#dieter hellstrom fluff

[aarcticmuuse]

⟢ ── Don’t do that again

husband!Dieter x pregnant wife!reader

No CW needed, just a protective and annoying Dieter <3

idea from someone anonymous

wc : 8607

The sun was already beating against the windows when you opened your eyes.

It wasn’t the pale, timid light of winter, nor the heavy kind that falls too early in autumn. It was a real summer morning, blunt and bright, spilling across the sheets, the floorboards, the chair where your dress from the day before still slept.

The curtains let in stripes of gold. The room smelled of soap, warm dust, and cold tobacco. The imprint of Dieter’s head on the pillow beside you was already cold.

He’d left for work a while ago. You’d half-heard his footsteps, the clink of his belt, the sharp sound of the front door closing. You’d drifted back to sleep halfway.

Now there was only the silence of the apartment, the stubborn ticking of the clock, and that strange living weight in your belly.

You laid your hand on your skin out of reflex.

Twenty-one weeks.

Your belly was no longer just a slight roundness. It was a presence. A shape that stretched the fabric of your nightgown, that changed the way you got out of bed, how you sat down, how you breathed.

You hauled yourself onto your side, your feet searching for your slippers. Your spine protested a little, like that of an old woman. You slid to the edge of the bed, your palms flat on the mattress.

It was fine.

No dizziness this morning. No nausea. Just that familiar heaviness and those shy little movements, like small brushes from the inside.

You got to your feet. The floorboards creaked. Outside, Berlin was already breathing: you could hear the tram wheels screeching in the distance, a newspaper boy shouting the day’s headline, a radio crackling in the next apartment.

In the slanting light, your blue-and-white checkered dress was waiting for you, neatly folded over the back of the chair.

You looked at it for a moment, as if it were tempting you.

It was your pretty dress.

The one that used to hug your waist and now simply followed the new curve of your belly without squeezing it. The cotton was light and comfortable, the pattern modest but cheerful. The straps had been taken up a few centimeters a few weeks ago, with thread slightly darker than the fabric.

Your handiwork. Your small adjustment to this new body.

And next to it, on the floor, lined up like shiny soldiers: your white patent heels, three-centimeter heels, standing straight.

You’d been eyeing them with longing for days, without daring to touch them.

You heard Dieter’s voice in your head, hoarse and exasperated:

— You’re not wearing those. You’re going to break your neck on the stairs, he’d said.

He’d even pointed his finger that day, like a judge.

But you weren’t retaining water. Your ankles, for the moment, were the same. Your legs…

You lowered your gaze to them beneath the hem of your nightgown. Soft. Smooth. Perfectly shaved.

The image came back sharp, from two days earlier:

Sitting on a chair in the bathroom, a towel spread out under your feet. Dieter in front of you, crouched down, the razor in his hand like someone had handed him a torture device. His brow furrowed, his jaw clenched.

— This is ridiculous, he muttered. — I can’t see my legs properly anymore, Dieter. I’m going to cut myself, you said. — It’s not vital, as far as I know, to have legs like a shop window mannequin, he said. — It is to me, you answered.

You’d held your ground, your voice firm, your eyes locked on his.

And he’d given in—grudgingly, cursing under his breath, concentrating, his fingers surprisingly gentle on your skin.

You’d felt the razor glide, the foam cooling. He didn’t say it, but you saw it clearly: the almost excessive focus, the fear of hurting you.

Now your legs were neat, ready to see the light of day.

And the thought crossed your mind, sharp and sudden: No one sees them. No one sees me.

You took a deep breath.

The neighborhood market wasn’t far. Ten minutes on foot.

A summer morning, fresh fruit, a few vegetables, the outside air on your skin…

And Dieter at work, busy with his colleagues. Far away.

Your decision formed in silence, solid, complete.

You pulled the dress on. The fabric slid over your shoulders, settled on your hips. You buttoned it up, slowly, stopping twice when the baby kicked or when the fabric pulled a little tighter than before. In the spotted mirror above the dresser, you examined yourself.

You had changed.

Your face was a little rounder, your eyes a bit more shadowed. But there was also something more alive there, a kind of light, a tension.

You slowly ran your hand over the curve of your belly, as if you were smoothing a tablecloth.

Then, almost reverently, you took the white heels.

The patent leather caught the sunlight, a clean, almost insolent shine.

You slid one foot in, then the other.

Your toes welcomed the familiar feeling of leather squeezing a little, the heel lifting you up.

You stood very slowly, to be safe. The first second, your center of gravity protested. Your muscles tensed to adjust. You took one step.

A second.

It was fine.

No fall, no dizziness.

A tiny smile slipped out of you, small but real.

You were finding something of your old self again.

Not the watched wife, not the fragile future mother tucked in like old porcelain, but the woman who loved the sharp click of her heels on the floor.

You grabbed your canvas shopping bag, mechanically checked the money in your purse, then opened the kitchen window. The warm air rose, full of coal smoke, bread, and dust. Down in the courtyard, children’s voices echoed up.

Your heart was beating a little faster than usual.

It wasn’t just the pregnancy.

It was what you were about to do.

Dieter had been clear lately:

— Not alone. Never. You wait for me. Or you take someone with you. I don’t want you wandering around outside without me, he’d said.

He said it with that sudden anger that hid something else. You knew that. In his eyes, you could see the fear—fear of the crowd, of the city, of the cars, of the unpredictable, fear for you, fragile, lost in the middle of it all.

But sometimes, inside you, another fear answered back: the fear of becoming a piece of furniture that no one moved without asking permission.

You shut the window. You took your keys.

The apartment door closed softly behind you.

The sound of your heels rang in the stairwell, regular, sharp.

For the first time in weeks, you went down without arms around you, without a big hand at your back, without a voice ordering you to hold the railing.

The street welcomed you suddenly, bright, noisy, alive.

The cobblestones threw back the heat of the sun. Tramways slid by in the distance with a metallic screech. A bicycle passed, followed by a dog barking. A woman shook a rug out on a second-floor balcony, dust falling like a golden cloud.

You walked toward the neighborhood market, bag on your arm, heels tapping against the sidewalk.

Each step was a mix of freedom and faint guilt. Like stealing time, stealing air, stealing a morning that didn’t entirely belong to you.

Your belly pulled a little. Not painfully, just there. You braced your hand under it, automatically, to support it.

Eyes slid over you: men in suits hurrying past gave you a couple of quick glances; women looked you up and down, their gaze stopping on your heels, your belly, your empty bag.

Two boys sitting on some steps followed you with their eyes until you turned the corner. You heard one whisper:

— She’s pregnant, look at her shoes, the boy said.

The other snickered. You quickened your step a little, your cheeks hotter, not knowing if it was from the heat or from shame.

The market appeared at the end of the street like a mess of colors and noise.

Fruit stands, pyramids of tomatoes, cabbages, carrots, cloths stretched above to offer shade, voices calling out to one another, laughter, haggling.

The smell of fresh vegetables tangled with that of meat, fish, sweat, tobacco, frying oil.

You slowed, your eyes taking in the scene, almost in awe of this ordinary chaos you’d missed.

You recognized the faces, the silhouettes: the butcher in his stained apron, the flower woman who always wore the same yellow scarf, the two young men who helped load the crates.

And farther away, under a slightly torn awning, you saw her: Frau Mertens.

Frau Mertens had been selling vegetables longer than you’d been alive, if you believed her. Broad, solid, with red cheeks and hair pulled into a tight bun, she had a way of talking that left no room for shyness. She knew the people in the neighborhood, their stories, their troubles, their husbands.

She knew Dieter.

She’d seen you at his side more times than you could count, examining you like a bird that had fallen into her garden by mistake.

You stepped closer to her stall, your heart beating a little faster at the thought that she, of all people, might report back. But the smell of freshly pulled carrots, onions, apples, made you forget that worry for a second.

— Good morning, Frau Mertens, you said with a smile.

She raised her head, squinting to match your silhouette to her memories.

Then a wide grin split her face.

— Ah! Just look at that, she said. Her voice rolled out like happy thunder. — Out of your cage, are you? Come here, let me see you, she said.

You stopped in front of the stall.

Her gaze practically grabbed you by the shoulders, shamelessly looking you over: the checkered dress, the belly, the heels, your slightly flushed cheeks.

— You’re even rounder than last time, she said.

She set a fist on her hip.

— It’s growing well, huh? she asked.

You laid your hand on your belly, now an automatic, slightly protective reflex.

— He… he’s growing, yes, you said.

Then, more quietly:

— Twenty-one weeks.

Her eyes lit up.

— Ah! Halfway. You survived the first months, that’s already an achievement. I told you, didn’t I? The first three are hell. After that, you can breathe a little, she said.

You gave a small laugh, because it was true.

The nausea, the exhaustion, the nights spent staring at the ceiling wondering if it was normal to spot a little blood, if that pulling sensation meant something serious. Dieter pacing like a caged animal, growling, threatening to drag the doctor out of bed in the middle of the night.

— And how’s papa bear doing? she asked, grabbing a bunch of radishes and shaking it a little. — Still walking around with that face like he’s about to punch the sun itself? she said.

You felt your lips pinch, halfway between amusement and discomfort.

— He… works a lot, you said, careful. — And he… worries, you added.

Frau Mertens burst out laughing, her apron practically vibrating.

— Worries? You mean he growls louder than before, she said.

She set the radishes on the scale and shot you a sideways look.

— I see him, you know. When you two walk by. He watches you like you’re a porcelain sack in a crowded tram, she said.

You lowered your eyes to the carrots, neatly tied in bunches.

