Kink/Flufftober Day 27 ── Rough day...
October 27th, (a bit ooc)husband!Dieter x wife!reader.
You were midway through your crochet, fingers steady in the rhythm, tight stitch after tight stitch, a small white wool blanket pooling like a nest in your lap. You counted under your breath—three, four, turn—and hummed a scrap of Billie Holiday you usually hid under running water or the stove’s hiss. Tonight you allowed yourself three extra bars because no one was listening. The apartment smelled of potatoes crisping in the pan and vinegar from the beets, lemon on the grated carrots, cumin warmed between your fingers. You’d already warmed the plates on the stove rim, pulled the table to a good distance from the radiator, and set out the coarse bread and the mustard jar like two little anchors.
The slipped key killed the song. One dry scrape, a second miss, then the lock gave with a nervous click. The door opened on a strip of cold air, stairwell damp, wet thread smell. You tucked the yarn into the hook, tied off a clean little knot, laid the blanket on the arm of the dark leather sofa—right on the edge, stitches flat—and stood up, ready to cross the room with a “good evening” and a “dinner’s ready” already hanging from your shoulder.
You didn’t get farther than one step.
Dieter came in like crossing a line: brow low, shoulders rigid, jaw set. His hat skimmed the hall stand and somehow stayed. He shut the door without a slam, but with that crisp finality that says enough. His left eye carried a fresh bruise, a tight violet crescent that broke the light; his mouth was cut into a straight line; tendons pulled at his collar. You opened your mouth—good evening, I— and his arm cut through the space. Not a blow; a blind, tense sweep to clear a path. You eased back half a step, reflex, heart forward. He didn’t even see it was you.
— Nicht. Kein Wort, he said, sandpaper-flat, without raising his voice.
He dropped his gloves on the console and squared them in two sharp moves. He pulled off his boots like ripping two nails; set the heels in a straight line; wet soles marked a dark square on the rug. Coat buttons gave under his fingers, every one—clean brutality. You tried only a thread of sound, not a word, a breath—one human question mark. He blew sideways, a wordless “not now,” and went straight to the washroom, the hallway swallowed in four long strides.
You looked at the table, the potatoes still whispering in the pan, oil paused in tiny beads along the slices. You lowered the flame without a clink, slid the lid on at an angle to keep the crisp, tucked the towel along the handle. Vinegar from the beets was sharp in the air; you covered the bowl. The cumin on the raw cabbage rode up dry; you covered that too. One breath. Then you followed.
The washroom was already taken by the noise of the tap. Water came out cold, spat rust, ran clear. The small bulb threw a sick yellow on the enamel. Dieter was washing his hands too long. You’d seen him wash a thousand times; this was different. Palm to palm, backs of hands, knuckles, wrist to elbow; again; again. Not careful—stubborn. Water drew gray tracks in the basin and his breath crossed yours without catching. His cuff slid back and you saw the dark smear at his wrist, an uneven line that told its own story. You saw the bruise better too, that annoying strip of color that pinched his eye.
You leaned against the doorframe, to the side, where he could see you without bumping you. You didn’t speak. You set a clean towel on the hook, just your fingertips. A folded shirt on the hamper lid. You nudged the sewing tin nearer the sink corner—domestic instinct, nothing more. You left him the silence.
— Raus, he said, not looking up. Not a shout. A stone.
You stepped back once, then again. You stayed within earshot, in the hallway, back to the wall, fingers tucked in your hem to keep yourself still. The water kept going. You heard soap rasp down—old bar shaved thin; the towel stretched too hard; a swallowed grunt when cloth caught skin. He turned off the tap; the room breathed better; he opened it again. Still too much.
You looped to the sitting room, just to not stand on his heels. You lifted the pan and shook it gently so nothing stuck; scraped the brown edge with the wooden spatula; pulled the beets before they drank all the dressing; tipped the lid with one finger—right corner only, as always. You set the bread on a thick towel to hold the heat. The table waited, two exact settings—fork to the left, knife to the right—his chair facing the wall, yours toward the window. You changed nothing. You went back to the washroom door.
He’d taken off his shirt. It had fallen into the basin, heavy with water, a ruined piece of good manners. He pinched it in two fingers and wrung it too hard, anger running down in a black thread into the drain. The bruise was bluer now; the pull along his neck was a tight cord. You set the clean shirt within reach and stepped away before he could catch you at it.
— Don’t touch me, he said, very low, no room for doubt.
You let your hand fall. You dipped your head a centimeter—message received—and held your ground as nothing more than company. One minute. Two. Three. You watched the line of his shoulderblades under the skin; the tiny tic at his mouth when the alcohol bit the cut he kept rinsing with water—too clear, too cold. You heard the wet cloth hit tile, the spaced drip, the pipe complain.
