easy to hear their gagging and retching, filling their gas masks with their own vomit as they coughed and tried to expel the gas from their throats; but your own head was starting to throb and feel as if it was being stabbed, and you knew you wouldn't last long if you stayed so close to the ground.

You dashed to higher ground, only making it to the second floor before you collapsed; your legs were tired and sore, breathing was difficult, gasping with wheezing breaths as you felt your vision getting darker. You knew that the gas would take you as the dead men continued to march forward, to try and chase off the attackers; you wouldn't make it, you were sure of it, and although you did your best, you couldn't stay awake any longer. Darkness consumed you.

Coughing up blood and bits of lung, you tried to roll onto your side when a heavy hand came to land on your shoulder; you were so weak, you couldn't look up at whoever was preventing you from moving, you couldn't do anything except stare at the brown and grey tiled floor. You weren't in the fortress.

"Relax," you knew that Scouse accent too well. "Relax, pup."

You did as he said, going limp as you let out a few more coughs; your breath rattled in your chest, and you wheezed loudly as you tried to catch even just a little bit of air. The breeze was rolling through, and you weren't sure if you near an open window or if you were outside. You were cold.

"I've got you," Price continued, "you and your boys were gassed, but we got you out... I'm sorry to tell you this, Corporal, but there's only three of you left."

You struggled to move again, and this time he dared to help you to sit upright slightly, his hand on your chest as he stared at you with those lovely blue eyes. "Three?"

"Only you, Krueger and König," he explained, "the rest... it was either the gas, or they got shot."

"Let me..." you struggled to speak, the remnants of gas still clogged in your throat. "Let me go."

"Can't so that," he told you. "You're under strict orders right now, pup. Doctors have to keep you here until they're happy you're alright."

"Cold."

Price leaned over, grabbing the hot cup of coffee that they kept at your bedside; his orders were to make sure that you were drinking, as although you couldn't remember it, when the doctors and nurses had tried, you had lashed out at them thinking that they were the ones who had deployed the gas.

"Drink this," he said gently, helping you to take a few swigs before he made sure that your blankets were tighter around you and that the hot water bottle they had given you was against your stomach. "You've gotta rest, pup. It's the best thing for you."

You were exhausted, weak and lethargic but the doctors had told Price to expect that, the same as they told him to expect that you would be able to consume only liquids for a little while; he was fine with taking over looking after you, he saw it as his duty. He loved you, and that made it his job to make sure that you were going to recover from the harrowing events you had been through.

Gaz, Soap and Ghost weren't far away, talking quietly to the psychiatrist about what they had seen; the dead rising and fighting, vomit in their gas masks, blood dripping down from their mouths, thick chunks of lungs carried with it. The dead had marched to battle, and won. Only three dead men remained, and Price was determined to see you recover, to come back to life.

"Tired."

Price nodded, adjusting your pillow a little bit to make you that bit much more comfortable as he sighed, frowning. "Get some sleep, pup, I'm not going anywhere."

Price stayed true to his word, as while you recovered over the next few weeks, he only ever left your side to take care of himself; he always made sure that Gaz was with you, though, and if Gaz wasn't available, then Ghost would look after you. But Price was never gone long, he would eat at your bedside, he slept there, he drank and he even washed right there; he wouldn't leave you, not after he had promised he wouldn't. He needed to be there for you, he needed to see you come back to life.

But as the weeks dragged on, you got stronger; your breathing improved, you were able to sit up properly, even walk to the toilet, but the smell of pineapple and pepper never failed to make you scramble to higher ground. Price knew that there would be no recovery from that, and made a mental note to never use those two things when he was cooking from now on.

You were slowly coming back to life, and Price could not have been more glad; only, when you were finally able to kiss him, you wouldn't dare. Still too worried that the gas lingered on your lips despite it being long gone that you couldn't even bring yourself to do something so mundane and familiar, something that you had done a thousand times before.

"I'm sorry," you whispered. "I just... I can't do it."

"I don't mind," Price replied, "you know this, pup, and I promise you here and now, as long as I breathe - I won't let you down, I'm gonna be right with you every day."