— He doesn’t want me going out alone, you admitted, almost under your breath. — He’s afraid I’ll fall. That… everything will happen at once, you said.

She raised an eyebrow, her face losing some of its amusement for something softer, more serious.

— Men get scared when they love someone, she said simply, wiping her hands on her apron. — And since they don’t know what to do with that fear, they become unbearable, she said.

You felt your throat tighten a little.

The hormones were doing their stupid dance again, ready to turn the slightest words into a catastrophe. You took a slow breath to steady yourself.

— That doesn’t mean he’s right to lock you up, mind you, she added, just as plainly. — The city’s not made of wolves. Just a few idiots, she said.

You smiled, more genuinely this time.

— Do you have tomatoes today? you asked.

Something concrete. A safer subject.

— Tomatoes? Of course I have tomatoes. Otherwise this wouldn’t be a market, it’d be a cemetery, girl. Look at this beauty, she said.

She handed you one, heavy, red, still warm from the morning sun.

You took the tomato, weighed it in your hand, brought it to your nose.

The smell hit you—simple, green, rich. Something that said: summer still exists, even in this kind of world.

You picked out a few vegetables: carrots, tomatoes, potatoes, a small cabbage, some slightly bruised apples that still smelled good. She talked the whole time she was filling your bag.

— You sleeping well? she asked. — More or less, you said. — Does he at least leave you the bed? she asked. — He snores louder than the tram, you answered.

Frau Mertens burst out laughing, slapping her hand flat on a crate.

You talked about everything and nothing, but you felt something inside you loosen a little. Here, in the middle of the shouts, the colors, the noise, you weren’t just “Dieter’s wife” or “the future mother”: you were you, with your shopping bag, your dress, your heels, your way of laughing a little too loudly sometimes.

— You’ll see, she said, tying a cloth bag. — Once the baby’s here, he’ll be even worse. He’ll circle the crib like a guard dog. You’ll practically have to pry the child out of his arms to feed it, she said.

The picture made you laugh. Dieter, stiff, a tiny baby squashed against his chest, looking like he was bargaining with fate itself.

And right then—right there, between the vegetables—a wave of emotion crashed over you, brutal.

Seeing him like that in your head made your eyes fill.

You blinked quickly, furious at those damned hormones.

Not now.

Not in front of the carrots.

Frau Mertens was about to add something, her mouth already open, when her gaze shifted over your shoulder.

It fixed on something farther away.

Her expression changed. Her smile twisted into a mischievous smirk.

She sniffed, then said in a slightly louder voice:

— Speaking of the wolf, she said.

Every alarm in your body went off at once.

Your fingers clenched around the handles of your bag. Your blood seemed to go cold all of a sudden, like someone had opened a window inside your veins.

You hadn’t even turned your head yet; you could already feel him.

Not just him, but what came with him: the shift in the air, a new tension, like someone had just dimmed the light.

You turned.

First you saw the group.

Four men in suits, light shirts, dark jackets, holding their hats in their hands because of the heat. They pushed through the crowd like a solid block, a little more arrogant, a little stiffer than the others. They were laughing about something—a colleague’s laugh, not really joyful, more loud than sincere.

Then, in the middle, slightly behind, you saw him.

Dieter.

His silhouette was as familiar to you as your own reflection. Broad shoulders under the jacket, back slightly hunched as if he were always carrying some invisible weight. The white shirt unbuttoned one notch because of the heat, his tie loosened. His hair pushed back, finger marks still visible.

A cigarette pinched between two fingers, smoke lifting in a thin column in front of his face.

He was talking to one of the men, or pretending to listen. His mouth was a tight line that wanted to pass for a polite smile. His eyes, though, were somewhere else. Always somewhere else.

And then they landed on you.

It wasn’t just a look.

It was a collision.

His eyes skimmed over the market first, without noticing you.

Then over Frau Mertens’s stall.

Then onto you—your blue-and-white dress, your white heels, your round belly, your shopping bag.

His whole face froze.

The colleague’s laugh died beside him like a radio switching off.

You felt panic rise so hard, so fast that your heart skipped a beat.

For a second, you thought of running. Really running.

Pretend you hadn’t seen him, turn your back, slip into the crowd, disappear between two stalls, hide behind a pile of crates.

But your feet were nailed to the cobblestones.

Your heels, which a few minutes ago had given you the illusion of being someone else, suddenly became shackles. Your belly reminded you sharply that rushing was no longer an option anyway.

Dieter stopped.

His colleagues took two more steps before realizing he wasn’t following. One of them called out:

— Dieter? What’s wrong? the man asked.

No answer.

His eyes didn’t leave you.

You knew him well enough to read, behind the stone of his features, everything that was exploding inside: surprise, anger, immediate, gut-deep fear at seeing you there, standing alone in the crowd, in heels, your belly in plain view.

His gaze flicked to your white shoes for half a second, then came back up to your face.

Your fingers tightened around the bag handles until your knuckles went white.

You had one absurd thought: I’m dead. Right here, in front of the carrots. This is where I die.

Beside you, Frau Mertens sniffed again, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

— Well, girl, she murmured, not taking her eyes off him, — I think the sun’s about to go behind a cloud, she said.

Dieter crushed his cigarette without looking, without even checking where the butt fell.

He said something to his colleagues—you didn’t catch the words, only the tone, low and sharp. The three men stepped back slightly, like somebody had suddenly turned a spotlight on a stage they didn’t want to be on.

And then he started toward you.

One step.

Two.

Each step was an unspoken sentence, heavy, a silent accusation.

You felt your heart climb into your throat, your belly tightening slightly in a protective reflex. The morning heat turned into a vise around you.

One of the first tears of the day was already gathering, just because you knew this was going to end badly, because your hormones were going to make sure you had zero chance of staying dry-eyed.

His eyes didn’t leave you.

In them was that dangerous mix you knew too well: anger and worry, badly balanced, ready to overflow either way.

The market kept living around you—voices, laughter, prices shouted out—but for you, everything narrowed down to that invisible corridor between his gaze and yours.

You swallowed, your fingers clenched around your bag, your dress pulled a little too tight over your belly in the sun, your heels planted straight into the stones.

He covered the distance like a storm.

His colleagues called something behind him, but their voices dissolved into the market noise. He didn’t see anything but you. His shoulders tensed, his features hardening to the point of looking carved from stone. That “killer look” people sometimes muttered about—right now he had it full on, without filter, without mask.

He began to shove people aside.

Not with punches, but with that brutal determination that said: I will not stop. A man protested, and Dieter pushed him away with a muttered:

— Watch it, for God’s sake, he growled.

A woman dropped a basket of apples that rolled everywhere, cursing at his back. Dieter didn’t apologize. He cut between two stalls, knocked into a crate, a vendor shouted after him. The crowd opened up on instinct: people always stepped aside for someone who looked ready to commit murder.

You didn’t move.

Your heels now felt ridiculously high. Your belly felt like a target.

You could feel your pulse thudding in your throat, in your temples, all the way down into your fingers gripping the bag.

When he reached you, the entire world seemed to shrink by one size.

He stopped right in front of you. Close enough that you smelled that familiar mix of tobacco and body heat coming off him, with a hint of soap underneath.

His gaze raked you from head to toe: the dress, the belly, the white shoes, the bag, your face.

He didn’t say anything for three whole seconds. Three seconds where you felt like your heart was going to stop and you’d give birth right there purely out of fear.

Then his jaw tightened.

His voice fell, low and hoarse, held back by sheer effort. He wasn’t shouting. He couldn’t shout. He knew that if his voice rose even a little, you’d break.

— Are you out of your mind? he said.

Six words. Sharp as blades.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

You could feel an excuse clawing to exist: the sun, the air, the fresh vegetables…

But under that stare, everything suddenly felt stupid.

He leaned in a little, close enough that no one else could hear clearly, but close enough that every syllable hit you right in the gut.

— Say it. Say you haven’t completely lost your mind, he said.

His gaze dipped to your heels, then climbed back up, fastening itself to your belly like a point that offended him.

— Twenty-one weeks pregnant, and you’re walking around alone, in heels, in the middle of a crowd. Are you reckless, or are you trying to drive me insane? he said.

His voice wasn’t loud, no.

But it was sharp and precise, like a knife pressed just hard enough to scare, not yet to cut.

Around you, people had slowed down. Ears lingered, eyes too.

You felt that particular burn of public scenes: the wish to disappear, to turn into a cloud, a leaf, a stain on the ground.

You tried to force words out.

— I was just… going to get a few… you began.

Your words collapsed. Shame rose, heavy and thick. The hormones pounced on it like hyenas. Your eyes filled too fast.

Something flashed in his gaze when he saw that. Not triumph—never—but a stronger panic, immediately translated into irritation.

— Don’t start, he said.

He clenched his teeth.

— Don’t cry here, he said.

His hand twitched, like he was fighting not to reach out and touch you.

It was already too late. The first tear slipped free, heavy, cutting down your cheek like a cold burn.

Behind her stall, Frau Mertens watched in silence, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. She didn’t step in. Not yet. She was judging.

You sniffed, desperate to hold back the next tears, but they overflowed anyway. You felt ridiculous, caught red-handed like a child, when you were, damn it, a grown woman, and your body was building a human being at that very moment.

You swallowed.

— I needed some air, you said in a broken breath. — I’m not… I’m not retaining water, I… I can stand just fine, Dieter, I… you stammered.

Your words tangled and tripped over each other. You drowned in them.

