Chapter 1: PROLOGUE
Chapter Text
A tall and heavy wooden door creaked softly, revealing a spacious, brightly-lit office, its walls adorned with red flags, party slogans and portraits of Northern Parliament’s leaders.
A woman, tall, red-eyed and well-endowed, her features further augmented by a tight-fit, funnel-shaped, ankle-length white greatcoat stepped in. Removing her tall fur hat, she clasped her heels, raised her chin, and bent her arm in a military salute.
“Battleship Sovetskaya Rossiya, reporting in!”
“At ease, comrade battleship,” a man in his early thirties, clad in black-and-gold Northern Parliament admiralty uniform, spoke from his desk. “Come in. Take a seat. Bagel? Ivan Chai?”
“The latter, if you don’t mind,” the woman replied, settling on a chair beside the desk and pouring the steaming hot beverage into ornate porcelain cup. “You summoned me, Comrade Admiral?”
“I did. First, congratulations on passing your combat trials - with flying colors, I must add. Siren activity in the Black Sea region had been reduced to historical lows - in no small part because of your valorous deeds. Our dear leaders at Stavka were so impressed with your performance they had decided to award you with a Guards honorific,” he moved a small cardboard box towards her, “and with a new assignment.”
“Am I to be deployed under a different Admiral?” Sovetskaya Rossiya raised her eyebrow.
“Yes. Your orders are to rebase to Murmansk, to become a new Flagship of the Arctic Fleet. After all, you were made to rule the oceans, not this shallow land-locked puddle. Pamyat Merkuriya… Comrade Komintern, Comrade Tashkent, and three destroyers will make up your escort detail, also to join the Arctic Fleet upon arrival.”
“Matters of tactical sufficiency of such a small screening force aside,” she frowned, “wouldn’t that reduce the Black Sea Fleet to just a handful of light cruisers and a dozen of destroyers? Sevastopol will not be out of the drydock for a while. What if the Sirens discover and exploit this strategic weakness while we’re away?”
“We’ll make do with what we have. Current situation in the North is dire, if not outright catastrophic. Unless properly reinforced, our Arctic Fleet will soon cease to exist. And with it…”
“…the Lend-Lease shipments from our Azur Lane allies in the West.”
“Precisely. Speaking of allies, there has been a certain development in the Mediterranean…”
…
“ABSOLUTELY UNACCEPTABLE!” Giulio Cesare slammed her fist against Littorio’s table. “I AM NOT GOING THERE, END OF STORY, FULL STOP!”
“I swear by Neptune,” the green-haired Acting Flagship of the Sardegnan Navy rubbed her forehead, “are you asking to be court-martialed, stripped of your title, rank and rigging, and to be sent there in chains? Because that’s all you’re getting from me if you don’t quit your incessant…”
“Do it yourself!” the fuming girl barked, “If you wish to play doormat for Azur Lane, might as well go all the way!”
“We have to maintain the façade and keep the pretense – that our Empire may be beat, but is not yet defeated. Sending the pride of Sardegnan Navy to serve under a formally hostile flag practically screams capitulation, and I just can’t allow that to happen!”
“Then why not Cavour? We’re same class! And she doesn’t have an unfinished…”
“Because unlike you,” her lithe grey-haired sistership rolled her eyes, “I have all my rigging in one piece. Besides, with your rack and your red-ish irises, you look way more like those Northern Parliament girls than I do. Blending in with the barbarians can be important, you know.”
“Remember,” Littorio continued, “we must show at least some degree of contempt while abiding by their requests. Think of it as stay-in strike of sorts. And your vendetta with Warspite… I’ve been at the talks, and I find it unlikely you two will ever go toe-to-toe again. So please, Giulio, be good Sardegnan battleship, sign these papers, pack up for the cruise and prepare to set course to Sevastopol when notified.”
“Hmph!” she pouted, reaching for the pen.
“And please, for the love of Neptune, behave yourself out there. The last thing I need on my hands right now is dealing with another international scandal…”
…
To say Comrade Admiral was not pleased would be quite an understatement. The task of managing a roster of varyingly eccentric girls that made up the new Black Sea Fleet was quite arduous and taxing in itself – yet, at the very least, he never had to question their loyalty to the cause of Northern Parliament. With this new arrival, however, things went off the rails almost immediately – while port authorities had reported Giulio Cesare’s arrival nearly four hours ago, she didn’t even bother to show up at his office. Reports from law enforcement suggested she went on a shopping spree all over Sevastopol – and while she did surrender her rigging upon arrival, and while being ashore left her in a severely weakened state, there was no chance a mere man could overpower a living weapon and bring her in for disciplining.
Picking up a phone and calling his secretary, Comrade Admiral began relaying orders for two of his cruisers to rig up and get the unruly battleship in check, but had to stop mid-sentence when he heard a loud staccato of steel high heels coming from outside the office.