You knew this kind of anger. It wasn’t hunting for a target; it was trying to climb past the point where control had broken somewhere else, with other people, noise, motion, bad luck. He didn’t want it marking the rooms here. So he scrubbed; he squared; he washed; he shut up. And he didn’t want words.
You lifted one finger and pointed: towel, then shirt. Then you stepped back another pace, like laying a path. He reached out and took the towel first. Dried. Put it back where it belonged. Took the shirt. Slid into it, swift, collar straight, buttonholes found on the first try. He stayed with his back to you, head down. The spotted mirror gave you one cheek, the marked eye, the tight breath.
You added your share of silence. Then turned to the kitchen. You killed the flame and let the heat finish the job. You nudged both chairs so their feet wouldn’t scrape. You set water for chicory, in case his throat wanted anything but the day’s taste. You moved back to the hall.
He came out at last, shoulder brushing the trim without touching you. He passed you like you pass a piece of furniture you respect: no collision, no greeting, no contempt. He walked to the sitting room with a stride that wanted to remember nothing hurt. The bruised eye pulled a little at each blink. He didn’t say good evening. You didn’t ask if he was all right. That was the price to keep him in the room without shutting every door.
He stopped short at the table. The Bratkartoffeln still steamed, crust browned, onions turned clear; the beet salad shone deep red; lemon threads lit the carrots; the cumin on the cabbage stayed dry and sharp. He looked without looking. Straightened the coaster with his nail by one precise millimeter. Didn’t sit. He stayed standing, forehead tight, and his anger lit the wood like far thunder.
You watched a few seconds. No big moves. Just you, hands flat on your skirt.
— Sit, you said, calm, no extra push.
He turned his head. A short, hard look. He chewed air. Then pulled the chair with one quick scrape and sat down, stiff, knees too close to the table. He took the fork, then the knife. Straightened the coaster by a hair again. Breathed through his nose. Attacked.
Potatoes first. Three chunks. He halved them, then quartered them, as if counting. The crust cracked clean under the blade. He didn’t wait for the steam to pass. He hissed a little and kept going. A stripe of mustard—too much—then more. Chair creaked once as he leaned in.
You didn’t move. You stayed by the kitchen side. You brought the carafe closer. You didn’t touch his plate. You didn’t touch him.
He speared beets. The dressing clung to the fork. He chewed fast, brow low. A sip of water. Glass set down straight. Back to the potatoes. The melted onion smeared the bread as he wiped the pan juices. He ate like someone without time. Like someone who didn’t want to think. Two fast bites of carrots. A dry cough at the cabbage.
A little laugh escaped your throat. You cut it off. He looked up—one eye dark, the other going blue. You kept your hands still. You fixed your gaze on the mustard jar as if it were fascinating. He went back to his plate.
You sat half-turned, on the edge of your chair—neither at the table nor away from it. You watched him eat. Not to provoke him. To make sure he was actually eating. He felt it.
— Why are you staring? he asked without volume.
— I want to know if it’s good.
He chewed twice more. Set the knife down. Wiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb. Picked up again.
He breathed out, annoyed. Cut again. His right arm tugged near the wrist. His jaw tightened; he kept going. You saw the pull where the cuff brushed the bandage he’d improvised. You said nothing. You slid a clean napkin a little closer to his hand. Left it there.
He finished the potatoes. Took bread. Scraped the pan clean. Pulled a face at one onion gone a shade darker and still ate it. Finished the beets down to the last triangle, even the corners. Three steady bites for the cabbage. He drank water. Set the glass down. The fork hovered. He hesitated, then took a small spoon of carrots to round it off. He placed knife and fork together, exact.
— Chicory? you offered, simple.
He lifted his eyes. Hesitated again. Pinched his lips.
You went to the kitchen. The water was still hot. You rinsed the cups. Paper filter, chicory grounds, a thin pour. The smell rose, warm and brown. You put a touch of beet sugar in his, not in yours. You set both cups on the table. He looked at the sugar label like it might help. He took the cup, blew, sipped. Put it down. Still quiet.
— You all right? you asked, low, nothing extra.
— I’m fine, he said—short, but less sharp.
You didn’t push. You slid his empty plate aside. Didn’t clear it. You let him breathe. He set his palm flat on the table, open, then pulled it back. Tapped the coaster edge with one finger. Looked at his cuff. He rolled it once so the fabric wouldn’t rub the cut. You nudged the little tin of plasters toward him without comment. He looked. Didn’t open it. Left it in the corner of his eye. Thanked you with a breath that wasn’t a word.