His face was a battlefield. You could see everything crashing around in there:

the fear—very clear—of imagining you falling, twisting your ankle, slamming your belly against those filthy cobblestones;

the anger—just as clear—at the fact that you’d taken that risk without him;

and over it all, that sick need to keep control of everything, including your breathing.

He handled it badly. As always.

— Air, he said.

His voice rose half a tone, just enough for you to feel the danger.

— You needed air? You think there isn’t any at home? You think I lock you in a trunk or something? he said.

You felt the eyes around you sharpen.

Vendors made a big show of rearranging crates, closer than necessary.

An old woman nodded along, already ready to retell the scene to the whole building tonight.

Your heart was beating too fast. Your belly tightened a little—not painfully, but noticeable. You pressed your hand there automatically. Dieter saw it at once, and it hit him like a punch to the chest.

His eyes clung to that gesture.

His face hardened even more.

He stepped closer, shrinking the space between you to nothing.

— You think I’m making dangers up? he said.

His voice was deeper now, lower, almost a growl.

— You think the city’s going to step aside just because you’re wearing a pretty checkered dress? You think cars stop out of respect for pregnant women? You think… he began.

He broke off.

His eyes lifted and met Frau Mertens’s. She was staring him down, eyebrows raised.

The silence around the stall thickened. You could almost hear the unsaid words hanging in the air.

Frau Mertens finally coughed, deliberately, to cut him off.

— Calmly, Dieter, she said, her voice firm without being intimidated. — The tomatoes haven’t done anything to you, she said.

You might almost have laughed if you hadn’t been on the edge of falling apart.

A second tear slid down, then a third. You raised your hand to wipe them away, but your fingers shook.

Dieter closed his eyes for one second. Just one.

When he opened them again, they were gleaming with contained rage, not really aimed at you, not really at the world, but at that damned sense of helplessness stuck to his skin.

He cursed between his teeth in German. Short, dark.

Then, suddenly, he half-turned toward Frau Mertens.

— I’m sorry, Frau Mertens, he said, the words clipped but sincere. — She shouldn’t have come out alone, he said.

The sentences were lopsided, badly put together, but you could still hear the worry behind them.

Frau Mertens planted her hands on her hips.

— She’s not made of sugar, Dieter, she replied calmly. — She’s already got enough weight to carry as it is. No need to pile yours on top of it, she said.

He flinched, barely, like the words had hit an old bruise he avoided touching.

He jerked his chin toward your bag.

— You gave her… all that? he asked. — Yes. And what of it? she said. She paid. That’s not a crime, she added.

You opened your mouth.

— Not yet, you muttered.

You hadn’t had time to pull your money out.

Dieter shot you a quick, cutting look.

— She’ll pay later, he told Frau Mertens. — Or I will. I’ll come back. Right now we’re leaving, he said.

His tone left no room for argument.

It wasn’t a question.

Frau Mertens glanced from you to him and sighed.

— Take the girl home, then, bear, she grumbled. — And try using something other than your claws. You’ll have her delivering sideways if you carry on like this, she said.

Dieter didn’t answer. He just dipped his head in a curt nod, a stiff thank-you, maybe a half-admission that he’d gone too far—though he couldn’t bring himself to say it outright.

Then he turned to you.

His fist finally unclenched. He practically ripped your bag out of your hand, grabbing the handles in a nervous motion.

His other hand closed around your arm, just above the elbow.

His grip was firm, possessive, almost rough, but you could feel the control there too: he was holding you like something too expensive to drop.

— We’re going home, he breathed close to your face.

You didn’t have time to answer.

He was already pulling you along.

Your heels clacked on the cobblestones, unsteady at the pace he set. You almost had to trot to keep up, your free hand pressed to your belly to buffer the jolts.

— Dieter, you’re going too fast, you protested, your voice strained, tears still hovering. — Slow down, please… you said.

— If I slow down, he said through his teeth, with zero softness, I’m either going to start shouting, or stop dead in the middle of the street. And in both cases, it’s bad for us. So you walk, he said.

The words hit you right in the chest.

A sob surged up, unstoppable this time. Your throat tightened, your vision blurred. You kept moving anyway; you didn’t have a choice, dragged by his arm, by the tie binding you to him from long before this baby.

Behind you, the market slowly got louder again, like the scene had been swallowed and digested, ready to turn into rumor.

— Poor man, he’s out of his mind with worry, someone muttered. — She’s crazy too, going out like that… whispered another. — In heels, can you believe it… a third voice said.

The phrases stuck to your skin like flies.

Dieter didn’t look back.

You felt his fingers tightening even more around your arm, as if he were afraid you might evaporate right there, between two cobblestones.

His breath was uneven—not from exertion; he could have run for blocks—but because anger and fear were mixing into something burning in his chest.

You sniffed, wiping your cheek with your forearm in a clumsy swipe.

— You embarrassed me, you blurted at last, your voice cracked, without thinking. — In front of everyone… You… you talk to me like I’m a child… you said.

He turned his head a little toward you, still walking, his gaze dark.

— You think I was thinking about your pride? he asked.

His eyes shone, almost wet, but he refused to blink too long.

— You think I saw anyone but you in that damn market? You think I… he began.

He cut himself off, chewing on his words, swallowing them crooked.

— I saw you. Alone, he said at last, his voice rougher still. — And I felt my heart drop into my shoes. That’s all, he said.

You went quiet.

The sentence hung between you, awkward, crooked, but true. Completely true.

The tears came back harder, obviously.

You hated it. You hated being this out-of-control faucet.

You hated how every word, every gesture from him turned into a catastrophe inside you.

— You could’ve said it differently, you murmured between sniffles. — You could’ve… you could’ve just said you were scared. Not that I was reckless. Not that… you started.

You finally broke free of the market’s stream. The noise grew more distant. The street was less crowded now, though still crossed by passersby, bikes, cars.

Dieter slowed a little, your wrist still in his hand.

He breathed more deeply, like someone finally getting their head above water.

His gaze landed on your face. You had to look like a mess: red eyes, shiny nose, mascara probably dying somewhere under your lower lashes.

He clenched his jaw, then exhaled.

— I don’t know how to say “I was scared” calmly, he admitted, his tone harsh, as if each word cost him. — It’s just… it comes out like this. Crooked, he said.

It wasn’t an excuse. Not really.

But it was an attempt. A sort of confession.

He turned his head forward again, his fingers loosening slightly around your arm without letting go altogether.

— We’re going home, he repeated, quieter. — After that, you can tell me what you absolutely had to go buy at the market that was worth making me age ten years, he said.

You sniffled, tears still coming even so.

You felt your belly, heavy and alive, protesting a little.

You walked beside him, dragged, held, loved the wrong way as always:

with too much fear, too much anger, too much clumsy intensity.

And somewhere, buried deep inside, a tiny part of you still noted that he had crossed that entire crowd for you without hesitating, that he’d walked through it like a fire.

The staircase up to the apartment passed in a blur.

You didn’t really remember each step, just the repetitive sound of your heels, Dieter’s hand tight around your arm, your breath a little too short.

The stairwell smell—dust, soup, stale smoke—climbed along with you.

On every floor, you thought: this is too much, he’s going to hate me, I hate him too, why did I go out, why am I still crying, why is everything such a mess.

On every floor, he was thinking the opposite: she could’ve fallen, someone could’ve knocked into her, some idiot could’ve…

Two films overlaid, without ever syncing up.

At the door, he finally let go of your arm to dig for his keys.

You felt the mark of his fingers, warm, almost painful, on your skin.

The key turned in the lock with a sharp click.

The door opened onto the dark, quiet apartment, exactly as you’d left it that morning, only now filled with everything you’d brought back from the market: anger, fear, tears, tomatoes.

Dieter went in first, the bag in his hand.

He dropped it on the kitchen table a bit too hard, the vegetables knocking against each other with a dull thud.

— Take your shoes off, he said without looking at you.

You stopped in the doorway, your hand braced on the frame.

You felt emptied out and raw at the same time, like your skin had lost a layer in the span of a morning.

— I was going to, you muttered, hurt despite yourself.

Your voice was hoarse. That trembling in your throat was still waiting to trip every sentence.

He finally turned toward you.

Seeing your heels on the floor, your rounded belly under the dress, your eyes still shining with leftover tears—that seemed to finish him off.

— Not “I was going to”, he growled, stepping toward you. — Now, he said.

His hand landed on your shoulder to steer you toward the bedroom. Not exactly gently, but with a firmness that didn’t leave room for refusal.

You walked down the hallway, your heels still clacking, softer now on the runner.

The bedroom was still dim, curtains half-drawn. A strip of light cut across the edge of the bed, the sheet slightly rumpled, the mark of your absence still there.

— Sit, he ordered.

You sat on the edge of the bed, obedient more from exhaustion than submission.

Your hand went to your belly, reassuring habit.

Dieter dropped to his knees in front of you.

For a second, you thought he was going to yell at you from there, right up in your face.

But his fingers slid down to your ankles.

He took your right foot and set it on his thigh, fingers finding the buckle of your heel.

His movements were quick, nervous, too abrupt to be called gentle, but you could feel in the way he held you that he was being careful not to twist anything.

The buckle gave with a small click.

He pulled the shoe off and set it aside, then took the other.

— You’re not wearing these things again as long as… he began.

He broke off, searching for a limit.

— As long as you’re like this, he said.

You frowned.

— “Like this”? you asked.

He looked up at you, irritated.

— With a five-kilo tenant stomping around in your belly, he said. — As long as he’s in there, no heels. Period, he said.

His tone was dry, authoritative.

You felt stung again. Every sentence from him today felt like a slap.