[aloeverawrites]

Tw discussions of alt right

Hey so you know how straight people using terms like “partner” to refer to their significant other make queer people safer because we stand out less for using that language? And same with cis people putting pronouns in their bio?

Yeah so using dogwhistles and alt-right memes, even if it’s ironically, helps the alt right hide and stay in our communities because it’s harder to tell if they’re a bigot or not. That isn’t good for the communities who need to be able to identify them quickly to keep minorities safe.

So don’t do that please, anyone spreading fascist rhetoric should stick out like a sore thumb.

[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. 

[easytobetrayyou]

A dazzling guide towards vengeance.

Ch. 3 : A dictator, fascists and a lesbian.

A vi x Reader enemies to lovers

Other chapters

TWs for this chapter: weapons, murdering, blood, explosions, and alcohol use.

As an apology for taking so long, I have posted two chapters at once (both +3k words). That is unusual. Now, forgive me.

This chapter is mostly plot and Violet barely has relevance till the end, so I'd recommend you to re-read chapters 1 and 2 to not get lost. The next chapter, on the other hand, is [spoiler] full of angst and dirty ass fucking smut.  

I apologise once again if there are any grammar mistakes, my first language is not English (and I am half Andalusian, I can't even speak my own language properly)

Enjoy!

Five minutes or so had elapsed when you had finally managed to lose Violet in between the running people. The once bustling streets were being emptied as people fled from the disaster that had struck. Enforcers were ubiquitous in the area, making it difficult for you to continue your search for Powder. You did not have the luxury of time. Patience was not one of your strong suits, and you were determined to find her as soon as possible.

Your father's former soldiers had managed to obtain some information from a snitch, indicating that Powder would be in Piltover that day. Despite their additional intel, you dismissed them quickly. You despised those men and did not want them to think they had helped you more than necessary. You had been circling the streets where the explosion had occurred, following your instincts that somehow connected Powder to the incident.

Your suspicions were confirmed as you stumbled upon a dark, nearly empty street. Empty except for the fact you saw Powder standing just a few feet away from you in the middle of the road with her hands raised as two enforcers threatened to shoot her. "I suggest you and your partners give up and return the technology you have robbed," one of them commanded.

You wondered whether this was pure luck or if some mastermind who wanted this to happen already as much as you do was orchestrating this scenario, and you were just a hot character playing your part. "But I need it for a little project," Powder responded, her voice choked with tears. You knew she was playing with them, and it infuriated you. She raised her hands a little higher.

Her excuses fell on deaf ears, and the female enforcer demanded that she throw down her weapon. "You don't care, I see," Powder said with a sad voice. "Fine..." She hesitated for a moment before slowly lowering her hands. However, in the blink of an eye, she darted to the left, taking down the male officer and using the female one's weapon to eliminate her. She cackled like a maniac as she fired multiple shots at the downed man.

As you made your way towards her, you didn't bother to tread softly. The screams and destruction that permeated that side of Piltover provided enough cover for your approach to go unnoticed.

Finally, you had her in your sights –the girl who had taken your sister's life. But just as you closed in on her, mere centimetres away from her back, you sensed something was amiss.

You were being watched. Someone was closing in on you.

Reacting quickly, you pulled her body forcefully against yours, trapping her arms and relieving her both of her gun and the gun she had wielded just moments before. She didn't even have time to recognize you.

With a swift motion, you raised the weapon and pointed it directly at her head. "Oh, I was having fun!" She complained. 

"Shut up." You groaned, jaw tight. 

As soon as you turned the both of you around, your eyes fell upon five men, standing in a line. Three of them carried leather bags, which led you to believe they were responsible for the catastrophe unfolding in the city.

The leader of the group, a man positioned in the centre, pointed his weapon directly at your head. "I suggest you step back, kid," he warned, his expression blank but his tone conveying his distaste for the way you held Powder at gunpoint.

You had no idea why Powder was involved in this act of terrorism, nor why the apparent leader seemed to be interested in her. But none of that mattered when you made the split-second decision to strike her with the back of the gun.

"Aw, fuck!" Powder exclaimed, before suddenly chuckling. "Never do that again." She managed to straighten her left arm, which had been trapped beneath your grip, and you noticed her hand brushing against something in her pocket.

