𝐃𝐎𝐆 𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐒 || ᴄʜ ᴏɴᴇ-ꜱʜ✪ᴛ ||

ᴍᴏʀᴇ? (Third Reich)

ᵀʰⁱʳᵈ ᴿᵉⁱᶜʰ ˣ ᶠ!ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ
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Warning: Non-consensual touch, Alcohol, Force Feeding, Humiliation, kidnapping?

The dimly lit room held an unsettling air of tension, the thick scent of cigar smoke mixing with the sharp burn of alcohol. Nine men, each dressed in their country’s military regalia, sat around a grand table, their voices low and grim. Maps of war, strategy, and bloodshed were sprawled across the surface, but the focus of their attention was no longer the war—they were celebrating. Celebrating power, victory, and control.

And in the middle of it all, you stood.

Your hands were steady as you poured drinks, the sound of liquid filling crystal glasses barely audible over the murmur of conversation. You moved mechanically, body stiff with the weight of eyes on you. The men watched you, though none as intensely as him— the one who had taken you.

He sat at the head of the table, Third Reich, his gloved hand drumming lightly against the polished wood. He didn’t speak, not yet, simply watched you with an intensity that made your skin crawl. His eyes never left you, and you could feel their weight pressing down on your every move.

You kept your gaze lowered, obediently pouring his drink first. The amber liquid swirled in his glass, catching the dim light as you set the glass down beside him. He smirked, pleased with your silence, with your compliance.

"Good girl," his voice rasped from behind you, thick with satisfaction. You froze for a moment but quickly set the bottle down and stepped back, just as you been trained. Silent. Obedient. You had no choice but to obey, to avoid making anything worse.

The room was filled with casual conversation, as if the world outside wasn’t burning. As if your life hadn’t been stolen from you. You felt their eyes on you, glancing up now and then, measuring, judging but you focused on one thing— keeping quiet, doing what was asked, and not drawing any more attention than necessary.

But the dictator have many ideas.

"Come here," he ordered, his voice deceptively calm.

Your heart dropped, but your feet moved before you could think to stop them. You walked toward him with some of his allies were watching now.

His hand reached out and gripped your wrist, pulling you closer, and you stumbled slightly but corrected yourself before falling. He tugged you into his lap, his other hand pressing against her waist. You froze, your entire body tensing, going stiff as a board.

"Relax," he murmured, his breath warm against your ear. His hand slid up your back slowly, tracing the curve of your spine, fingers lingering too long in places that made your stomach twist in knots. "You’re making me look bad in front of my guests."

You bit your inside cheek, forcing yourself not to react, not to flinch. But you couldn’t stop your body from betraying you—the rigidness, the way your hands balled into fists on your lap as you sat there, like a statue. His touch made your skin crawl, but you couldn’t fight back, not here, not with the room full of men who were all just as dangerous as him.

"You’re no fun like this," Third Reich whispered, his voice darkening with irritation. His fingers dug into your now, gripping harder. You tensed even more, if that were possible, your breathing shallow. You knew what would happen if you didn’t comply, but every fiber of you being resisted, panicking inside your head.

He reached for the bottle of whiskey on the table, pouring a generous amount into a glass. You could feel his frustration mounting, the tension in his body as he held you closer, too close.