— He’s not five kilos, you shot back, your voice shaking. — And I needed to feel… normal, you said.

The word hung between you.

Normal.

Dieter straightened a little, your shoes now in his hand. He stared at them for a second—those bright, white, accusatory things—then set them down roughly by the wall, as if he wanted them as far from you as possible.

— Normal, he repeated, his tone strange. — What do you think you are right now, huh? Sick? Broken? he asked.

He stood up fully, ran a hand through his hair, and paced a few steps around the room.

His anger now was less aimed at you and more diffuse, like smoke clinging to the walls.

You felt naked, even in the dress. Without your heels, without that morning’s little rush, you felt like you’d been dropped right back into your place: small, fragile, dependent.

— I just wanted to go out, you murmured. — To breathe a little. To not have to ask your permission to… buy apples, you said.

A humorless laugh barked out of him.

— Permission, he said.

He turned toward you, his eyes blazing.

— That’s what you call “not ending up sprawled on the pavement with blood everywhere”? Permission? he said.

You opened your mouth to reply, but he raised his hand to cut you off.

— Forget it, he growled. — You’re tired. I’m tired. And if we keep going, you’re going to start crying again and I… he began.

He stopped short, like he’d almost said too much.

You stared at him, eyes shining.

You felt furious and sad and exhausted and fragile all at once, loved crookedly and trapped inside that love.

He jerked his chin at your dress.

— Take that off. Put something comfortable on. You’re shaking, he said.

You glanced down at your hands.

They were trembling, yeah. You weren’t even sure if it was from the tiredness, the emotions, the heat, or all of the above.

— Help me, you breathed.

He froze.

— What, you don’t have arms anymore? he said.

— I’m tired, you replied, this time with a cold anger. — And I can’t undo the buttons in the back by myself, you know that very well. You help me every time since… you started.

You trailed off, a little ashamed to have to point it out.

But it was true: your belly took up space, your arms strained, you turned awkwardly. The buttons down your back had become an Olympic event.

Dieter exhaled through his nose, exasperated.

But he stepped closer. Always.

Always, when it came to practical things, he showed up. That was his way of sticking around.

He moved behind you.

You felt the mattress dip slightly under his weight, the warmth of him at your back.

His fingers found the first button at the nape of your neck.

They were a little cold, precise.

One by one, he undid them.

The light sound of buttons sliding free, the soft rustle of fabric. The dress opened down your back, a cooler draft slipping in.

You closed your eyes.

That simple act—him undressing you—held something intimate, domestic, worn-in. Not sensual, not today. Too much fatigue, too many tears.

Just intimate. The two of you, inside this strange everyday life that sometimes felt like a constant wrestling match.

— Raise your arms, he murmured.

You obeyed, slowly.

He slid the fabric off your shoulders, down your arms, careful not to catch or twist anything. You felt the dress slide in a soft whisper down to your waist, then over your hips to pool at your feet.

For a moment, you sat there in your underwear on the edge of the bed, vulnerable in the half-dark.

He didn’t linger.

You heard the wardrobe door creak open. The sound of wood, hangers clacking. He took your nightgown—the soft cotton one, a little loose, the one you wore when you didn’t have the energy to pretend to be pretty.

He came back toward you, nightgown in hand.

— Up, he said.

You got to your feet, more slowly than you had that morning. Your legs protested, your lower back too.

He slipped the nightgown over your head, helped you guide your arms through the sleeves, tugged the fabric down until it fell properly over your belly. His fingertips brushed your skin by accident at your shoulders, and a shiver ran up your spine.

When it was all in place, he stepped back, watching you for a second.

You looked like a tired bird bundled in a piece of white sky.

— Lie down, he ordered.

You didn’t even have the strength to argue.

You let yourself fall back gently, rolling onto your left side out of habit—the side where you could breathe easiest, where the baby seemed to kick less.

The mattress almost swallowed you.

Your muscles loosened, your shoulders too. You felt the weight of your belly settle differently, both hands automatically coming to cradle it.

Dieter pulled the sheet up over you, all the way under your chin, with a motion almost brusque. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed by your legs, leaning forward a little, elbows on his knees, hands clasped.

He was quiet for a while.

You could hear only your own slightly wheezy breathing and, faintly, a tram passing somewhere outside.

Then he spoke.

— Don’t do that again, he said.

His voice wasn’t hard anymore. It was… grave. Tired.

You blinked up at the ceiling.

— Go out? you asked. — Go out alone, he said.

His fingers tightened around each other.

You could almost hear his knuckles creak.

— You think I’m being dramatic. You think I lock you up for fun, he went on, eyes fixed on the floor. — You think I enjoy playing prison guard, he said.

You hadn’t used those words.

But you’d thought them, some nights.

— You don’t know, he said, his voice rougher. — You don’t know what it’s like, imagining you lying somewhere outside, calling, and me not there. You don’t know what it’s like to… he started.

He cut himself off. His throat worked.

He drew a deep breath.

— I’ve seen women… he began.

The sentence broke.

You turned your head slightly toward him.

He was still staring at the floor as if something were carved into it.

— I’ve seen what it looks like when… when it goes wrong, he said finally, each word heavy. — When you fall. When you bleed. When you get to the doctor too late. When you bring them back without… he said.

His hand made a vague motion, like pushing an image away.

— I’m not telling you this to scare you, he added quickly, his brow furrowing. — I’m telling you because it’s stuck in my head, and every time you disappear from my sight, all of it comes back. So yes, I want you where I can reach you. It makes me unpleasant. It’s that or lose my mind completely, he said.

You stayed silent.

The tears returned, slower this time. No panic, just a heavy emotion climbing up.

You swallowed.

— You could say it like that, you whispered. — Not by calling me reckless in front of everyone, you said.

He finally lifted his eyes toward you.

His gaze caught your tears, your red nose, the sheet pulled up to your chin. You looked like a sick child. It finished him.

— I don’t know how, he admitted.

The words slipped out of him bare, without armor.

— I don’t know how to say it differently. When I open my mouth, it comes out wrong. That’s how I am, he said.

A little laugh escaped you, trapped between your sobs.

— Great, then we’re both crooked, you murmured, laying a hand on your belly.

A timid little kick answered.

You smiled, despite everything.

He followed your hand with his eyes, watching your belly rise, the sheet tracing the outline of that other presence.

He stayed there, bent forward, worrying aloud for a few more minutes.

There were still a few scoldings tucked in there, but softer now, worn down by exhaustion.

— Next time you tell me, he said. We go together, he said. — The sidewalks are full of idiots. They don’t see you. Cars don’t stop for you, he muttered. — And those damned shoes… If I see them on your feet again, I’m throwing them out the window, he said.

His sentences blurred together, somewhere between threats, complaints, and pure fear.

You felt your mind float, worn out by the day, by the crying.

At some point, while he was still muttering about a doctor who’s “never close enough”, you cut him off.

— Dieter, you said.

He stopped, surprised.

Your eyes met his, still wet but clearer.

— What? he asked.

You drew in a slow breath.

— Come here, you said.

He blinked, wary.

— I’m already here, he said.

— No. Come here, you insisted.

You patted the space beside you on the bed.

Your eyes shone with a softer, more vulnerable light.

— I need cuddles. And kisses, you said.

The silence that followed was almost comical.

Dieter took the request full in the face like a slap with a time delay.

— …what? he said.

— You heard me, you repeated, more firmly. — Cuddles. And kisses. I need them. Right now, you said.

He stared at you like you’d just asked him to go lasso the moon with his bare hands.

— Two minutes ago you were putting me on trial for worrying about you, he grumbled. — And now you want… cuddles. You realize how… he started.

— I’m twenty-one weeks pregnant, you cut in. — I walked, I cried, you practically ripped my arm off, I took off my pretty dress, I’m exhausted, my back is killing me, and my hormones are throwing a circus in there. So yes, Dieter, I want cuddles and kisses. You don’t have to think it’s logical. You just do it. That’s it, you said.

Your voice shook, but there was steel in it.

You had that look of something fragile and cracked that refused to shut up anyway.

He froze for a moment, mouth half open.

Part of him wanted to say no. On principle. For self-defense. Because giving tenderness, for him, was like walking barefoot on burning coals.

— No, he said finally.

You felt something snap inside you, clean.

Your eyes were already filling. You shut them for a second, but it didn’t matter: the tears came again.

— Of course, you whispered.

Your voice broke.

— Obviously. You can yell at me in front of the whole neighborhood, drag me back here, but a hug is too much to ask, you said.

The tears rolled in a quiet line.

You turned your face slightly toward the wall, like you were trying to shield yourself from his refusal, from him.

— I… I just need to feel that you don’t hate me, you murmured, half to yourself. — That this isn’t against me. That I’m not just a weight you’re carrying, you said.

That sentence hit him dead center.

He looked at you lying there, tiny in your nightgown, belly rounded, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

Something in him cracked.

He’d felt like he’d been holding you at arm’s length for weeks—to protect you, to keep you from falling. And here he was hurting you another way.

— Stop, he said, but there was no strength left in his voice. — Stop crying. You’re going to hurt yourself at this rate, he said.

— I can’t, you choked out. — It’s you… You keep pressing exactly where it hurts, every time, you said.

He swore under his breath and dragged his hand down over his face like he was trying to wipe something off.

Then, finally, he gave in.

You felt the bed move.

The mattress sank beside you. He kicked his shoes off in a hurry, shrugged out of his jacket and threw it on the chair, yanked his tie loose in a rough jerk.

He slid in behind you, onto the bed, with an awkwardness that was almost touching.