Reacting quickly, you pushed her away from you, your gun still pointed towards her. Just then, a rope that seemed to send electric shocks came crashing down in front of you. This gave time for Powder to take her gun from your grip, leaving you with the one she had wielded before. You quickly stepped forward through the smoke, but the four men had already closed in on her.

"Oh, damn! She's fast! I'll—I'll just have to perfect it—" The leader ignored Powder'a words as he pushed her behind him, protecting her. The movement drew her attention back to the situation.

He glared at you with hatred, his finger on the trigger as if ready to risk it all. Meanwhile, Powder lifted her gaze and looked directly at you, her stare unwavering.

You knew she recognized you. How could she not recognise someone she spent part of her childhood with, even if it was because you and her older sister shared the same friends? She knew, and so did you. But it was as if something in her didn't quite understand.

She had changed. Her hair was no longer short, but rather a long blue braid that almost reached the floor. She was paler, and there was something in her eyes that you couldn't quite place.

A muscular man came up behind you and tried to take the gun from your grip. It may have worked if your instincts hadn't made you twist his wrist just in time.

The problem was that the man's struggle gave the others time to catch up. As they did, the leader began running towards the exit of the street, holding whatever they had just stolen and looking back at you as if he was sure they would take you down. He kept Powder, who seemed to be angry at you, behind him. You needed to get rid of these men. And you needed to do it fast.

The four men grabbed hold of you, causing the gun you held to fall to the ground with a clatter. You swiftly responded by kneeing the stomach of the redhead who had seized your left arm to punch on a weak point, making him stumble and fall. This gave you the opportunity to crouch down slightly, just as a blond man attempted to strike you. However, in his haste, he ended up hitting one of his own accomplices who stood directly behind.

Taking advantage of the failed attack, you quickly grabbed the blond man's arm and pushed it down, causing him to writhe in agony as you broke it. "Fuck!" he cursed, clearly in pain.

With the blond man temporarily out of commission, you twisted the arm of the man who tried to hold your right arm and positioned him in front of you just as one of the other robbers tried to shoot at you with a peculiar weapon that emitted a shock. Unfortunately for him, his shot ended up hitting his own partner, rendering him unconscious on the ground.

Before the electric weapon could reload, you delivered a hateful punch to the man's throat and twisted his wrist, the weapon falling into your hands. Looking directly at the red-haired man, you extended your arm and fired, sending him collapsing to the ground, just like the rest.

"You little bitch," the blonde man spat as he tried to get up. As the other man caught his breath, he finally stood and quickly approached you from behind. But with a swift step back, you pushed the two remaining men's heads towards each other, causing them to fall to the ground.

While you should have questioned him, you knew that time was of the essence if you were to find Powder on your own. You swiftly used your elbow to connect with his face and followed up with a knee to his genitals, and a punch to his face the moment he crouched in pain. The man was now unconscious, and it would take him some time to recover.

"Bloody hell. You lot are a bunch of clumsy idiots," you remarked as you checked their pockets for any ammunition that the electric weapon you held required.

A voice shouted from an alleyway close to where you stood. "Silco! Stop right there!" You followed.

As you sneaked, you saw the same man as before standing at gunpoint by an enforcer. You sneaked your hand around your thigh for your knife, and you would've gotten it if only Violet hadn't made you throw it on the floor of that Mercedes.

Suddenly, you stopped short before entering.

Silco. "Silco," you whispered to yourself. Silco. 

You already had the name Jinx.  She was, apparently, a psychopath working for another called Silco, but that was not who you came back to Zaun for.

That was it. Silco. The man who planned for the Undercity to stand independent from the "topsiders" control and allow it to be self-sufficient: The newly formed nation of Zaun —if you asked his supporters. The emotionless murderer who takes away innocent people's lives in his way to achieve more and more power —if you asked the ones who hadn't been blinded.

While Piltover had always ruled the Undercity, now known as Zaun, they had never cared about its terrible economic, social, and hunger situations. But this was clearly not the way.

How had no one told you the whole story? Had people just become used to Silco's ways and learned not to get in his business? 

Another voice brought you back to reality before you entered the alley pointing the gun at whoever stood, just staying hidden in the dark.

