Chapter Text
Nazi’s name wasn’t entirely accurate to who she was.
Looking at it objectively, she was a bit further economically right than the ideology known as National Socialism (though most knew that particular woman wasn’t far behind her, despite what certain foolish humans claimed about her name being literal). More accurately, she should have just been called Fascist, but Ancom’s nickname for her ever since moving into Ancap’s house had stuck. So, Nazi it was.
Not like she hated it, really. That particular group certainly had points she admired deeply- their devotion to purging degeneracy and weaklings, strict enforcement of order, their staunch battle against (((them))), it was all perfectly good by her books. Hell, she’d been out there with them historically, fighting for her volk against those who threatened her pure way of life. That was where she’d met Commie for the first time, now that she thought about it.
Her thoughts always ran back to Commie lately, huh? Nazi groaned, shaking her head and returning to her sewing. She’d gotten back into it after decades of neglect- a proper habit for a proper woman. Sure, she wasn’t good at it, and Ancom would probably prattle on about how none of them were even technically human, so why conform to human gender roles…
But Ancom wasn’t here right now, and fuck her opinion anyways. Nazi was going to sew.
The living room was a nice place to indulge in a hobby, if only on days like these when the anarchists were out on some likely-degenerate business. Ancap at least ensured the sofa was high-quality (Nazi was fairly sure some of her governments had made lucrative deals with the manufacturer before- human rights records be damned, only bleeding heart libtards cared about those pesky child labour allegations. Besides, they were made in Indonesia, so they’d be brown kids anyways), making for a comfortable place to settle down in other her work. Nazi was puttering away on an old blouse, replacing some broken buttons and mending holes- though she was inclined to just buy a new one, the pretty thing had some sentimental value, and it was a good warm up before trying to make something new anyways. Though she’d been working at this particular hole for a while now… The stitches never lined up right, and the fabric came out bunched up and crooked. That wouldn’t do. At this rate, all she’d have to show would be some new puncture holes from the thread she kept inserting then pulling out. What should-
“You don’t have enough pins holding it together.”
Nazi, though she’d deny it if asked later, made an embarrassing shrieking noise, dropping the shirt in her lap and whipping her head up so quickly that her military cap fell right off her head and onto the sofa beside her. Commie stood across from her, coffee mug in hand, looking at the rightist with the usual unreadable gruffness sprayed over her face.
Commie. Easily six feet tall, mostly leg, with deep red hair unconfined by her ushanka and falling down her back in thick waves. Though her face bore scars from years of war, there remained a certain feminine quality, the kind of woman who would have been a mother physically capable of both bearing and raising a lovely, large brood of Aryan children had it not been for her unfortunate Slavic roots getting in the way of a pure bloodline. Despite that inherent genetic inferiority, Nazi knew some of her own allies had fallen victim to the communist’s allure in the past. And how could they be blamed for it, with the way she wore that form fitting uniform? Long trenchcoats do nothing when you leave them open and have a chest constantly threatening to break buttons off your shirt! And since when did Commie switch her old skirt out for that one?! Had that goddamn slut Ancom influenced the other leftist so much as to get her into a pencil skirt so short that her thigh holster and accompanying Makarov were perfectly visible? And don’t get her started on the boots-
The other woman moved to place a hand on her hip, and Nazi’s vision snaps up to an unimpressed looking Commie, red eyes slightly narrower. “Done checking me out, or would you prefer I take a new angle for you to inspect?”
Sarcasm dripped from her voice, and Nazi can feel her cheeks filling up with redness, teeth grinding at the back. “I am not ‘checking you out’, you goddamn degenerate. I was just caught off guard by your hooker getup. Are your workers going hungry again? Picking up a little ‘side gig’ to pay for their bread?”
“Firstly, even CIA reports consistently showed that Soviet citizens ate as many calories as Americans, so as Ancom might say, ‘die mad about it’.” Ignoring Nazi’s eye roll, Commie leant back against the living room wall. “Secondly, all that has changed is my skirt. I am simply trying something new. Much like you are, if your little mending job is anything to go by.”
“I’m not new, just out of practice-!”
“Tell me about it.” Approaching the couch, Commie put her mug on the coffee table before swinging around to take a seat beside Nazi, shuffling in all too close as she stared in judgement at the fascist’s handiwork. “As I said, needs more pins.”
Huffing, Nazi made a large motion of scooting away from the communist, turning her head up. “I’ll sew how I please.”
“I don’t like seeing fabric and thread wasted. Here.” Leaning forth towards the table that held most of Nazi’s sewing supplies, Commie plucked the pincushion up before pulling a few pins from the stitched plush, forking them over in Nazi’s direction. “Just use a few more and your fabric won’t bunch so much. Hole will be gone.”