You felt his warmth at your back, his breath nearer.

An arm hesitated above you.

Then it finally wrapped around your waist, crawling upward until his hand settled just below your breast, over your ribs. His chest fit against your shoulder blades. His legs folded behind yours, careful not to press on your belly.

He held you.

Not gently at first. More like he was afraid you’d slip away again.

— This, he muttered near your ear, — this is a cuddle. Don’t ask for an illustration, he said.

A tiny laugh escaped you through the tears.

Your body unwound, millimeter by millimeter, against his.

The heat of him melted some of the exhaustion, like someone had laid a warm blanket over a block of ice.

Your tears kept flowing, but slower now.

You shifted back into him, pressing closer, instinctively seeking that full contact.

— And the kisses? you managed between two sniffles.

He sighed like a martyr.

— You never quit, do you? he said.

His hand slid up, hesitant, to your collarbone.

He leaned in, his lips searching for your skin in the dimness.

He placed a kiss on your temple first.

Just contact. Nothing dramatic.

But you felt a strange wave roll through you, a mix of safety and a kind of old ache.

He stayed there awhile, his lips pressed to your skin, like he was trying to stick all the unsaid things onto you.

— That counts, you murmured.

He grumbled into your hair.

— You want the whole catalogue, that it? he asked.

He let his mouth slide lower, onto your damp cheek.

Another kiss, a longer one. He tasted the salt of your tears without commenting.

— Disgusting. You’re still crying, he muttered, but without any real bite.

You turned a little, as much as your belly allowed, so you could see him.

Your faces ended up just a few centimeters apart.

His gaze locked onto yours.

In it, you saw everything his words couldn’t tidy up: fear, guilt, exhaustion, rough-edged love.

You set your hand on his cheek, gently, like you were taming an animal.

— More, you said simply.

He sighed and shut his eyes for a second.

Then he leaned in and pressed his mouth to yours.

It wasn’t a wild kiss, not a movie kiss.

It was a tight, almost clumsy kiss, with more tension than sensuality. His hand held the back of your neck like he was afraid you might come apart.

You answered softly, your tears mixing into everything.

You didn’t need more than that. You needed exactly this: that contact, that proof that behind the harsh words there wasn’t contempt, only badly managed panic.

He pulled back after a few seconds, his breath slightly uneven.

— There, he muttered. — Cuddles. Kisses. Full package. You going to be able to stop now? he asked.

You smiled, worn out, your heart a little calmer.

— Maybe, you said, your voice lighter. — For… a few minutes, you added.

He rolled his eyes, but his arm tightened around you.

His hand slid down to your belly and settled there, heavy and warm. His thumb rubbed lightly over a spot where you sometimes felt a kick.

— You scared us, he murmured, very quietly, more to your belly than to you. — Try not to do that again. You either, in there, he said.

You felt a little movement, like an answer.

A breath that was almost a laugh slipped out of you.

— See? He’s already listening to you, you said, your eyes drifting shut. — He knows his father is unbearable, you added.

— His father knows he’s going to end up insane if you two start sneaking out together to buy carrots, Dieter replied, his chin resting against your hair.

You let silence slowly slide back in.

The outside world, the market, the stares, the heels, the scoldings—all of it faded, replaced by this strange little cocoon: you, your belly, him, his arm wrapped tight around both of you.

His fingers tapped your side in a slow rhythm, almost like a lullaby.

— Sleep a bit, he murmured, his voice finally softened by fatigue. — And when you wake up, I’ll start grumbling again. Just so you know everything’s normal, he said.

You smiled into the pillow, eyes already closed.

One last sob climbed up, but it dissolved quickly in the warmth.

You let yourself slide into sleep with one clear, solid feeling: his hand on your belly, his fingers hooked into your hip, his breath against your neck.

For all that he didn’t know how to talk properly, Dieter knew at least one thing: how to hold on to you as if the whole world were trying to tear you away from him.

[aarcticmuuse]

Imagine Dieter being obsessed with your breasts.

Imagine the soft glow of candlelight flickering across the room as you and Dieter lie entwined in the sheets, your bodies still warm from passion. The flames cast dancing shadows on the walls, painting his skin in amber and gold, while the air around you feels thick with the lingering heat of your union.

Imagine Dieter pulling you closer against his chest, his breath steady and reassuring against your skin. You can feel the rise and fall of his ribcage, the warmth radiating from his body seeping into yours, his muscular arms creating a safe cocoon around you that makes the rest of the world disappear.

Imagine your heart still racing, not just from intimacy, but from lingering self-doubt that makes you want to pull the sheet higher. Your skin feels hypersensitive, every brush of fabric a reminder of your vulnerability, every exposed inch making you acutely aware of imperfections only you seem to see.

Imagine Dieter noticing your subtle shift, his sharp eyes catching the hesitation in your movements, even as you hide it with a shy smile. His gaze travels over your face with an intensity that makes your breath hitch, reading every micro-expression like he's memorizing the poetry written in your uncertainty.

Imagine him propping himself up on one elbow, his fingers gently tracing your jaw, tilting your face to meet his gaze—unwavering, adoring. His touch is feather-light yet electric, leaving trails of tingling warmth wherever his fingertips wander, his thumb brushing over your lower lip with tender possession.

Imagine the quiet moment stretching between you as he whispers your name like a secret, his voice low and soothing, filling the silence with affection. The sound rumbles from deep in his chest, wrapping around you like velvet, each syllable drenched in devotion that makes your stomach flutter with butterflies.

Imagine timidity rising to your cheeks, your hands instinctively moving to cover yourself, that old insecurity making you avert your eyes. The flush spreads down your neck, across your collarbone, betraying your vulnerability as you try to shield yourself from scrutiny, even from the man who loves you most.

Imagine Dieter shaking his head softly, a gentle smile on his lips as he reaches for your hands, intertwining his fingers with yours to stop you from hiding. His grip is firm but tender, his calloused palms pressing against your softer ones, anchoring you to this moment, to his unwavering acceptance.

Imagine him leaning in to press a feather-light kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your lips—each one a promise that he's here, that he sees all of you. His lips linger on yours, tasting you slowly, savoring the sweetness of your mouth as if he has all the time in the world to worship you properly.

Imagine him murmuring against your skin, "You're beautiful"—words simple yet profound, aimed straight at your self-consciousness. His breath ghosts over your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake, his words vibrating through you with a sincerity that makes your eyes prick with unexpected emotion.

Imagine whispering back, your voice timid, "But my breasts… they're not perfect," the admission slipping out in the vulnerability of the afterglow. The words taste bitter on your tongue, years of insecurity tumbling out in this unguarded moment, your voice barely above a whisper as you voice the fear you've carried for so long.

Imagine Dieter's eyes lighting up with love and determination, as if your words only fuel his desire to show you otherwise. A fire ignites in those depths, not of lust but of purpose—a mission to dismantle every doubt, to replace each criticism with reverence, to teach your body it deserves adoration.

Imagine him shifting slightly, his hand releasing yours to trail down your arm—slow, deliberate—giving you time to pull away. But you don't. His fingertips map a sensual path from your wrist to your shoulder, each touch intentional, each caress designed to make you feel cherished, desirable, utterly his.

Imagine the sheet slipping as he moves, exposing you more. Though your instinct is to cover up, his reassuring touch keeps you still. The cool air kisses your heated skin, a contrast that makes you hyperaware of every inch now revealed, yet his steady gaze gives you courage to remain bare before him.

Imagine Dieter's gaze falling to your breasts with pure reverence—not lust, but deep, cherishing admiration that makes your breath catch. His eyes darken with emotion as they trace every curve, every contour, drinking you in like you're a masterpiece he's been waiting his whole life to behold, his lips parting slightly in awe.

Imagine him leaning down, his lips brushing the curve of one breast so softly it's like a whisper, sending a shiver through you despite the warmth. The sensation is exquisite—barely there yet overwhelming, his warm breath fanning across your sensitive skin, his mouth hovering with deliberate restraint that makes anticipation coil tight in your belly.

Imagine tensing a little, shyness bubbling up, but Dieter pauses, looking up at you with those intense eyes, waiting for your nod. His face rests against your chest, his stubble grazing your delicate skin, creating a delicious friction that makes your nerves sing. He waits, patient and present, giving you all the control in this vulnerable moment.

Imagine giving that small, hesitant permission, your self-doubt warring with the trust you have in him, in this bond as husband and wife. The nod is barely perceptible, but it's enough—enough for him to continue his worship, enough to bridge the gap between your insecurity and his devotion, enough to let love win.

Imagine his mouth returning, placing tender kisses along the swell—each one deliberate, like he's mapping out every inch with love. His lips are impossibly soft, pressing into your flesh with reverent attention, tracing the underside, the curve, the fullness with such focused dedication that each kiss feels like a confession of adoration.

Imagine him whispering between kisses, "These are perfect to me," his voice husky yet sincere, making your heart flutter. The words are punctuated by open-mouthed kisses that grow warmer, wetter, more insistent, his tongue darting out to taste your skin, to leave evidence of his worship on every inch he can reach.

Imagine your fingers threading through his hair—a timid encouragement—as he continues, his hands cupping you gently, thumbs brushing over your skin. You feel the weight of your breasts in his palms, supported and treasured, his thumbs sweeping across with maddening slowness, circling closer to your sensitive peaks but not quite touching, drawing out the anticipation until you're breathless.

Imagine the room filled with soft sounds—kisses, murmurs, your quiet sighs—as he cherishes one breast, then the other, equally. The wet sounds of his devotion mingle with your increasingly unsteady breathing, your soft gasps when his mouth finds particularly sensitive spots, his low hums of appreciation that vibrate against your flesh and shoot pleasure straight to your core.