The alleyway was vast, almost like a battle camp. Barrels were scattered around the ground, creating perfect hiding spots in case of an attack. Powder was nowhere to be seen, and Silco no longer had a bag. She probably had escaped by then.

"So, I'll tell you what we're going to do, officer," Silco said, pronouncing the last word as if he didn't mean it. "You're going to let me reach the vehicle I'm leaving in without warning your partners. If you don't, my soldiers will have a chat with your gorgeous wife and son. How's that?" Silco showed no signs of concern.

"I can't let you go free for this. You murdered him. He was like my brother! He was just a guard! He—" Silco shrugged nonchalantly at his words before he explained, "your little friend was guarding a crucial piece of technology that my dear Jinx needed for a project, and I... well, I knew who he was to you." He smirked with a sense of power, "I thought I could teach you a lesson. You cannot tell me what to do, nor stop me from doing what I want. Remember, you work for me. So, keep your enforcer undercover and obey my orders."

The man trembled, his hand shaking around the gun. His face contorted in shock as he began to lower the gun. Without warning, Silco shot him in the head. The sound echoed down the alleyway and an old woman who seemed not to have fled yet screamed.

Just as Silco tried to exit the alley, you appeared from the dark, pointing the weapon you had robbed one of his soldiers directly at him. "Drop the gun."

Silco taunted you, "Oh, kid, it's not very clever to get close to me by yourself. I get it I've killed someone you cared about, or maybe one of my soldiers has?"

You didn't hesitate to walk closer to him and hit his nose with the back of the weapon, making him bleed. "Shut your fucking dictator ass mouth." You struck him again, "Where is Powder?"

Silco groaned, "You've taken down my soldiers, perhaps I should find smarter ones."

"Maybe you should," you hit his nose again. "Where. Is. Powder?" He groaned again, but pretended to be unaffected. "You'll have to specify a little more."

You furrowed your brows, "She's around 1.75 meters tall, skinny, 18 years old, with a really long bloody blue braid, and paler than a bloody ghost. Oh right —you protected her when I had her at gunpoint."

Silco shook his head slowly. He was trying to say something when a loud vehicle came towards the entrance of the alleyway. It was blinded, but clearly full of people. The co-passenger seat window opened. "Silco! Come on, I'm dying to get this one done!" A girl who had a very similar voice to Powder shouted excitedly. Your ear discerned that four guards had stepped out, their chargers sliding, indicating they were armed.

As soon as they entered the vast alleyway, you trained your weapon on their leader's head. "Bring her to me," you demanded.

The guards exchanged confused glances, pointing their weapons at you. Silco raised his hand, signalling them to lower them. "Might I inquire as to why you are so interested in her?" Silco asked.

"That is none of your goddamn business."

"Well, kid, if you plan on taking her, you'll have to kill me first, which I strongly advise against. Do you know who I am?" You shoved Silco away, causing him to collapse against the alley wall. The guards raised their weapons once again and advanced towards you.

"Lower. Your. Weapons," Silco ordered them once again, groaning.

"Where is Powder?" you repeated slowly, hitting Silco's head once more. Your tone indicated that you wouldn't ask again. His head snapped to the side from the impact. He straightened, his jaw clenched as he spoke. "Her name is Jinx."

"You called?" She appeared, a smirk on her face as she pushed past the guards. You didn't even have time to see the toy she had thrown creating a smokescreen.

Silco disappeared from view, but the noise level suddenly rose.

If only their getaway vehicle hadn't attracted the attention of the Piltover officers, it might have been called a game: Shots rang out everywhere as the smoke cleared. There were physical struggles, complaints, and you could spot people from both bands hiding.

It had only been seconds since you had hidden behind a barrel in the middle of the alley, shooting with the electric shot weapon at anyone who came behind you, and trying to focus on the scene —looking for your objectives. 

Somehow, you spotted Vi. Of course, she had followed the disaster. She was taking down Silco's workers without a weapon, also keeping an eye on the officers. It wasn't like she would ever try to help anyone from Piltover. She also knew that their government would never prosecute an enforcer for killing someone from Zaun —or what used to be the Undercity.

You couldn't deny her expression when she wasn't smirking and pissing you off made her someone you wouldn't want to mess with. She was, in fact, pretty muscular. Her 'Vi' tattoo was covered by blood, her nose bleed right under her piercing.  