“So…” throwing the doors open, a grey-haired girl clad in short cape, tight-fit black-green-and-white mini-dress that cut just below her hips and high semi-transparent stockings that revealed an uppermost portion of her thighs stormed in, her lips curled in a barely noticeable scowl, “you’re the ‘Il Commodoro’, I’d reckon?”
“Comrade Admiral,” he replied, putting the receiver down. “I assume you are the newest addition to our dock?”
“Si. Conte di Cavour-class Battleship, Giulio Cesare.” she gave a mostly mocking salute.
“You’re three hours and forty-seven minutes late,” Comrade Admiral checked with the clock, “you went AWOL upon arrival and broke protocol when addressing your superior. I don’t know how you used to operate back in the Regia Marina, but if this is your usual MO, there is no wonder your precious Empire lost the war so quickly - and suffered such devastating losses while gaining next to nothing.”
“You…” Giulio Cesare clenched her fists.
“Comrade Admiral. Now, if you’re done trying to make me court-martial you here and now like your propaganda used to portray, here’s the short list of orders. First, from now on you’re Comrade Novorossiysk – and from now on you may use your original name only in conjunction with it. Second, report to Flagship Sevastopol at the drydock for briefing. Then, see to Comrade Kharkov at the dormitory for your new uniform, your lodgings and your paperwork. Dinner is served at 20:00. I strongly advise not to miss it, and to use the downtime hours to familiarize yourself with other ships present at the base. Lastly, I expect you to show up at my office at 08:00 tomorrow for further instructions. All clear?”
“Wait,” the battleship girl looked confused, “you’re not going to punish me?”
“You will be given penal assignments later. Right now, I need my Acting Flagship on duty as soon as possible.”
“An Acting Flagship?”
“Until Sevastopol recovers from her wounds, I assign you as Acting Flagship of the Northern Parliament’s Black Sea Navy. Objections?”
“None… Comrade Admiral.”
Chapter 2: On Stranger Tides
Chapter Text
“Il Diavolo!” Giulio Cezare slammed her armored fist against the table. “Kharkov! What is the meaning of this? Are you trying to poison me?”
“Told you this would happen,” Svetlana poked Admiral Nakhimov’s cheek. “Vodka’s on you today, remember?”
“What is it now…” the distraught destroyer leader in charge of cooking operations clumsily made her way towards their most recent acquaintance’s table. “Oh… since you’re from Sardegna, I thought I’d make you pasta…”
“THEN WHY IS IT SWEET? WHAT EVEN IS… THIS… SUBSTANCE?”
“Condensed milk… Sevastopol liked it…”
“Barbarians,” ex-Sardegnan battleship sighed, “Just… get me a proper meal, and don’t ever do this again.”
Small incidents like this were bound to happen – fitting into a vastly different culture proved to be quite a challenge for someone as straightforward and as self-assured as Giulio Cesare, but she persevered, and in time she managed to build at least some semblance of cohesion with her newly-assigned subordinates. After all, being recognized for what she was meant to be – a ship of the line, a brutal fighting force without match, a fist of iron capable of delivering a killing blow to anything in sight – it was a feeling she sorely missed since being moved to the second line, being vastly outclassed by Littorio and her sisterships, a feeling that helped her keep her spirits up and high. Yet, there was one glaring issue about this whole arrangement – there simply wasn’t all that much to do. Sure, there were firing drills, navigation exercises, patrol missions and even a few encounters with rogue production ships, but it was too few and far between to alleviate the growing sense of boredom.
It all felt almost like their prolonged stay at Taranto Harbor, except whereas back there they had to sit and watch Azur Lane convoys pass the uncontested sea due to severe shortage of fuel in the Empire, here and now there wasn’t much of a reason to burn the fuel at all, for the Black Sea didn’t seem to offer any meaningful challenge for the battleship. Turning to local culture, Giulio Cesare quickly found it to be lackluster in most departments, incapable of satisfying her exquisite Sardegnan tastes – the high society didn’t even exist in this place, long since swept away by the bloody tide of Revolution, local opera and concerto houses offered a bland mish-mash of watered-down European high arts, the wine was just barely good enough to drink without triggering her gag reflex, beauty and spa procedures had to be booked months in advance and only as a part of something called ‘vacation voucher’, and the local customs were just too bizarre to even consider partaking in. One notable exception, however, was local cuisine – both because climate of this region, ‘acceptable’ even by Sardegnan standards, made this place a breadbasket of the entire Northern Parliament, and because all the cultures meeting, trading and inevitably mixing on the shores of the Black Sea since times prehistoric ended up producing a truly dizzying array of unique dishes, all of it readily available at local restaurants.