Grinding her teeth, Nazi would have taken a minute to weigh the pros and cons of accepting aid, but it looks like that wasn’t an option- Commie all but dropped them on top of the blouse before standing up and pulling her long hair to the front. Nazi, under other circumstances, might have snapped back with some comment about making sure she didn’t catch lice again (and whether or not the other woman really did have them back in that Chilean torture camp, Nazi would be lying if she said she didn’t take a certain glee in watching the communist’s heartbroken expression as one of Pinochetism’s agents forcibly sheared her of her crowning glory), but something very peculiar happens. Blue eyes narrow in on the smooth curve of the base of Commie’s neck, pale skin unblemished and soft, and she’s suddenly tripping over her own words. “T-That’s-”
Waving her off dismissively, Commie turned her head over her shoulder to regard the fascist passively. “Not interested in arguing. I agreed to let Anarkiddy practice their palm reading on me in exchange for them reading some Engels with me. It’s rare that they agree to read theory.”
The mention of the anarchist is at least enough to ground Nazi in a firm sense of disdain, and she pulls one of her long blonde braids forwards to toy with in irritation. “Come on. She calls herself a girl, so call her a she.”
The passive glance turns a bit icier, a bit harsher, and Nazi is more than a little confused by the sudden pang of heat in her gut. “I don’t always understand why they identify as a woman yet prefer ‘they’, but it doesn’t matter. It’s what they are comfortable with, and it’s not a burden to me at all. I respect my comrades.”
“Whatever. Go play commune with the little degenerate, see if I care.” Reaching over to grab her displaced hat and set it back where it belonged, Nazi huffed in irritation as Commie rolled her eyes before making her exit. It wasn’t until the firm sound of her boots on the floor faded from earshot that the fascist felt her body lose tension she wasn’t even aware she was holding onto, leading her to sigh deeply and drop her sewing onto the coffee table. Who gave a fuck about extra pins? It wasn’t any of Commie’s goddamn business, anyways. Fucking leftists, sticking their noses where they weren’t wanted.
… Her eyes drifted to the mug next to her temporarily-abandoned blouse. Commie seemed to have forgotten her coffee.
She doesn’t know what inspires her to lean forward and pick it up. Later, she could lie to herself and say she was thinking about spitting in it, but truthfully, the thought never passed through her mind. Holding the thing in carefully manicured hands, Nazi allowed her gaze to run over the ceramic mug. It was probably one of Ancaps that Commie had ‘collectivized’ at some point, as Nazi couldn’t see the communist purposefully choosing a mug with with a Gadsen snake on it. A totally-not-creepy sniff leads her to the conclusion that it was simple black coffee. How like Commie. Boring, practical, bitter. She almost puts it down before noticing the light sheen on the rim that catches in the light.
A slight, shimmering outline is visible in a very recognizable pattern. Commie had left a lip gloss mark.
The communist was never one for ‘bourgeois decadence’ or whatever bullshit she yammered about, but that didn’t mean Nazi didn’t know about the modest collection of cosmetics in a simple red bag on the bathroom shelf shared between the four housemates (yes, getting ready in the morning was hell). Commie still took care of herself, and the colourless gloss was proof of that. She could at least respect her fellow authoritarian for her subtle beauty techniques- nothing at all like the gaudy shit the anarchists caked onto their faces each morning. No, Commie had a more natural beauty- harsh from time to time, but strong. Unyielding. Overwhelming enough that Nazi sometimes found herself getting a jolt of adrenaline that she’d never known outside of war when the two bickered.
… When did the cup get so close to her own lips?
Nazi blinked, realizing her mouth was only inches from the rim- from the very spot Commie had left that lip gloss stain. Fuck. When did she do that? Hurrying to put it down without breaking it (lest she get an earful from Ancap), the fascist moved to push the mug as far away from her sewing as she could, as if it had burned her to touch. The hell was that all about? Moving with sudden nerves to adjust her tie, Nazi tore her eyes off the offending mug and over to focus on her abandoned sewing. Why didn’t she just do this in her room again and avoid this whole conundrum? Ah, right. Ancap’s nice living room. All decorated in golds and designer brands and with the delightful floral, metallic scent that indicated there’d been a whole lot of cocaine tossed around in here.
Ugh. Nazi was really the only one in this house with moral convictions, wasn’t she? The others just existed to annoy her. Fuck Ancap and her increasingly obvious drug problem, fuck Commie and the uncomfortable emotions she was pointedly going to ignore right now, and fuck Ancom in general. She was going to sew, and she would enjoy it.
(Commie was right. The extra pins wound up saving the shirt.)