Imagine the tension in your body melting away, replaced by warmth that has nothing to do with earlier passion. This heat is different—slower, deeper, building from his tender ministrations rather than urgent desire, a warmth that spreads through your chest and settles in your heart, convincing you with every kiss that you are, indeed, worthy of this kind of love.

Imagine Dieter pausing to look up, his expression pure devotion, his lips swollen and glistening from worshipping you. "I've dreamed of this, of you, just as you are." His eyes hold yours with such naked honesty that you can see the truth reflected there—this isn't flattery, it's revelation, his genuine desire for every part of you laid bare.

Imagine biting your lip, still self-conscious, but his words chipping away at the walls you've built around that insecurity. Each declaration is a hammer blow against your defenses, each kiss a gentle erosion of the barriers you've maintained for years, his persistent tenderness slowly convincing you that maybe, just maybe, you can see yourself through his eyes.

Imagine him shifting to lie beside you again, pulling you into his arms so your breasts press against his chest—skin to skin, no barriers. The contact is electric, your sensitive nipples brushing against the firm planes of his torso, the coarse hair on his chest creating delicious friction, your softness molding perfectly to his hardness as if you were created to fit together exactly this way.

Imagine the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against yours, a silent reassurance that he's not going anywhere, that this is real. You can feel it thundering beneath his ribs, strong and steady, a counterpoint to your own still-racing pulse, the two rhythms finding synchronicity as you breathe together, exist together in this perfect bubble of intimacy.

Imagine his hand stroking your back in slow circles while his other hand rests possessively yet tenderly over one breast, claiming it with love. His palm is warm and slightly rough, covering you completely, his touch both protective and proprietary, a silent declaration that this body, these breasts, all of you belong to him in the most beautiful sense of the word.

Imagine nestling closer, your shyness easing into comfort, whispering "Thank you," though the words feel inadequate. Your lips brush against the hollow of his throat as you speak, tasting the salt of his skin, breathing in his scent—sandalwood and something uniquely Dieter—that surrounds you like a comforting embrace.

Imagine Dieter chuckling softly, the sound vibrating through you. "No thanks needed, my love. This is what husbands do—adore their wives." The rumble of his laughter resonates through your chest where you're pressed together, the vibration intimate and grounding, reminding you that this closeness, this vulnerability, is your new normal—something to embrace rather than fear.

Imagine the conversation drifting into lighter territory, his stories from the day making you laugh, all while his touch remains gentle on your skin. His fingers continue their lazy exploration—tracing your spine, cupping your breast, stroking your side—never stopping, never losing interest, a constant tactile reminder of his presence and devotion even as words flow easily between you.

Imagine feeling bold enough to trace patterns on his chest in return, your timidity giving way to reciprocity in this intimate aftercare. Your fingertips map the landscape of his body—the ridges of muscle, the dips and planes, the steady thrum of his pulse beneath your palm—learning him the way he's learned you, claiming your right to explore and appreciate as freely as you've been appreciated.

Imagine him capturing your hand to kiss your knuckles, then guiding it back, encouraging your exploration as he continues lavishing attention on you. His lips are soft against your fingers, his tongue darting out to taste the sensitive skin between them before he places your hand back on his body, giving you permission, urging you to take what you want, to be as bold with him as he is with you.

Imagine the night deepening, neither of you rushing to sleep, content in this bubble of newlywed bliss. The candles burn lower, the wax pooling and dripping, the flames guttering and dancing, casting increasingly intimate shadows as the room grows darker and your world shrinks to just the two of you, skin against skin, breath mingling, hearts aligned.

Imagine Dieter whispering praises again—specific now, about the softness, the shape, the way they fit perfectly in his hands—each word a balm to your self-doubt. "I love how soft you are here," he murmurs, his palm skimming the underside. "The weight of you, the warmth, the way you respond to my touch—it's intoxicating. You're intoxicating." His words paint pictures of beauty where you once saw only flaws.

Imagine protesting weakly, still shy. "You're just saying that." But the sincerity in his eyes tells you otherwise. There's no deception in those depths, no polite lies or empty flattery—only raw, honest desire and appreciation that burns so brightly you can almost feel its heat, warming you from the inside out, melting the last remnants of your resistance.

Imagine him demonstrating further, his lips returning to worship—slow, unhurried—turning aftercare into an art form. This time his kisses are open-mouthed, wetter, his tongue tracing patterns on your skin that make you gasp, his teeth grazing gently in contrast to the soft suction of his lips, creating a symphony of sensations that prove beyond words how much he cherishes every inch of you.

Imagine your breaths mingling as he pulls back, foreheads touching, sharing a look that speaks volumes without words. The intimacy of this moment—eyes locked, breathing the same air, existing in the tiny space between your bodies—feels more profound than the physical passion that preceded it, a soul-deep connection that transcends flesh and reminds you why you chose this man, this life, this love.

Imagine the vulnerability fading, replaced by growing confidence sparked by his unwavering adoration. Each kiss has been a building block, each word of praise a brick in the foundation of your new self-image, and now you can feel it—a tentative but real shift in how you perceive yourself, seeing glimpses of the beautiful woman he sees when he looks at you.

Imagine wrapping your arms around him, pulling him close, your breasts no longer a source of worry but of connection. You press yourself against him deliberately this time, not hiding but offering, feeling the way your softness yields to his hardness, the way you fit together, the way this physical union mirrors the emotional one you've forged in the sacred space of this bed.

Imagine Dieter sighing contentedly, his enthusiasm tempered by this mature tenderness he's discovered with you. His hands continue their gentle exploration, no longer urgent but contemplative, savoring, his touch speaking of long-term devotion rather than temporary passion, promising a lifetime of nights like this—tender, intimate, real.

Imagine the two of you drifting into peaceful quiet, bodies relaxed, hearts aligned in the aftermath. The silence is comfortable now, filled with the soft sounds of synchronized breathing, the occasional rustle of sheets, the distant flicker of dying candles, everything else fading away until there's only warmth, safety, love, and the certain knowledge that you are cherished exactly as you are.

Imagine waking slightly later, still in his arms, finding his hand still gently cupping you—a subconscious act of cherishing. Even in sleep, he holds you close, his palm warm against your breast, his body curved protectively around yours, his sleeping face peaceful and beautiful in the low light, proving that his devotion isn't performance but instinct.

Imagine smiling to yourself, the self-consciousness not entirely gone, but diminished, thanks to his devoted care. The doubts still whisper at the edges of your mind, old habits die hard, but they're quieter now, drowned out by the memory of his words, his kisses, his reverent touch, by the undeniable evidence that you are wanted, desired, loved—imperfections and all.

Imagine him stirring, pulling you closer, murmuring sleepily, "Mine to love, always." His voice is rough with sleep, but the possessiveness in his tone sends a shiver of pleasure down your spine, the promise in those simple words wrapping around your heart and squeezing gently, reminding you that this—this love, this acceptance, this devotion—is yours to keep, now and forever.

Imagine replying with a soft kiss to his shoulder, your timidity softened into affection, ready for whatever comes next in your shared life. Your lips linger on his warm skin, tasting him one more time before sleep reclaims you both, feeling grateful, cherished, and perhaps for the first time in your life, truly beautiful in all the ways that matter—not because your body changed, but because love taught you to see it differently.

[aarcticmuuse]

It's been a long time since I've written any “smut”...

How about a one shot about Dieter being obsessed with his wife's breasts?

just asking yk…

[aarcticmuuse]

💤 ── His angels.

(ooc maybe) husband!Dieter x wife/postpartum!reader

cw : MDNI ── breastfeeding passage (will be separated by dividers in case you want to avoid it), slightly angsty, VERY light smut (no pornographic details ig)

wc : 9830 words ── 56737 characters

(I swear it's all in "your" head)

You’d fallen asleep in his smell, that dry mix of cold tobacco, ink and rough wool. The sheet was still sticking to your thighs, damp with a heavy warmth that had nothing to do with summer and everything to do with what you’d just done. The Haussmann apartment, usually so vast, suddenly felt cramped: a bed, a man, a breath against your nape, and on the other side of the wall, that tiny presence barely seven weeks old, already taking up all the space.

Seven weeks.

You’d only really taken it in the day before, at the gynecologist’s, when he flipped through your file with a mechanical gesture, muttering a date you had almost forgotten. You’d had the impression he was talking about another woman. Another woman who would have screamed here, in this room, legs open on soaked sheets, while Dieter lined up forms at the station, bent over ledgers, his hands full of ink instead of full of you.

You still remembered the chime of the clock in the living room at the precise moment Hannah came out of you. You had counted each stroke between two waves of pain, as if the number would help you hold on. At every chime you told yourself: “He’s not here. He’s still not here.” Two midwives had busied themselves, one over your belly, the other between your legs, with that professionalism that sometimes borders on brutality. They were wiping you, stitching you, talking in low, worn-out voices, while you desperately listened for the sound of his key in the lock, the heavy tread of Dieter in the hallway.

He had arrived later, too late, carrying on his shoulders the smell of damp papers, police station corridors, and rain trapped in his clothes. You had shown him Hannah, still red, still crumpled as if life had been pulled too quickly out of its wrapping paper.

You had said, in a hoarse voice:

— It’s a girl. A little girl.