Utilizing the generous ‘maintenance fees’ sent by Littorio to maintain her absent subordinate’s standard of living on the ‘faraway barbaric shores’, Giulio Cesare, ever the connoisseur, would soon find herself investing quite a lot of her downtime into scouting the streets of Sevastopol, searching for new sensations on her tongue – sometimes alone, othertimes with some company from the base, the latter mostly being interested in free meals rather than decadent Sardegnan’s company. Never truly satisfied with Kharkov’s bland and generic cooking, she would order the base staff to bring the takeout straight to her table at the mess, much the other ships’ amusement – their own wages were barely enough to buy them strong drinks and basic snacks once or twice a week. Some of them even reported Acting Flagship’s decadent behavior to Comrade Admiral, claiming it was damaging to overall morale – but the man merely brushed it off as a quirk befitting of a ‘spoiled bourgeoisie parasite’ Giulio Cesare was, while also hinting that he was ‘expropriating’ some of her ‘unearned income’ for the ‘common cause’. The shipgirls, of course, could never know for certain, but the long-neglected base facilities did eventually see the long-awaited repairs and renewals, their dorm did see a certain influx of amenities they have been asking for so long - and with their Acting Flagship sometimes sharing her increasingly decadent feasts with the rest of the mess, they didn’t really mind.
But as Giulio Cesare grew more indulgent in her culinary exploits, the consequence so far concealed by her much roomier and much less revealing Northern Parliament attire, she also grew more indolent. Previously one of the most, if not the most fitness-obsessed among the Sardegnan battleships, originally out of her utmost resolve to be prepared for the coming fight with the Royal Navy and her desire to serve as a shining example to her sisters, later because she had to maintain her stature in the eyes of Littorio and her class-mates, she no longer saw any real purpose to it. Deprived of any opportunity to enact her vendetta against Warspite, stripped of her motherland and her flag, made an Acting Flagship of a foreign navy, stuck in a shallow land-locked puddle with little to no action happening, she began regularly slacking off or even skipped physical exercise sessions entirely. No amount of remarks from her subordinates or stern warnings from Comrade Admiral made the battleship change her mind – after just a couple of days of mostly feigning it, she would go back to her slacking and snacking ways again. And so, she grew soft, both in her mind and her body – a belt hole here, a shirt button there, a sudden difficulty closing the clasps of her bra, a sudden sensation of her panties pinching into her flanks, a sudden tear in her stocking, all culminating in a reluctant order for a larger uniform – an order Comrade Commander was going to have a long talk with her after the mission.
…
“We’re really doing this, mia sorella? I mean… wasn’t she one of ours?”
“Didn’t go through all that trouble at Bosporus to back out the last minute. Besides, orders are orders.”
“But it just feels wrong, Giada! She may be wearing different colors, but she’s still Giulio Cesare, Lady Littorio’s ufficiale di bandiera!”
“Silenzia, Bronzo! They may be using sonars! Now stick to the plan! And don’t you dare miss with your salvo!”
…
Coming back to her senses with a thousand-needle migraine, Giulio Cesare flicked her eyes open – only to discover her vision bleak and blurry, barely able to make the basic shapes of whatever was in it. Trying to rub it off it with her hand, she also discovered her arm was stiff and unresponsive, as if encased in something solid.
“Sh-sh-sh-sh,” a gentle voice said, “no sudden moves, dearie. You’ve been out for a week now, but you bested the spirits and came back. No need to strain yourself any further.”
Finally blinking through the fog, she saw a face – one of Sevastopol, giving her almost motherly smile.
“Do you remember your name?”
“Conte di Cavour-class Battleship… Giulio Cesare… Comrade Novorossiysk,” she meekly replied.
“You Sardegnans are built to last,” she felt Sevastopol gently pat her head. “Precious few ships can get their magazines hit with a torpedo and live to tell the tale. Do you remember what happened?”
It was another boring long-range patrol assignment that seemed to just drag on, and on, and on. The cold, the wind, the angry waves, the drizzle – it was as if the Gods of Sea themselves wanted to make Giulio Cesare feel especially miserable after she finally submitted that order for a new uniform, almost as if foreshadowing the long and cold lecture she was likely going to receive from Comrade Admiral. Then, there was a signal from one of the destroyers, asking to break from formation and investigate unclear sighting to the south. Then, another signal – a torpedo trail, coming at their formation’s flank. She recalled giving a frantic order to spread out and evade. She recalled turning sharply to port, narrowly evading one of the torpedoes, the other hitting her rudder. She remembered losing her balance and falling down onto the cold carpet of the waves – only to see another trail of bubbles, going directly for her side. She even remembered Svetlana – Comrade Krasniy Krym – making a desperate maneuver, trying to sacrifice herself to save the Acting Flagship – but she couldn’t make it in time.
And then, with a fleeting feeling of something cold violently hitting her submerged flank, her world went dark.
“You know, dearie, if this,” Sevastopol showed her a twisted piece of blackened metal, “would have gotten just quarter of an inch deeper, there wouldn’t have been much of you left to collect from the seabed. Luckily, those ‘spall liners’ you got upgraded with,” she patted Cesare’s pudgy potbelly, “had softened the impact just enough.”