Alright, you should have been focusing on the madness in front of you. 

Violet was clearly attempting to reach either Powder or Silco, but both soldiers and enforcers blocked her path. As time passed, more enforcers arrived, and it became one of the largest fights you had ever seen. The number of enforcers far exceeded the number of soldiers. If only had they had the same kind of weapon variety as Silco's workers, the battle would already be over.

You don't know how much time passed, —your nose bled due to a front encounter with a pretty big soldier— but suddenly you were near Jinx, who tried to hit an enforcer who had gotten her against the wall. The enforcer had somehow managed to take her weapon out of her grip and throw it away from her. 

You both were close to the exit. It was your moment to get her and take her out of there with you. You had almost reached her when she managed to take the enforcer down. It was the last step for it to be over.

If only Silco hadn't suddenly shouted across the alley, "Jinx, Code 57! Now!"

"I thought you'd never ask," she whispered under her breath. You were about to stop her hand before she could reach her pocket, but she had already dropped some kind of monkey toy. It moved rapidly in a straight line. She took steps back from you as she looked right into your eyes, and she covered her ears.

The monkey stopped short in the centre of the madness and exploded, killing whoever was in its path. Some kind of tint covered the entire alley, the explosion leaving no doubt that whoever stood near the toy had died. As your ears rang, you tried to push past the smoke to follow Powder, but by the time you were out on the streets and nothing stained your view, she was nowhere to be seen. You had lost her, and the vehicle was gone. You were sure Silco had somehow calculated the time to get away from the centre and surround the wall to leave with her.

You walked down the street, wiping off the blood of your battle scars and trying to avoid the Piltover law. You slightly hoped that Violet was doing the same.

-

Violet was in fact quite all right. She was so fucking great she had managed to take a shower and change clothes —possibly by breaking into some wealthy family's home.

As she greeted you, you looked down to see two things: a half-full rum bottle, and a big blood stain on her clothes. According to the side and place, you could tell it had probably been a knife, "you had time to shower, but not to take care of that?" You pointed towards the wound. Perhaps she wasn't that fine.

"Yeah, well, for some reason it is not easy to find bandages on Piltover. I suppose they don't usually need them," Violet said sarcastically, that smirk of hers back as soon as she looked to your face. "How the fuck did you find me?" you asked.

"Well, it wasn't all that difficult. I ran away from a couple of officers who survived the explosion, and I was extremely thirsty. I only had to enter the first variety store I saw far from the explosion and ask for a 'pretty but rude-looking girl who likely paid by throwing money on the counter and left without saying a word.'" 

"You're so funny," you said under your breath, clearly annoyed, pulling her wrist and taking her with you down the street.

"It's not a joke. Even I said 'goodbye' after getting some water and food," Violet said as she drank from the bottle.

"You didn't steal it, did you?" 

"Of course I did." She scoffed and you furrowed your brows. "Violet, people who work in that kind of shops actually need the money." Your tiredness wasn't letting you think straight. That was not near to be of your concern now: her sister was.

Vi's brows raised before speaking in her defence, "why the hell would I bring money to Piltover? This isn't one of those idiotic—"

You interrupted her once you stopped and let go of her wrist. "Why did those fuckers call your sister Jinx?" you asked.

"You have such a dirty mouth, y'know?"

You hit her shoulder, hard. "Stop it. You know what I'm talking about." Violet shrugged her shoulders in response, but you knew she knew.

"May I—" You let out a dry laugh. "Why was Powder the first person people warned me about when I arrived? Is that why she killed my sister? Did she see her and decide to take her life because— because she's evil now?"

Vi crossed her arms as you waited for her response. She took another sip of rum.

When five seconds passed and she didn't say anything, you decided to walk down another street that hadn't been blocked off after what happened. Apart from the enforcers you were trying to avoid, the streets were empty, as if the inhabitants of that side of Piltover had decided to hide in their enormous vacation homes for a few days. Poor souls.

It had taken multiple arguments on your part, but Violet finally told you the truth about what happened with Powder —or Jinx, now. You also happened to figure out why she was using you: she needed to get rid of Silco to be able to get Powder back. 