Nazi managed to keep it together for two whole days before the next major crack occurred in her carefully maintained mental state.
She’d gotten back from a… cookout… later than she’d expected to, and it seemed like the rest of the household had gone to bed. It was almost unnerving being in a silent house- never a dull moment with those three chucklefucks- but it was admittedly pleasant to have a moment or two to herself. Enough time to brew some tea, anyways… Or it would have been had there not been a banging at the front door just as she put the kettle on the stove.
At this hour? Nazi swears that if it was one of those goddamn Jew debt collectors that floated around Ancap, she was not playing by that stupid NAP thing. Ancom had left her baseball bat by the entrance, which the fascist was fully prepared to grab as she swung the door open in annoyance, but it turned out to be unnecessary, despite the notably non-white face staring back at her.
The woman appeared to be of Asian descent, straight black hair cropped in a bob cut that contrasted with pale skin and piercing red eyes- a good indicator that she was Authleft, though the green hat with a red star would have been a pretty big tip off even without the signature colour. Regardless, Nazi was less concerned about what ideology this was and why she was barely holding up a mumbling Commie who was missing a shoe. “... There’s a story behind how all this happened, I’m sure.”
“Yep, but I’m in no mood to tell it.” Nazi stumbled a bit as Commie was abruptly pushed into her arms, the fascist struggling to handle the sudden weight while the new woman crossed her arms. “I’m Maoist. ML mentioned she was doing that ‘Centricide’ thing with the other corners, and you certainly don’t look like Ancom or Ancap, so I guess you’re Nazi.”
“You guess correctly.” Finally finding a more comfortable position as Commie giggled against her shoulder, Nazi quirked at eyebrow at Maoist. “Who’s ML, and what in Evola’s good name happened to Commie?”
Maoist sighed. “Are you for real? Goddamn gweilo . You’re holding ML. Marxist-Leninist. You seriously just call her Commie? There’s, like, ninety communists in our quadrant alone.”
“She calls me Nazi and that’s not my real name, so she doesn’t get any special treatment.” Why did she even need to defend herself against this inferior specimen? Commie’s incoherent mumbles were only making things worse. “And you didn’t tell me what happened to her.”
The girl shrugged, going in her skirt pocket and pulling out a pair of car keys with a dangly panda keychain. “What’s it look like? A bunch of us went out drinking and she got blasted. Can you take care of her? I’d stick around and tend to her, but I’m the designated driver and I need to get Juche and Baathist home before they violate the Geneva convention any more than this night already has.”
As if on cue, there were a pair of shrieking laughs from the beat up van at the end of the driveway. Nazi sighed, shifting Commie’s weight in her arms. “Fine, fine. I’ve got her.”
With a wave goodbye and a shout in (presumably) Chinese at the girls in the van, Maoist turned on her heels, and Nazi was left to close the door with her foot all while holding up a stumbling Commie. Gritting her teeth, Nazi inhaled sharply only to be met with the pungent scent of vodka. “Goddammit, Commie. Warn us before pulling these stunts.”
Giggling, the taller woman swayed a bit before wrapping her arms around Nazi’s shoulders, the fascist freezing up instinctively and having to brace against the wall to avoid bringing them both down. “Ahaha… Oh, Nazi. So much fun. Deaaaath to… Imperalists…”
“Yeah, sure, whatever.” Yeah, Commie had a solid six inches on her in height and probably about forty pounds in weight. No way she was getting her up the stairs to her bedroom. With an angry sigh, Nazi pushed off the wall, all but dragging the Internationale-humming girl to the living room couch. “You’re sleeping here.”
“Mmhmm.” Stretching out, Commie… did something that looked like an attempt to squirm out of her trenchcoat, but that just left her wriggling around helplessly.
Was this waste of a woman truly the ideology that had made the entire world shake its knees? Exhaling sharply, Nazi reached down to help pull the girl’s trenchcoat off, throwing the red garment on the floor haphazardly. “This sort of behaviour is unbecoming of you, Commie. If I hear you throw up in the night, I’m not coming to…”
Oh. She was asleep.
Nazi stopped to stare for a minute, first at the almost peaceful way her chest rose and fell instantly after tumbling into an alcohol-induced slumber, but… Then at the way one leg hung off the couch. She hadn’t stopped wearing that short skirt (Ancom’s influence, she was still sure of it!), and with her legs spread wide open like that…
She should do the proper thing and close them. Just… Grab the thigh and push both legs on the couch. Solve the problem there and then, right? Easy peasy. So why did Nazi’s throat suddenly dry up at the sight of pure white panties? Why did her fists clench tightly enough to leave nail indents in her palms?