The wounded battleship blushed slightly.
“Now, now. Rest easy and rest well, Comrade Novorossiysk. You earned it.”
…
“Should have known better than to send a battleship on a long-range patrol,” Comrade Commander poured some ice-cold vodka into a pair of faceted glasses, “not after those ‘unconfirmed periscope sightings’ near Odessa. Hell, could have just called her back. What was I even thinking?”
“You were thinking that your ‘Acting Flagship’ had gotten a little too soft and that she needed some exercise. Couldn’t blame you for wanting to have your fleet in proper fighting shape,” Sevastopol took one of the glasses. “Well, I’m back with you now. To our health?” she raised hers for the toast.
“To our health,” Comrade Admiral clinked her glass with his before downing the drink. “Phew… Stavka’s going to be all over my backside now, with two or more Iron Blood subs at large in the Black Sea. At least I hope it’s Iron Blood – if it’s Sirens, all hell is going to break loose. And all the while the damn Sardegnans will be all over Stavka’s back with offers of taking her back for repairs…”
“Why not just return her, then?”
“Why even consider this?”
“Well, Sardegnans obviously tried to one-up us, submitting to our rightful and easily enforcible demands with the worst they could have offered. Outdated design, damaged weapons, poor attitude, little to no prior combat experience… something tells me this submarine attack might have had something to do with them, too. I say we return the favor… her rigging may be a lost cause, no need to strain our production facilities on that, but we can get her back on her feet, make them pay for it, and return her in even less of a fighting shape than she arrived. Besides, we wouldn’t do anything to her that she wasn’t already doing to herself…” Sevastopol glanced at the uniform request, “and I’m fairly sure you can adequately represent such ‘unfortunate turn of events’ in your reports to Stavka.”
“Devilish,” Comrade Admiral smiled, opening a bottle again. “Truly befitting of the only old Imperial ship that ever let her guns go wild at the heroes of the Revolution.”
“You know how I can get carried away at times, Comrade Admiral…”
Chapter 3: A Claim To Hospitality
Chapter Text
Sevastopol was probably the most archetypical of the few Northern Parliament dreadnoughts – after all, she was the first of them to ever break the waves. Characteristically well-endowed, with bright-red irises and waist-length flowing hair, clad in tight-fit funnel-shaped greatcoat with a fur collar, the only stark difference in her looks were the colors she wore – her hair was dyed raven, her uniform was one of black and gold with a broken sword in her sheathe, hinting at the sorrows the dreadnought bore within. Born in the waning years of the old Northern Empire, she never really let go of the ‘more gallant age’ she caught a last glimpse of, never truly embracing the ideas of the Revolution like the others - and having to pay a terrible price for it, being forced to surrender at her sisters’ gunpoint, tortured and broken, stripped of her name and exiled to the Black Sea. And yet, she had found a strength to move on – garnering a great deal of respect from every Admiral she had to work under, earning back her old name through diligence and valor, and becoming a mother-like figure for the girls of the Black Sea Fleet.
But just like every doting mother, nothing could truly grab onto her attention harder than a hurting child – or, in this specific case, a certain hurting step-child from a formally hostile nation she had a very specific intent on sabotaging.
“Oof…” Giulio Cesare panted, gingerly placing her healthy hand atop her belly, “thank you, Sevastopol. You know, you really shouldn’t…”
“Oh, don’t mind it, dearie,” Sevastopol gave her a warm smile, “it’s only natural for a Flagship to see for her second-in-command’s proper recovery. Now, I’ve also brought you some pies…”
“Oh… thank you, but,” ex-Sardegnan battleship blushed, feeling a tinge of embarrassment, “that zuppa rosso was filling enough…”
“Dearie, you need to eat well if you want to heal,” her Northern Parliament caretaker insisted, bringing a forkful of rich Ossetian pie to Giulio Cesare’s lips. “Especially well, with wounds as grievous as yours. Don’t worry, it’s just all the medicine inside you that’s suppressing your appetite. Say… finish half of this one, now, and I’ll leave the rest beside you. Wouldn’t want to disappoint that kind old man all the way in Balaklava I got these from…”
“Ugh… fair… I guess,” Giulio Cesare reluctantly opened her mouth, letting a spicy mixture of dough, cheeses and meat enter her eager maw.
Such occurrence, although not the first, was far from being the last. ‘Mother Sevastopol’ would always find some kind words, some unorthodox way, some crafty trick to coax ‘Comrade Novorossiysk’ into going for that ‘just another bite’, and Giulio Cesare would always fall for it, somehow never paying any regard to being already quite uncomfortably full as it happened time and again. Bound to a drydock until her cracked bulkheads would mend and her ruptured hull would seal, her starboard side encased in a rigid cast of scaffolding, there wasn’t much the wounded battleship could do – besides, being pampered and doted on like this by her superior felt almost endearing, as if she was at last receiving a degree of attention worthy of a Sardegnan noble she was.