Your eyes met for a second. You let it go. You drank your chicory in silence. Too hot. You blew. Lifted the pan lid and scraped gently to save the last crunch. You served yourself. You hoped the scrape of fork on iron wouldn’t needle him. He didn’t twitch.
He raised his cup again. Drank more easily. A small shiver ran through him—nerves dropping, not cold. He centered the cup perfectly on the coaster. Reached left for the bread. The right followed slower. He cut a thin slice, broke it in two, handed you a piece without looking.
You took it. He bit the other half. The crust cracked. He chewed evenly. A little normal came back.
You passed him the salt. He dusted the carrots he’d left. Tasted. Nodded one centimeter. Not a compliment. A “that’s fine.”
— Your eye, you said, a small motion to show what you meant. Want ice?
You set a bowl of cold water and a folded cloth on the table corner anyway. No comment. You ate your share. The silence held. Not hostile now. Useful.
He glanced at the sofa. The white wool blanket lay where you’d left it. The stitches caught the light. He paused a half-second. Looked back at his cup.
— It burns less, he said about his throat. Information. Nothing else.
You stood to clear a plate. He lifted a hand, brief.
You left it. He stood too. Took his plate, his knife, his glass. Carried them to the sink. Rinsed. Set them down. Wiped a clean line on the counter with a little too much exactness. Came back. Picked up the cloth you’d set out. Pressed it to his eye for two seconds. Put it back on the bowl like it hadn’t happened.
— I’m going to the chair, he said.
You angled the armchair a little toward the lamp so the light wouldn’t cut across his face. You put the blanket within reach and didn’t tuck it over him. He crossed the room, back straight. Sat down. Rested his forearm carefully on the armrest so he wouldn’t pull the cut. Closed his good eye for one second. Opened it again.
— You can turn off the ceiling light above the table, he said, lower.
You clicked it off. The kitchen stayed warm; the sitting-room lamp made a small, safe circle. You stood a moment between rooms, hand on the frame.
— Anything else? you asked, plain.
You nodded. Sat across from him, edge of the sofa, two meters away. Took up your crochet again. Found your place. Tight stitch. You counted quietly. Three. Four. Turn. The little click of the hook was steady. It didn’t bother him.
It didn’t bother him, but you felt it—he was watching. He’d opened a book, yes, but his eyes didn’t stay on it. They skipped the lines, climbed the page, crossed the edge, settled on you, left, returned. He watched over the cover, not hiding the irritation, as if your thread had taken the place of his breath. You dipped, pulled, drew through, and you felt his gaze follow, stitch by stitch.
At the end of a row you looked up.
He flushed, quick. Color rose under the bruise—strange mixture. He lowered his eyes very calmly, put his gaze back in the book, turned a page he hadn’t read.
— I’m… checking your count. You’re skipping a stitch.
— I’m not skipping anything.
You looked at him two seconds more, on purpose. Blinked once and smothered a laugh in your sleeve. You liked him like this after the storm, cranky as a cat scrubbed the wrong way—clean, but bristling. You parked the hook in the ball so you wouldn’t lose the loop, spread the blanket flat on the armrest, and stood.
— Coming to bed or not? It’s late. I don’t want to drown in wool until midnight.
He closed the book with two fingers, set it on the stack. Rose without a word. Smoothed his shirt for a wrinkle that wasn’t there. Turned off the lamp, picked up his empty cup, set it in the sink, turned the tap a quarter-turn—same as always—and headed down the hall. You followed, two steps behind, no more.
The bedroom had the warm air of the bedside lamp. You drew the curtains tight. He set his watch on the table and aligned it with the edge. Slid under the blanket flat on his back, board-straight. You cupped his pillow with your hand to round it out without touching his head. He didn’t object. Stared at the ceiling one second. Breathed through his nose.
The quiet settled, simple. Not hostile. Just heavy with a day that refused to dissolve on its own.
You slid in on your side, thigh finding the cold sheet, toes searching for the warm stripe. You didn’t move right away. Let him breathe. Ten seconds, fifteen. Then you moved once, without fuss. You laid your arm over him and tucked yourself against his flank. Your head found the notch at his neck quickly enough. He let out an annoyed sigh that wasn’t unkind.
You placed two small kisses, no more, under the edge of his jaw. He did that quick shoulder move—reflex to shake you off without losing you. You set a third kiss in the same place to mark it. His breath hit your temple and steadied a little.
— Tell me, you said. Short. No details. Just the headlines.