The moment she asked for your help, everything changed. You listened as she explained how Silco had changed her, and that she needed her sister back.

"Everyone who knows keeps saying she's not my sister anymore, that she's fucking gone, but—"

"Of course she is your sister. Changing doesn't mean becoming a whole new person —it's the bloody aftermath of trauma, insecurities, and the ideas that Silco bastard put in her head." You realised how comforting your words sounded once you had already told them, so, to not give her the wrong impression, you added, "that same way, nothing has changed for me either. I need her dead, and I need it now." 

Violet let out a dry laugh, resting her weight against a rough brick wall.

"So, if you need my help—"

"I never explicitly said 'help'. It is to your advantage as well. You won't be able to reach my sister if Silco is still in the picture anyways—" she interjected, twirling the gun she had robbed an enforcer with her fingers.

"—When we eliminate Silco and I'm ready to take out Powder, you'll have to allow me to do it."

"When the time comes, Red, we'll see who's stronger." Vi offered you the bottle. 

Unbeknownst to you, your bodies had drawn dangerously close. Your head tilted to the side, struck by a sudden realization. "Deal." You took it. 

Vi's hand grazed your jawline, cleaning the blood from one of your battle wounds with her thumb. Her hand lingered on your neck, drawing you in closer.

You were incredibly tired, everything felt like you were on drugs. You were sure Violet felt the same way. 

You couldn't resist the urge to glance at her lips, looking back at her eyes. The adrenaline of the moment made it impossible for Violet to give you the chance to push her away before her thumb cleaned the dry blood off your wet lips, but you did it either way. 

"By the way: it's anyway, not anyways," you said as you took two steps back, brows raised in knowledge. You turned around and made your way down the street.

Violet whispered something under her break as her smirk returned. She stood where you left her. 

"Come on, I'm healing that wound. If we stay here we're going to be spotted," you spoke loudly as you continued walking.

[cripplecore]

hi there! call me parker, my pronouns are he/they, it/its and basically any neos, so feel free to try out any you want if you'd like :) (sideways smile)

this is a sideblog for disability talk and activism surrounding it— my main blog is @fear-ze-queer if you want to check that out!

i have:

- pots (postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome)

- cfs/me (chronic fatigue syndrome)

- hypermobility

- unnamed joint pain, likely related to my other disabilities

- probably more that i'm missing

i am a cane user! its name is ingram :) (sideways smile). i hope to get a rollator in the near future as well.

i have several neurodivergencies and mental illnesses as well; i use tone indicators and i ask that you do the same when talking to me, as i have trouble interpreting tone

i am plural & host of an endogenic system— i don't know how much i'll talk about that here, but i've ran across a lot of anti-endo blogs, so i want to make that known

i'm queer and reclaim most of the slurs that i can use (f slur, t slur, c slur, etc) so if that bothers you, this blog is for you

i tag triggers with "tw ___", feel free to ask me to tag things you need/i may have missed! ask box is always open

i am new to image descriptions, so please be patient with me! i'm doing my best to be as accessible as i can. if anybody has tips on how to do that better, PLEASE let me know!!!

important posts:

disability tools/resources masterpost

PSA on ableism+writing disabled characters

no-prep food tray hack

disney's 'gay days'

list of sign language resources

dni below the cut

dni if: racist, misogynistic, queerphobic (including if you're against aros and aces, enbies, xenogenders, microlabels, contradictory labels, mspec gays/lesbians/etc), against reclaiming slurs, plural/sysphobic including sysmeds/anti-endogenic, ableist towards ANY sort of disability, a terf/swerf/fart or w/e, support jkr/still like HP, a p*do/MAP, against any sort of good faith identities, a dsmp blog (nothing against y'all, but i see it all the time and it's getting annoying), 18+/NSFW blog or anything of the sort (i'm a minor and asexual), conservative/republican, a hateful christian/ christian adjacent, a n*zi/fascist; i may be missing some stuff & will add later

[rabiesofficial]

Lmao that dudes smarmy ass sports metaphors “your serve” *adjusts his glasses smirking like it’s an anime. Anyway,