That, and she genuinely enjoyed the food.
By the time she had regenerated enough structural integrity to get back to her feet, albeit still dependent on her crutches to move around, Giulio Cesare quickly discovered that her formely prim and curvy visage had undergone some quite drastic, quite disturbing, and quite embarrassing changes – and though the uniform she was provided with was made to accommodate, her reflection in the mirror was not quite as easy to cheat. Sure, now she was just about as well-endowed as her Northern Parliament counterparts, yet the situation below her ample chest was downright catastrophic. Gone was her narrow, shapely waist, encased in round bulges of excess. Gone were her toned abs, swallowed within a spare tyre of a distinctly protruding, slightly drooping gut. Gone was her trim backside, overtaken by stick-out twin globs of fat. Gone were her flawless thighs, pumped with creamy adipose until they began to chafe. Gone was the fitness master of Sardegnan Navy, replaced with an image of indolent aristocrat, one who clearly basked in her fading glory and indulged in her decadent pursuits all too much.
Giulio Cesare knew she had to fix this, that she had to fix this yesterday, and she knew just how to do it. Unfortunately, she still had to bide her time until her wounds could properly heal – there was only so much exercise she could perform while having to rely on crutches. Still, she could get her diet in check, maybe slim down a little before hitting the gym…
…or so she thought. Mostly confined to her dorm room with virtually nothing else to do but sit around and watch newsreels on a small monochrome TV, having vastly underestimated the lengths Sevastopol was willing to go to keep her almost surrounded with snacks at all times, the wounded battleship just kept ballooning further, her arguments and protests always tossed aside with innocent phrases akin to ‘you can worry about this later’ and ‘you still have a long way to recover’ on Black Sea Fleet Flagship’s behalf.
…
“You know, I almost feel guilty for this…” Kharkov whispered, looking at ‘Comrade Novorossiysk’ clumsily waddle through the mess hall, her strained, woefully undersized uniform looking almost as if painted on her billowing body, hugging her every bulge and leaving precious little to imagination.
“Don’t be,” Svetlana gave destroyer leader a pat on the back, “to think I was willing to give my life for this spoiled capitalist parasite… ugh, let’s just see the hog gets her last fill of Northern hospitality before they roll her back to Rome.”
“So mean…”
“Comrade Novorossiysk!” Sevastopol clapped her hands.
“Sorry, I’m… a little late,” Giulio Cesare panted, looking at the clock. “My legs are still… a little unused to… walking.”
“Don’t be sorry, dear,” her Flagship smiled, “we will worry about this later. Today, we celebrate your return!”
Yanking a piece of white cloth off a suspicious pile on Cesare’s table, Sevastopol revealed a feast truly befitting of Northern tradition, a small buffet made of piles upon piles of roasted meats, baked goods and exotic salads, adorned in platters of snacks and punctuated with bottles of liquor.
“Per l’amor di Nettuno…” ex-Sardegnan battleship looked thoroughly perplexed, “Are you… just for… does Comrade Admiral even know?”
“I do,” the man himself stood at the doorway, glass of sparkling wine in hand, looking more smug than any Sardegnan royalty could ever hope to, “Consider this a compensation for my rather shoddy tactical decisions. Good to have you back with us, Comrade Novorossiysk,” he raised his glass, “now, you ladies knock yourselves out, I give you all leaves for today and tomorrow, no strings attached. And I’ll be on my way now… someone’s got to keep the Stavka off your backs while you’re at it.”
“You really shouldn’t have…” Giulio Cesare muttered.
“Come on, dearie. The girls have worked overtime for a week to make this happen. Wouldn’t want to disappoint them, don’t you? We even got you a bottle of genuine Sardegnan wine…”
…
“Wait… if I didn’t misread that last sentence… did they just agree to return her?” Littorio put the letter down, face pale with shock, “Fully repaired, spare for the rigging, asking only to cover the expenses?”
“Seems so,” Conte di Cavour shrugged, “They just need two days to wrap up the paperwork.”
“Oh, by Neptune…”
“Shouldn’t you be excited, mia Ammiraglia? My sister, having almost met her gruesome end at the bottom of the Black Sea, is returning from foreign captivity at last! Alive and well, no less!”
“Cavour, please…” Littorio rubbed her forehead, “I’ve had a lot on my plate recently, and now I’ll have to arrange the celebrations, and I’m just…”
“Leave that to me and Zara. You? I suggest you get a day off, visit a spa, and relax. I swear, Littorio, you’ve just not been yourself lately.”
…
“Never… drink… with Northerners… ugh…” Giulio Cesare groaned, splayed on her bed, still feeling somewhat wasted from the events of the day prior.