You’d watched his face closely. He had leaned in, looked at the tiny bundle of flesh that barely moved, then straightened up with a slight tightening at the mouth, like a man inspecting an object that doesn’t quite match the order. Without him saying a word, you’d felt the sentence slip between you: a boy would have been better. A boy he would already see in a brown uniform, arm raised, marching in step, a good element, a kid to mold. Not this fragile little body, too soft, too dependent, smelling of milk and sweat.

Since then, he took care of her as a duty, never out of impulse.

— Dieter, can you change her diaper?

— Dieter, can you rock her a bit, just five minutes?

He obeyed, yes. He didn’t refuse. But he did it in that gruff way that was his: a sigh, a “ja, ja…” muttered between his teeth, the sheet creaking when he got up. He would go over to the crib, pick Hannah up with stiff, careful hands, like someone handling a delicate file he doesn’t feel like reopening. He tried to rock her, failed, scowled, handed her back to you with a muffled sigh and a frown. She resisted him, his own child resisted him, as if she sensed he still didn’t know where to fit her in his plans.

Yesterday, at the hospital hospice, you had felt ten years older. The harsh corridor lighting flattened every face, other women’s screams bounced off the tiled walls. You’d pulled your coat tight around you, even though it was only late summer, because the cold was inside, not outside. Your gynecologist had checked your results, asked questions without really looking at you.

— The healing is good… Blood pressure is a bit low, but nothing alarming. Still in pain?

You shrugged.

— Sometimes. When I stand too long.

— Normal. With a pregnancy like yours… You still need to take it easy.

The phrase almost made you laugh. Take it easy. You’d thought of Dieter, of his exasperated look each time you sat down, each time you pressed a hand into the small of your back, each time you grunted when Hannah pulled too hard at your breast.

— You can resume a… normal activity, the doctor had added, slotting the papers back into your file. Let’s say… marital intimacy, starting now.

He’d paused.

— Provided you feel like it.

You weren’t quite sure what you felt like anymore. But you’d taken that phrase like a passcode, a password to slip into Dieter’s ear, something that might, maybe, spark something again.

That evening, coming home, you found him in the living room, hunched over his desk, the lamp carving out his angular profile, his ink-stained hands stubbornly at work. He lifted his eyes as you came in, the way you glance up from a file just long enough to check if it’s urgent or can wait.

— The doctor said we could… start again, you blurted out, clumsier than you’d expected of yourself.

He’d let out half a smile, dragging up one corner of his mouth as if it cost him something to admit he was pleased by the news.

— Ah. Endlich, he had simply said, pushing back his chair, with a tone that pretended to be neutral but gave away a quiet relief.

And you knew you’d found him again, at least a little, on that terrain. There, you still existed.

The evening had unfolded in a sort of cautious vertigo. You’d put Hannah to bed, checking the blanket twice, the crib three times, the window latch four times. You’d turned on the tiny nightlight that cast a yellow stain on the wall. You’d watched her breathing, mouth slightly open, lashes stuck to her cheeks, that little creature that depended on you for everything.

Then you’d gone back to the marital bedroom.

Dieter had already undressed down to his shirt. He watched you enter, framed in the doorway. You suddenly became aware of your changed body: your belly still soft, your hips heavier, the circles under your eyes. You hesitated a second, your hand knotted around the top button of your dress.

— You’re beautiful, he said, a bit abruptly, as if the compliment were stuck in his throat but had to come out anyway, just to cut off all possible objections.

You almost wanted to ask him: Do you really mean it, or are you just saying it so this will happen? But the phrase, rare as it was, had found a path through your chest, and you decided to believe it, if only for that night.

You undressed with clumsy slowness, as if you were relearning a forgotten choreography. Your skin felt foreign, not quite your own. When he came close, his hands were gentler than you’d feared. Fingers made for tension only brushed your scar, as if asking forgiveness without saying the words. He let out a small grunt, and you couldn’t tell if it was aimed at the scar, the doctor, or himself.

When he laid you down, you bit back a groan, that stab of pain low in your belly, but you didn’t want it to take over. You had decided that this time you’d be the compliant one, the silent one, the solid one. The one who doesn’t “act up,” as he’d repeated, sometimes sharply, as your belly grew and your body begged for rest.

The room had shrunk around you. The shutters let in thin blades of light, slicing his back into pale bands. You felt him hesitate, held back, as if afraid to break you with the smallest wrong movement. Then he found a rhythm, not quite the old one: more restrained, more aware of what your body had been through, but still punctuated with rough little breaths, muffled grunts.

It wasn’t the great fire from before. It wasn’t a chore either. It was something crooked but real, a bridge thrown between you over weeks of pain, reproaches, and tears swallowed into the pillow.

You caught yourself searching for his gaze, finding it sometimes, clinging to it like you cling to a railing halfway up a steep staircase.

When it was over, you lay still a few seconds, listening to your own heartbeat pounding in the silence. You told yourself: I’m still here. I can still do this. My body is not only pain.

Dieter let himself drop beside you on his back, eyes closed. He lit a cigarette with one hand; with the other he slid an arm under your neck and pulled you against him. The gesture was still a bit brusque, more mechanical than truly tender. You settled your head on his shoulder, like before. As if, despite his sighs and sharp edges, your bodies remembered the way better than your minds did.

Sleep grabbed you in one sudden swoop. You’d had a quick thought for Hannah—if she wakes up, if she’s hungry, if…—and then the thought dissolved in a heavy, dreamless sleep.

The night went on without you.

Street noises slowly faded away, the rare cars, the heels, the voices. Only the creaks of the parquet remained, Dieter’s breathing, yours, and that dense silence of the hours when the city holds its breath.

And then, like some secret mechanism that always triggers at the same time, the familiar signal rose in the darkness.

A first whimper, hesitant, muffled by the blankets.

Then a second, longer, that clawed better at the air.

Then the cry, sharp, straight, that cry you would recognize among thousands, cutting through your chest every time.

Hannah started to cry.

Her cry sliced the night like a blade, but your body flatly refused to respond.

You heard her. You heard everything. The complaint rising, breaking, starting again, that already-known rhythm of infant distress. You could have drawn the curve of her cries on paper: the first shy sob, the second more confident, then the climb in intensity, the urgency taking up all the space. Your ears were alert, your mind too, but between your will and your muscles there was suddenly a wall.

Your eyelids were two stones.

Your arms, two dead pieces of wood.

Your belly, a heavy block, emptied but still hurting.

You knew exactly what you were supposed to do. It was almost an automatic sentence in your head: I have to get up, I have to go pick her up, I have to give her the breast. But the sentence just circled in your skull, refusing to travel down into your muscles.

Fatigue nailed you to the mattress. Not the simple tiredness of a long day. A compact, old, thick fatigue that went back weeks. As if someone had emptied out your spine and filled it with wet sand. Every movement cost too much. Even the idea of opening your eyes seemed excessive.

Hannah’s cries grew louder.

You felt your heart race, but the rest of you didn’t follow. You were trapped inside your own body, perfectly conscious, but stuck right there in the warm dent of the sheets where Dieter’s head had rested minutes earlier.

A small dry voice started whispering in you:

You’re a bad mother. She’s crying, you hear her, and you don’t move. You prefer to sleep. You’re letting her cry like an animal forgotten in a yard.

You would’ve liked to answer that voice, to scream that it wasn’t that, that you simply had nothing left in the tank, that your body had used up every last reserve. But you didn’t even have the energy to argue with yourself. You stayed there, listening to the cry grow unbearable, without moving a millimeter.

You didn’t feel Dieter get up.

You didn’t feel the mattress lighten, or the rustle of the sheet when he turned away. Your brain, busy fighting a decent battle against your own inertia, missed the moment when he slid his legs out of bed, placed his feet on the cold floor, stood up in the half-dark. Just a dark shape cut out by the faint strip of light under the hallway door.

You didn’t hear his footsteps at first either. All you heard was your own caught breath and Hannah’s howls. He, on his side, was already crossing the corridor, muttering a half-audible curse against “these damned nights,” more for himself than anyone else.

You only understood something had happened when Hannah’s crying changed.

It wasn’t the same cry.

The long wrenching wail had turned to shorter sobs, almost hiccups, then to those small irregular noises she made sometimes when she began to calm down. You recognized that exact sound, the way you recognize a particular tone of voice in someone you love: Hannah was no longer alone screaming into the void. Someone was holding her. Someone was rocking her. Someone was probably talking to her.

The silent gaps between sniffles lengthened.

There were still little snorts, quick little breaths, but it was no longer that raw hammer of sound against your ribs.

Your mind jolted, as if someone had yanked a curtain open.

She’s calmed down. Why? Who…?

Only then did you realize the emptiness beside you. Dieter’s heat was gone. Under your groping hand you found the warm hollow in the sheet, the trace of his body, but he was no longer there. The long shape at your right side had vanished.

A second effort, more deliberate, rose up from your belly. You pulled on that last bit of will as if on a rope. Your fingers finally moved, very slightly. You felt them scratch at the sheet. You tightened your wrist, then your forearm, then your shoulder. The path felt endless.

You managed, slowly, to roll onto your back. Your heart was thudding harder, not from the physical effort, but because you felt like you were coming back from very far away. Your eyelids, still reluctant, finally lifted.

The bedroom appeared, blurry at first, drowned in bluish dark. The outlines of the ceiling, the moldings, the shuttered window, the chair with clothes fallen over it… You blinked several times and things clicked back into place.

The bedroom door was ajar.

The hallway light drew a pale rectangle on the floor. In that rectangle, a silhouette.

Dieter.

He was coming back down the hall, walking slowly, his shoulders slightly rounded, leaning forward just a bit. In his arms, snug against his chest, Hannah. Her tiny head rested in the crook of his arm. Her cheeks were still wet, but her wide-open eyes shone in the dimness. She wasn’t crying anymore. She was making small hesitant sounds, as if testing a new language.