All good questions. None of which Nazi could answer right now. Getting contact drunk was impossible, but she’d have believed you if you told her that’s what had happened- anything to explain the sudden rising of heat over her entire body, the heartbeat picking up with each minute. Nazi’s mind scrambled for justifications, for solutions, and all that she found was one simple query:
Commie claimed to be a woman of the people. It was the base of her ideological standing. So… So surely someone like that wouldn’t be secretly splurging on extravagances like luxury undergarments, would she? Leftists always lied, the two faced degenerates. It was only right to investigate and see if that was the truth. Nazi owed it to her followers to decry left-wing hypocrisies whenever she could! Flimsy, but it did lead to trembling hands moving to Commie’s skirt, gently pushing the hem up so as not to disturb the sleeping woman.
Her panties… Were quite ordinary, actually. Plain white, bikini style, no lace or frills. Sort of disappointing- and that was definitely only because Nazi was hoping to find some sign of her not practicing what she preached! Not any other reason! Because that would mean she was…
… She should check her bra, too. Just in case
What the fuck are you doing , screamed the little sensible voice in Nazi’s head, always around to remind her of basic social rules such as: don’t fucking strip the drunk woman, you aren’t a fucking dyke, what’s wrong with you? Fun little tidbits, really, but something else was powering the fascist as she unbuttoned Commie’s shirt. She… She couldn’t place it, really, but she’d felt this rush before. Years ago, when territories were conquered and people subdued, when she stood over another hard-fought victory. When she’d taken what she wanted because she deserved it, to hell with the opinions of sheep!
Her hands are no longer trembling, and Nazi finds herself both aware that her facial expression must have dipped into something downright treacherous , and also that she doesn’t care. Alcohol be damned, power was an even better intoxicant, and as she looked down at the oh-so-high-and-mighty Commie, passed out drunk with her skirt flipped up and her shirt buttoned down to her stomach… She feels strong.
“I could ruin your life before you even woke up,” She mumbles, leaning down and placing a digit under Commie’s chin. “Strip you further and take photos. Drop you out in the alley for the scum to do as they pleased with. You’re so utterly helpless, you know that?”
Commie says nothing, which is just as well. Nazi kneels next to the couch, running her fingers from the other authoritarian’s chin to where her cleavage met. “No wonder men from my side salivated for you in war. Oh, you acted so proud, but look at you now. The strong rule the weak- we both know that. So why shouldn’t I be allowed free reign over you? To take exactly what your body is offering me?”
Her hands glide to the top of Commie’s bra, another disappointing plain white, but that hardly matters right now. Nazi is drunk on power, each carnal urge from before screaming for her to take what you want, and as she moves to pull the cups down-
The kettle from so long ago reaches a boiling point, letting out a shriek on the stovetop.
It’s like a sobering hit, and Nazi shoots backwards like she’s been shot, scrambling so fast on her hands that she feels carpet burns almost instantly. Stumbling to her feet, she bonks her head off a bookshelf, biting her tongue to keep from shrieking out in pain. She tastes blood, but even worse is the fact that Commie is stirring.
She’s maybe never ran so fast in her life as she did in the bolt to the kitchen, instantly grabbing the kettle from the stove and dumping the boiling water in the sink with a grand hiss. Even so, her heartbeat in her ears is deafening, and it’s an agonizing forty seconds for Commie’s little mumbles to fall back into contented sleeping noises. Oh dear god. Oh dear god, she’d almost woken up during- when Nazi was-
What was she doing?
Nazi grabs at her stomach, a wave of cold fear and nausea hitting her like a train. She doesn’t throw up, but she’s hunched over the sink just in case, heat from the recently-poured water doing little to reduce the icey numbness over her entire body. That… No, she couldn’t have… That was a very normal reaction to having your enemy under your control! And they were enemies- fascists and communists didn’t have a reputation for playing nice. Of course she’d have a need to toy with her prey. Commie would do the exact same thing, she’s sure of it.
(Why does your body tingle at the thought of your roles just now being reversed?)
She buries her face in her hands, breathing hard. No, no. She can’t do this now. She’s tired, it’s late, she needs to get some fucking sleep. She’s not Ancap, she can’t snort coke and stay up for three days. Nazi inhales sharply, exhales sharply, removes her hands and settles them at her waist with a firm sigh. Power. Just the exchange of power. That’s all that was, and she wouldn’t tolerate any further thought on the matter.
Even so, she takes the long way upstairs. Perhaps some part of her can’t face the partially stripped Sleeping Beauty in the living room. Commie wouldn’t remember a damn thing- she’d wake up, Nazi would say she’d partied too hard, and that Maoist woman would back her up. All good. All bases covered.
Even so… Some part of her knows Pandora’s box has been opened.
It takes some time for sleep to reach her that night.