Getting herself to seating position proved to be quite an arduous task, but she persevered. If anything, she had to slake her thirst. Luckily, there was a glass jar of murky greenish liquid on the nightstand, and she vaguely recalled hearing it was some sort of Northern ‘wonder cure’ for conditions like hers.
“Urf… way to start off with that exercise regimen,” she muttered, feeling the bottom of her belly pooling at the base of her meaty thighs, straining the fabric of her shirt with its bloated expanse.
Her ‘tomorrow’ finally came, and there was no chance in Abyss she was going to even attempt any exercise in her current condition. Part of her felt that two-day leave was far too generous on Comrade Admiral’s behalf – but if this is how Northerners usually went with their festivities, the second day was a necessity, not a luxury. And now, best she could to was to yet again wait for that accursed ‘tomorrow’ – getting her figure back in shape while on active duty might have been a much more challenging task, but going for it here and now was all but impossible. Her plans, however, would be sabotaged again – just as Giulio Cesare was going to settle for the night, Kharkov arrived at her door with urgent note to visit Comrade Admiral at his office.
“Here,” Sevastopol handed her a freshly-typed, freshly-stamped paper. “Full name, date and exact time, please.”
“Let me just… read it… oh.” Giulio Cesare’s face went pale.
“I’ve already ordered Svetlana to pack your things,” Comrade Admiral lent her the pen, “Don’t blame the messenger. The Stavka had kept us in the dark, too.”
“Can you… can you stall them for at least a couple of days? I need to…”
“Impossible. Stalling direct orders from the Stavka… let’s just say it doesn’t end well.”
“But my rigging is… and my uniform… and the farewells…”
“You will be provided a new attire in Odessa,” Sevastopol replied, “and we all will be escorting you until Bosporus. Pola and Trento will pick you from there.”
“You’ve done the Northern Parliament Navy a commendable service, Comrade Novorossiysk,” Comrade Admiral moved a small cardboard box towards Cesare. “The Stavka has authorized me to award you with Order of Friendship. But alas, here I must bid you my farewells. Now, go see to Kharkov to fill up the paperwork… Giulio Cesare.”
Saluting them both in silence, the battleship nodded and left, tears veiling at her eyes.
“That’s one hot mess off my hands,” sighing, Comrade Admiral pulled the bottle from the drawer.
“Uh-huh.”
“Speaking of that ‘transitional uniform’, though,” he smiled, looking at Sevastopol, “it’s undersized, isn’t it?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Devilish.”
“You know how I can get carried away at times, Comrade Admiral.”
Chapter 4: Homecoming
Chapter Text
Giulio Cesare’s arrival at Taranto Bay was met with typical Sardegnan response – with cheering crowds on the streets, a torrent of fireworks and confetti, a military parade and a grand speech by Il Ammiraglia Vittorio Veneto herself. While it wasn’t hard to notice just how well-endowed their fellow battleship had returned from her ‘involuntary trip’ to the Black Sea, most of them either didn’t mind it, overlooked it, or even took it as a sign that ‘northern barbarians’ did actually treat her well. After all, Sardegnan press did habitually blow her rather meager achievements way out of proportion, and with a new and unfamiliar shiny piece of metal on her ill-fitting greatcoat only reinforcing the impression, it was no wonder she was receiving a hero’s welcome.
Among this ocean of cheers, smiles and kind words, only two didn’t seem to share the common joy – the woman of the hour herself, and the uncharacteristically stone-faced and silent Littorio. Their meeting at Littorio’s office after the festivities had concluded was also cut uncharacteristically short – handing Giulio Cesare a written order to be suspended from active duty indefinetly, Acting Flagship simply pointed at the door, causing a great deal of confusion between the other participants and causing Ceasre to burst into tears immediately after showing herself off. Her fellow ships tried to console her, to tell her that Littorio was acting strange for a while now, that they all cherished her return and would support her in every way – alas, to no avail. Having received an official confirmation that she held no more dignity in Littorio’s eyes, feeling completely useless to her Empire, stripped of purpose and meaning, she slowly cried herself to sleep, kept company by her sister Cavour, who desperately tried to find words to calm Cesare down at last.
Little did they know Giulio Cesare wasn’t the only one to cry herself to sleep that night.
…
“…that would be all for today,” Littorio closed her folder, turning in her chair. “Dismissed.”
Putting her documents back into one of the cabinets, she turned back to see that her subordinates didn’t begin showing themselves out, a clear look of severe discontent splayed across their faces.
“We need to talk,” Zara stated, crossing her arms.
“If it’s about Cesare again, then no, we don’t. Her case is being reviewed. The details are none of your concern. Would that be all?”
“Then why do you keep paying her full salary?” Polla chimed in, “and with all the combat deployment bonuses, no less?”
“Probably an oversight on accounting department’s side… I’ll see to it when I have time.”
“But that’s exactly what you told me last week!” Trento exclaimed, “What is even going on, Littorio?”