He hesitated, then gave you what you’d asked for. Three sentences. A room too narrow. Useless noise. A colleague hurt—“nothing serious.” A stupid hitch. The “it shouldn’t have gone off the rails” caught in his throat and swallowed with a sip of water. Poor in words, good enough to lay the day on the nightstand and turn off half of it.
— Okay, you said. Got it.
You pushed yourself up a little, stretched to flick the bedside lamp back on—he’d turned it off by habit. The soft halo gave things edges again. You slid your pillow and sat beside his head. His cheek found your thigh—not entirely, not for long, just gravity working when a man stops resisting at full strength. You smiled. He blushed again and looked away toward the bookshelf where nothing moved.
You understood the ask without language. You laid your hand in his hair and let it rest there. Your fingers moved through the dark strands, surface first, then closer to the scalp, easy and slow, like untangling a thought. Your palm made two unhurried passes from temple to nape. His good eye blinked off and on in small clicks, as if something inside was shutting down one switch at a time.
— Want to settle in? you asked, plain.
He didn’t answer. He leaned a fraction into your hand. You took that as a yes. You sank back down, slid until you were level with him, wrapped him with your arm and your stomach like a belt. You inched the pillow five centimeters so his shoulder wouldn’t pinch. You pulled the blanket to his sternum, no higher. You gave him a small kiss on the mouth—quick, nothing extra. He pushed you back with a warm palm on your shoulder—not rough, not hard. Grouchy.
You laughed against his skin because you knew him.
— All right, Major. Not on the mouth. I’ll take the rest.
You shifted. Kissed the brow bone where the bruise shadow tugged. Light enough to weigh nothing. Up another half-centimeter. Again. You covered the spot the way you smooth a stamp to make sure it sticks. A tiny sound came out of him—half protest, half surrender.
— It’s not necessary, he said.
— It relaxes me. You don’t get a vote.
You alternated: a slow pass of your fingers through his hair, a kiss at his temple, your thumb tracing his forehead, a kiss along the cheekbone. You avoided the eyelid. You took your time—not to make a fuss, just to wear the day down by wearing it down. He tried twice more to wriggle out, like a fish giving its last kicks. You let those go by. He stopped trying.
You felt his ribcage drop, a real shift. His stomach let go of the hard knot. Under the blanket, his hand lay flat against your side—no squeeze, just a check that you were there. You set a kiss exactly where the bruise had already begun to yellow at the thin skin. He barely startled. His mouth opened and closed.
— That’s enough, he breathed.
He didn’t argue. You added a third, tiny, because you’re you. He grumbled on principle. You smiled without sound. You turned the lamp down halfway. The light decided not to fight and stayed soft around you.
You kept your hand in his hair, not claiming anything—just on watch. His breath deepened. He moved one shoulder; you moved with him. He traded stiffness for plain contact. The city was far away again—a pipe ticked, a late cart rolled by—nothing urgent. You set your forehead to his temple for one second and passed your warmth there. You didn’t add words.
— Don’t talk anymore, he said, but the sentence had no teeth.
The bed stopped counting seconds. He finally shut his eyes for real. The muscle at the corner of his mouth went off duty. His fingers slackened on the sheet with a quiet cotton sound. His breathing fell into an even pace that wasn’t trying to prove anything.
You gave him three more kisses—slow, spaced out—one to his forehead, one to the unmarked cheek, one beside the bruise, like sealing an envelope. He grumbled very low, a tame noise that meant he was already half asleep and complaining out of habit. You answered with a neutral little “mm,” nothing more than music.
You slid your hand out of his hair so you wouldn’t overheat him and rested it open and light on his collarbone. You felt the in-and-out under the skin, steady and straight. You turned off the lamp. The room grew simple. The sheets smelled like soap. The pillow still held a trace of camphor from earlier. You tucked your knee gently behind his so he wouldn’t slide. You let your own eyes drift shut, one ear still awake.
He fell asleep right there, under the kisses he never admits to liking—grumpy to the last second, then quiet at last. You stayed still for the first minute in case he rolled back to reclaim his territory. He didn’t. The night drew down like a curtain that hangs the way it should.
And because tenderness is a habit too, you eased the blanket up another inch, checked the bandage under his cuff with two fingers, and smoothed the crease near the watchbone. He didn’t stir. You lay your palm flat against his chest one more time—counted four easy beats—and let the room hold all the words you hadn’t said.
Just finished, it's 20:38 in my country...
Stay tuned, I'll be posting something soon about how the blog works, and tomorrow's one-shot will probably be posted at the same time (around 9pm). Because it's too tiring to write/post at 3 or 4 in the morning.
AND sorry if my English sucks, it's because I'm French.
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