1. neonazi 4channer porn obsessed boy -> trans “woman” pipeline is so extremely real and self reported by tw themselves, including many of them who don’t even give it up. And the ones who claim to have gone left still bust out in racist sexist homophobic hives verrry often plus fashy dehumanizing, “everyone is my sycophant or else enemy”, and rapey behavior and language

2. Though there are documented right wing “gender criticals” (though really they’re just trans critical… and conventional gender enforcing) including some radfems fall for seeing as allies (ie poise Parker) until they really go through what she has to say and who she hangs with …. It’s a minority of feminists and LGB activists who go for that and again matched and exceeded by shit behavior and connections by trans activists. Still yeah we should talk about that as a problem but wow if having someone claim to be on your side being shitty totally makes you terrible yourself there is no movement or idea in the world free of this. They never want to try too long explaining why your ideas themselves are “fascist” for a reason. It’s always guilt by associations you don’t even have to people you don’t agree with except in the loosest of “sky is blue” ways

3. Idk it seems more fascist to me to be assaulting women for saying lesbians don’t like dick.

4. Look at the list of who murders trans women (at lower rates than other demographics including “cis”) — it’s other males with extremely rare exception, it’s a lot of different motives and transphobia does play a real role, and it’s not perpetrated or motivated by feminists or trans critical lesbians and gay men. But they never list the names of the tw and tm murdering men. They never profile those killers in detail or talk about say, why men have such a transphobia problem. Or go after them specifically. Very interesting behavior from the het males claiming to be lesbians leading their movements and holding the most cash and power among them.

^^^^

[boreal-sea]

Thoughs on this? www.tumblr.com/xxanon-drama/724549082383826944/

TW for the link: The Anon is a radfem who goes on a fascist rant and uses a huge number of slurs including racist, antisemtic, islamophobic, sexist, and transphobic slurs. She also uses dehumanizing language.

She's a fascist. Her being a "black latino lesbian" doesn't change her fascism. She is antisemitic and islamophobic, she is racist against PoC - including against her fellow latinos - and she is quite frankly a horrific human being. She thinks all amab people are subhuman, she literally says so, "they're below animals as "Inteligent" creatures" and "Only women are people".

She is a seriously fucked up person and I hope she manages to find some healing or something.

[vanvelding]

📰 🔬

Another morning of waking up and learning about another--

Elon Musk, TW by the way

--random collection and symbols which is a Fascist Thing.

So a prominent person or someone in a position of authority says 📰 🔬 or "paper microscope." Something stupid like that. Or they have a paper microscope on their desk, or post the initials PMS, or says a three-letter phrase with those initials, or they ask if a scientist who wrote a paper that supports left-leaning social theory used a real microscope.

Then someone(s) else says that 📰 🔬 is a racist dogwhistle, or an antisemitic codeword, or a symbol used by fascists shitting in port-a-potties, or some other damned thing. "It actually means..."

The first response is the tribal shitflinging. If you hated the first party, then obviously they're using cryptofascist symbols. If you hated the second party, then obviously they're making up things to smear the first party, "📰 🔬 means 📰 🔬 and nothing more."

It exhausts me because it's definitional. 📰 🔬 doesn't mean anything. The letters in this sentence mean nothing, objectively. I chose those two emojis randomly.

Let's freewheel fashy, alt-right, misogynistic meanings for any two symbols:

📰 🔬 - Science is fabricated based on left-wing ideals. Or maybe it represents the hated science and reporter classes of society who are always full of inconvenient facts for right wing choads.

👨 🐘 - Contrasts the difference between regular, domesticated men and themselves who are solid, slow members of a family unit who have long memories.

🍎 ☪ - Too easy. The Christian symbolism of the fruit of knowledge about Islamist threats to western civ. Again, two randomly selected emojis synthesized into a fascist symbol.

🙀 ☠ - This is actually hard. It feels like cult-of-masculinity fans and incels never stop talking about death and pussy, but it's still a challenge. It could be a testosterone reference, since sex drive and thoughts of death are both related to testosterone treatments. It could also be about a soft, civilized civilization's fear of the inevitable and ubiquitous presence of death amongst them while they beat their chest about comfort with death because they play video games.