“I obviously didn’t have time. And if you’re implying what’s going on with me, that too is none of your concern. Now please do show yourselves out, I’ve got work to do.”
Awarding Littorio with deathly glares, the three cruisers left. Cavour, however, remained in the office, stepping towards the Acting Flagship.
“Littorio, we REALLY need to talk,” she said, clenching her fist.
“I thought I told you to leave,” gritting her teeth, Littorio replied.
“I SAID!” she barked, suddenly slamming her white-gloved hand into the desk, “WE NEED TO TALK! Dannazzione, Littorio, she’s my sister! Used to be your friend, too! Have you even seen her lately?”
“She’ll get over it. One way or…”
“Six months, Littorio! Six months! All she’s been doing was sit on her ass, watch TV and stuff her face with pasta – that, or cry her eyes out!”
“I don’t see how it’s my…”
“Yes, it’s on you, too! It was hard enough on her to be sent to serve a hostile nation. It was embarrassing enough on her to return home a bit out of shape. Вut you… Littorio, you just broke her outright!”
“A bit out of shape?” Littorio scowled, “Oh, that’s one generous way to put it.”
“Yes, it was ‘a bit’ – compared to what she looks like now! And it’s all on you!”
“No, it’s not. Now, unless she gets her act back in order, there’s nothing more to discuss. Out!”
“I’ll show myself out, don’t worry about it. But I warn you, Littorio… if you don’t spare some of your precious time to talk to her in person, I’m taking this to Vittorio Veneto. Actually, scratch that, I’m taking this to Il Re himself.”
“You wouldn’t dare…”
“Two days, mia Ammiraglia. Do with it as you please.”
…
“Well, here goes,” sighing, Littorio knocked on the door.
“Uuuugh…” she heard a muffled moan, “Carabinere? Did you bring… more pasta?”
“It’s me, Littorio! Cesare, may I come in?”
She heard more muffled moans, followed by a rather loud belch.
“You alright in there, Cesare?”
“Just… oogh… just come in already,” a defeated voice replied.
Upon entering Giulio Cesare’s room, Littorio had a fleeting moment of doubt whether she was really awake – for a sight so bizarre clearly didn’t belong to a reality she used to consciously inhabit. Unfortunately, Acting Flagship was, in fact, awake – and all the empty pasta bowls, pizza boxes and calzone wrappers strewn across the floor, as well as the bloated, shallow parody of Giulio Cesare that was splayed across the length of the couch, were all part of that very same reality. Clad in a dress long since burst at the seams, serving as little more than an overstretched bra and barely covering an uppermost roll of her gut, and a pair of woefully undersized stockings that barely went past her knees, their elastic bands digging deep into the formless pillars of her thighs, she just laid there, revealing all her obese glory. Almost spilling out of the seat, using one of her forearms as makeshift pillow, bloated ham-hock arm up against the back of the couch, one tubby leg on the floor while the other, enveloped by her lower belly roll almost halfway down the sunken knee, occupied more than half of the seat itself, it was the Giulio Cesare of today, the one that couldn’t even see her own Acting Flagship at the door because her swollen breasts and mountainous gut blocked the view for good.
“Per l’amor di Nettuno…” was everything Littorio could utter at the sight.
“Hic-bhruurp… ugh, that lasagna is not sitting well today,” a blimp of a battleship mumbled, putting a hand on top of her unruly stomach.
“My dear Giulio Cesare… I’m so, so, so sorry…” Littorio muttered, feeling tears coming up her eyes.
“Ah… it’s you. Finally came to… bhrrp… to say that I’m getting decommissioned?”
“GIULIO, PLEASE FORGIVE ME-E-E-E-E!” a green-haired girl dove in for a crying hug, her arms digging deep into Cesare’s supple flesh, hands desperate to meet on the other side. “I AM SO, SO, SO SORRY FOR EVERYTHING!”
“Litto…rio…let…go…I…can’t…hold…it…IN!” Cesare grunted through her teeth, feeling a storm stirring up inside her rudely awakened, forcefully squished stomach. It was to no avail – her bawling and blabbering Acting Flagship would simply not listen.
Turning her head to the side to hopefully spare Littorio from the impact, she belted out a massive, bassy belch.
“BHRAAAAARP! Whew. Dannazzione, Littorio, I warned you… oh, okay, here-here, it’s alright…” she smiled, wrapping her own flabby arms around the green-haired girl, “I knew the day would come… I’m not afraid… better serve the Empire as materiel for new ships than… like this.”
“No, no, no, you don’t understand,” finally letting go, Littorio knelt beside her, tears still rolling down her cheeks, “I… there’s no going around this… I… I tried to murder you, Giulio.”
“You… what?”
“The talks were in deadlock for months… Vittorio Veneto was so desperate to do something… anything to shake things up… so I went to Decima Flottiglia…”
“Those subs…” Giulio Cesare felt her heart sinking. “They weren’t Iron Blood, they were…”
“Yes!” Littorio sobbed, “The assassins! I’m so, so, so sorry, Giulio… when the news came that you were alive… I thought I’d… I’d…”
“So that’s why you just allowed me to… hic-urlph… exist… like this… huh.”
