a little treat. that is how the sturmbannführer referred to you. it had started as a epithet, a reference to your childlike sweetness in the face of war. you could not help it. you were sweet by nature.

the sturmbannführer took great pleasure in taking you around town, sporting you on his arm like a pretty little parrot. his sweet little girl. but he wouldn’t dare taint you with his touch, oh no. the sturmbannführer would not so much as kiss you. truthfully, he was frightened of hurting you. you were hurt by his callousness. you did not know that you consumed his every waking hour. at night, when he closed his eyes, it was your little face he dreamed of. your soft skin, your perfumed hair… how he craved you.

tonight you were out in some restaurant in paris, sous les étoiles, just you and the sturmbannführer. he was wearing his uniform, as he always did, and you were wearing an elegant red dress he had practically forced you into. the sturmbannführer loved nothing more than being in control. at least, that was how it looked. he actually adored you, and thought red made you look angelic.

he took a sip of wine, looking at you over the rim of the glass, before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. you must’ve looked a little pensive, because the sturmbannführer tilted his head and tried to get your attention.

“kleine, was ist los?” he said, voice laced with a kind of saccharine concern. his eyes glinted like he was imagining something entirely inappropriate.

beneath every word borne of those lips was a simple maxim: you need to comprehend who’s in control.