My point is not that anything can be miscontextualized as a secret passphrase for hateful douchebags; it's that hateful douchebags' only community is hate and the community of hate. They will always need secret codephrases with their secret friends to build the only sense of community that insufferable contrarians can build. If they tried to build a train set together there would be blood.

"It's not really a mimetic symbol among racists; racists have merely ironically chosen it as a fake symbol. 👌🏻😏" Symbols that racists promulgate is a symbol of racism. Irony is not a factor, either for the racism or for the authenticity of the symbol.

The idea is for like-minded people to give away their true affiliation and encourage others. A billionaire or senator posting "📰 🔬" means that it's successful and your fetid little ideology has the support of those in power. Followers of fetid little ideologies are still get excused by those in power and might still get pardoned! Those symbols are important.

Four years ago, John Cusak reposted an anti-semitic meme with the intention to criticize the state of Israel's treatment of Palestinians. After criticism, he recognized that what he posted could be understood as anti-semitic, he removed it, and he apologized.

All language is symbolic and meanings are contextual. There's no "real" meaning to anything; it's a bunch of symbols we imbue with meaning which is stupid and frustrating. What we can do is realize that the broad and facile appeal to values that fascism affects to get common people to accept the boot of authoritarianism can sometimes slink below the radar and get picked up and furthered by any of us.

And if you really hated fascism, racism, homophobia, Islamophobia, ableism, anti-semitism, misogyny, and white supremacy, when it's pointed out you're using their words, you might clarify or reflect a bit.

An innocent fool may say that expecting us to care about how our words affect others is oppressive, but a more malicious actor would say nothing more, having said everything they intended.

[ericdravenapologist]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

જ⁀➴name: chance

જ⁀➴age range: late teens

જ⁀➴pronouns: any

જ⁀➴interests: banana fish, the owl house, vocaloid, evangelion, hunter x hunter, my chemical romance, monster high, twenty one pilots, literature

જ⁀➴boundaries: do not sexualize me/my poetry, do not tag me in things/msg me/send me asks unless we are mutuals

જ⁀➴DNI: terfs, queerphobes, racists, fascists, conservatives, proshitters, MAPs, "mspec/male lesbians," overall just don't be a dick

જ⁀➴orientation: sex-repulsed-asexual/apothisexual demiromantic lesbian

જ⁀➴languages: english and french, learning spanish and polish

જ⁀➴extra: anything i post with the tag "my poetry" is written by me. i do not consent to any of my work being reposted or copied.

i will include tws for all my poems in the tags, but i can say that most of them will have tws for csa and things of that sort, so if that is upsetting to you, feel free to block this blog!

if you like any of my work, comments are very much appreciated :)

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐

[iri-desky]

Vent (tw // suicide mentions, language)

If Kosa passes, I don't think you'll be hearing from me anymore. I'm not living in a world where America is fascistic, the Internet isn't open anymore (which was its initial fucking intention), and Fandom is dead. I'm not. I can't see everyone get hurt because of the changes and this generation grow up with this and my friends get hurt or raped because of identity breaches or the riots. I can't live without the things on the internet that made me ME, and are my favorite past times. don't want to. I don't want to look at it. I would rather die. So there's nothing we can do, huh? I'll hang myself first. I can't do anything anymore.

[aloeverawrites]

vent

(tw language, transphobia, genocide)

I am so upset. Someone asked for receipts on all of the transphobic things J.K Rowling is doing, which fair enough. It is hard to believe.

So I'm going through and looking for evidence, gosh.

She complimented Matt Walsh's movie saying that it did a good job of pointing out the "incoherence of gender identity theory". In his twitter bio, he describes himself as a "Theocratic fascist".

She defended the event run by Posey Parker who said that "women who call themselves men should be sterilized".

She went to an event and got a picture with Helen Joyce who wants to reduce the number of trans people because we are a "problem for the world" because we need "special accommodations". Which sounds like fascist rhetoric and seems ableist as well as transphobic.

And she defended Magdalen Burn's after Burns said that trans women were "blackface actors" and "pathetic sick f*cks".

[hussyknee]

Next time you threaten the end somebody, you coward, don't block them before they're allowed to respond on the post. You're typical of your kind, angry queers because you haven't got the attention you want. You're 15 minutes of fame are almost up. Come end me, you degenerate POS!