“Vittorio Veneto told me to whip you back in shape, but I just… couldn’t bring myself to do it. I thought… I thought I’d die from the guilt and the shame if I’d see you again…”
“Does she know? Vittorio Veneto?”
“No… nobody else… just me and those two from Decima.”
“And now, me,” Giulio Cesare smirked. “You know, if the word gets out…”
“No! No-no-no-no!” Littorio nearly fainted at the sudden realization, “Please! I… I can make up to you! I promise! Just… please, I don’t even want to think what would happen! I can give you anything, just ask!”
“Anything, huh?”
“Anything! I promise!”
“You can start by giving me a nice belly massage… urph… whoever Carabinere bought that lasagna from, I hope they hang for it… ugh.”
Chapter 5: The Grand Finale
Chapter Text
“I think it’s here,” Carabinere whispered, pointing at the tall double door, “Cavour, come here, quick… I think I can hear something.”
It’s been almost a year since Giulio Cesare mysteriously disappeared from Taranto, last seen by fellow Sardegnan ships lumbering towards Littorio’s limo. Officially, she had been sent off to a secret facility someplace around Venice, as the scientific division of the Regia Marina had apparently taken a great interest in studying her ‘unusual’ features. And since Littorio quite soon returned to her usual warm and charming self, making sincere and generous amends for her cold and antagonizing behavior, the shipgirls under her immediate command were placated with such explanation, and went about their usual lives without giving much of a doubt regarding their Acting Flagship’s words.
That was, until one day Cavour caught a whiff of a faint, barely distinguishable, but so instantly familiar smell lingering within Littorio’s office. Being there all alone, out of morbid curiosity, she decided to go through the drawers of her desk – and quite quickly, her search produced Giulio Cesare’s panties, sandwiched between the pages of a Royal Navy charity calendar with rather risqué pictures of Illustrious and Glorious on them. Frankly, she wasn’t really sure that grotesquely oversized article of clothing actually belonged to her sister – but the smell was familiar enough to warrant a proper private investigation. Teaming up with Carabinere was almost a natural choice – the lithe destroyer girl was crafty, diligent, knew to keep her mouth shut, and was quite familiar with a plethora of investigative fiction. Now, having smuggled themselves inside Littorio’s mansion through one of the strange delivery trucks that arrived there only at nights, having snuck past the guards all the way from basement to master bedroom, they were about to unravel the mystery. And as part of their agreement, Cavour would get the first glance – because if, by any chance, her sister was there, it was her solemn duty to protect her dignity.
“Ooogh… my, Littorio… urph… you really outdone yourself tonight,” an enormously obese woman splayed atop the royal-size bed cooed, her face hidden behind the heaving boulder of her gut, “I think I actually may be full… oof… oogh...”
“I’m flattered,” Littorio replied in a mocking tone, walking into view clad in nothing but ornate red-and-green bra and panties, “but I think there is still some dessert left, mi amore.”
“I think you’ll have to… hurph… convince me…”
“Oh, you know I can be very convincing,” Littorio replied in a suggestive tone, climbing atop the bed. Kneeling before the pale wobbling mass, the green-haired girl placed her hands on top of it, fingers digging deep into the yielding flesh, and began squeezing it like a happy cat squeezes a pillow.
“Ooh… burp… your touch feels just… so nice…” the enormous woman grabbed at the blanket, “I’m going to miss it so much… when the formula… is done… unf…”
“R&D says it won’t be ready for at least two months,” Littorio began making wide motions, pushing her hands deeper, as if she was kneading puffy calzone dough, “so let us enjoy it while it lasts, my dear Giulio.”
“No objections… BHRAAAARP… on my part… oof… BHUUURP… ogh, I think I felt that on my tongue.”
“You make the cutest expressions when do that,” the green-haired girl purred, leaning her head against her lover’s churning gut, “as if you are captured in a moment of pure decadent bliss…”
“Not pure… BUOORP… yet…” Giulio Cesare cooed, “I think… I’m ready for… oof… that dessert.”
“I think I’m ready for mine, too…” Littorio replied, bending down and lifting Cesare’s belly.
…
“I think I’ve seen enough,” blushing profusely, Cavour turned away from the key socket, “let’s get out of here.”
“Is she in there?” Carabinere whispered anxiously, “Come on, don’t tell me it was just a red herring!”
“Hard to tell for certain… couldn’t see the face. But I think that was her.”
“And she was… with Littorio… doing something…”
“Let’s just say I know my sister is alive and happy, and that’s all I care for. I also think she might be rejoining us in a couple months’ time…”
Arkangel (Guest) on Chapter 3 Tue 09 Apr 2024 02:05PM UTC
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