The sight hit you.

You weren’t used to seeing them together like that, without obvious tension. Usually, when he took her, his movements were stiff, over-conscious, and she kicked off again, crying harder, almost offended by those arms. Now, though, she looked oddly calm.

Her tiny fingers alternately clenched and unclenched on the fabric of Dieter’s nightshirt. Her mouth opened and closed in little sucking motions at the empty air. Her forehead was no longer creased.

Dieter’s face was focused, his brow slightly furrowed, the grumpy look of a man dragged out of bed but doing the job anyway. He didn’t notice right away that you were awake. He was watching the baby with a hard, tight sort of attention, as if trying to memorize the details against his will. For a second it looked as though the files, the station, the uniforms, the rumors from the street and the shadows of the war had all retreated to the far end of the corridor. His broad fingers supported Hannah’s neck with almost meticulous care.

You felt a strange mix: a sharp stab of jealousy, a wave of relief, and something more blurred you couldn’t name.

You would have liked to be the one to calm her. The only one able to turn her screams into softened little whimpers. At the same time, some part of you shrank back, grateful that, for once, you weren’t the one stumbling out of bed in the dark.

Dieter stepped over the threshold and came in without turning on the light. His bare feet slid almost noiselessly over the wooden floor. He walked up to the bed, and you could see Hannah’s face more clearly now, still red from crying, but relaxed. Her eyes flicked from him to you, lost, a tiny thing carried between two fixed points.

He sat on the edge of the bed, on your side, with unusual care. The mattress dipped gently. He took a moment to settle Hannah well in the hollow of his left arm, against his chest. He tugged the sheet a little higher around her, muttering under his breath about “that damned draft” leaking through the badly insulated window.

You felt everything now: the slight tension in the mattress under his weight, the rasp of his shirt against the sheet, the smell of his skin mixed with dried milk and Hannah’s tears. Your eyes, still half-closed, settled on his left hand, his fingers curved protectively around her, his thumb absently stroking the blanket.

With his right hand, he reached for you.

His fingers found your shoulder first, a bit brusque. He pressed lightly, testing whether you were really asleep or just faking it. At the faint grunt you let out, he slid higher, skimming your collarbone, then your face. The backs of his knuckles brushed your cheek, briefly, still awkward, but real.

— Hey… he said in a half-voice, more an order softened at the edges than a tender murmur. Wake up a bit.

His voice was low, a little rough, full of sleep and contained annoyance, held in check by the fragile creature wedged between you. He leaned closer, his breath grazing your temple. The mattress shifted, pulling you further toward the waking world.

Your eyes opened more fully. You finally met his gaze. For one second, there was only that: his eyes, yours, and between you the small bundle that barely wriggled, already searching for something with its mouth.

Dieter glanced down at Hannah, then back at you. There was no mask of exasperation you’d been dreading, no grimace of a man dragged out of bed. Only an intent seriousness, a bit cranky, like someone torn from a task he’ll nonetheless see through properly.

He tilted his head toward you and, in that same low voice, with a dry, matter-of-fact tone that still surprised you, he said:

— She’s looking for you. She probably wants to nurse. Because as far as she’s concerned, I am clearly not enough.

You tried to sit up, but your body betrayed you again.

The decision was clear in your mind: I need to sit up. You knew that if you stayed lying down, Hannah would eventually start wriggling again, spiraling back into cries no crib could soothe. But between the decision and the action there still yawned that gap dug out by exhaustion.

You tightened the muscles of your belly, tried to push up on your elbows.

A brutal wave of dizziness crashed over you at once, a gray surge that knocked the breath from your lungs. You fell back a few centimeters onto the pillow, eyes half shut, feeling as if the ceiling had just tipped sideways.

You hesitated to ask for his help.

The words stuck in your throat. You didn’t want to hear yet another sigh, or see him roll his eyes, or sense in the way he touched you that silent reproach about your weakness. So you forced it again, teeth clenched, fingers gripping the sheet.

Dieter saw it all.

He let out a little grunt that wasn’t aimed at you or Hannah, but at the whole situation, at these endless nights.

Without a word, he readjusted Hannah in the crook of his left arm, then leaned toward you. His right arm slid under your armpit, wrapped around your flank with more solidity than gentleness. The gesture wasn’t romantic, but it wasn’t rough either. It was quick, effective, the way you lift something fragile while grumbling, but you lift it anyway.

— Come on… easy, he muttered. Don’t snap in half.

He helped you up, centimeter by centimeter. The muscles low in your abdomen protested, that deep dull ache, as if everything inside was still badly put back. Your back peeled away from the mattress, your pelvis tipped, and finally you were sitting, head slightly bowed, hair stuck to your neck with the heat of the night.

He grabbed two pillows without asking, shoved them behind you between your shoulder blades and the headboard.

— There. Lean on that. No need to flop back down like a sack, he grumbled, though there was no real bite in it.

You let him fuss, too exhausted to argue. Now that your body was more or less upright, your arms slowly regained some substance. You held out your hands for Hannah.

— Give her to me… you whispered, voice still rough from sleep.

He shifted the warm little body carefully, transferring her weight from his elbow to yours. When she left his arms, you felt how light and heavy she was at once, fragile and laden with everything she represented. Her small legs kicked a bit, her fingers clutching your nightgown like a solid anchor.

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You placed her against you, in the position the midwives had hammered into you: her belly against yours, her nose level with the nipple, her head cradled in the bend of your arm. She was already turning her head, that almost animal reflex, searching blindly, mouth half-open.

It wasn’t that simple.

Her mouth stayed too tight. When she tried to latch, she only grabbed the very tip, a tiny piece of you, and a sharp, useless pain sliced through those few millimeters of skin.

You swallowed a groan.

— No, not like that, you muttered, more to yourself than to her.

The midwives’ instructions resurfaced through the fog of fatigue, through Dieter’s remarks, through the chopped-up nights. You saw their gestures again, their bossy hands, their voices rough but patient.

You loosened your hold a little, shifted your grip. With your free hand you pinched your nipple, bringing it closer to her mouth. Hannah grabbed immediately, but still wrong, too shallow. The pain knifed through you again. You pulled her off, gently but firmly.

— Wait, you said softly. Let’s try again.

You rubbed your nipple along her upper lip, the way they had shown you.

A brush, then another, then a third. Her tiny mouth followed the movement, lost at first, then more intent. You kept tapping a little lower, right at the seam of her lips. She reacted. That inborn reflex finally kicked in.

She opened her mouth wide all at once, showing bare gums, that minuscule hollow that was waiting to be filled. You took advantage of it to bring her closer more definitively. This time it was you who offered her your breast, deep, not her snatching a bit of it.

This time, the latch was right.

You felt it instantly.

The pain didn’t vanish, but it changed. It wasn’t a useless surface burn anymore, it was a firm, deep pull that ran up into your chest. Hannah’s sucking, steady and insistent, tugged on one precise point in you, like pulling up a bucket from a well. You felt the milk let down, that tingling sliding beneath your skin.

You inhaled almost to her rhythm.

Your face relaxed a little. You settled her weight more securely against you. The fabric of your nightgown wrinkled under the palm of her tiny hand. Her cheek rested on the top of your breast, warm and still damp with tears. Her eyelids fluttered for a few seconds, then half-closed in total concentration.

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Only then did you really feel his gaze.

Dieter.

He was still sitting beside you, turned slightly three-quarters. Not too close, not really far. Within reach, but behind that invisible gap he always kept between himself and anything that touched him too directly. He watched you nursing his daughter like a man watching a complicated machine he doesn’t quite understand but is observing nonetheless.

His eyes moved from your face to Hannah, then down toward your breast, never lingering long anywhere. It wasn’t a leering look, not exactly tender either. It was that calm, almost neutral stare of his, the stare of a man taking note. No visible excitement, no disgust, no obvious wonder. Just his rough, distant presence.

You felt more exposed than ever.

Not just because your breast was bare, taut, caught between a baby’s lips. Exposed in your raw fatigue, in the way you held her, in the hesitation from earlier, in your clumsy way of following the instructions from the hospice. Heat rose to your cheeks, a discomfort that had nothing to do with nudity.

You searched his face for the slightest extra sign. Pride, softening, a smile. You found none of that. There was no open harshness either. Just that quiet, closed-off calm, almost clinical, as if he were filing the scene in his head: mother feeds child, system running, no incident.

His shoulders were slightly hunched, elbows resting on his thighs, hands clasped between his knees. He didn’t look like he was in a hurry to leave, but he didn’t look particularly committed to staying either. He was there without being fully in it.

Silence grew around you.

Only Hannah’s steady sucking filled the air, that wet, repetitive sound like a tiny living metronome. Every so often she paused, blinked, let out a small sigh against your skin, then started again. Your breast grew heavier, then slowly emptier, and you felt it in waves.

You caught yourself staring at a point on the wall just above Dieter’s shoulder, simply to avoid his eyes for too long. This scene that was supposed to be natural made you feel as if you were being examined. You waited for a verdict that never came.

Finally, you turned your head a bit toward him.

— What? you snapped, more sharply than you’d planned.

Your voice cut through the quiet. Hannah shifted slightly without letting go, her fingers tightening for a moment on the fabric. You automatically readjusted her.

Dieter didn’t seem surprised by your brusqueness. He blinked slowly once, then gave a tiny shrug.

— Nothing, he said. Just watching.

His voice stayed steady, a bit rough, without much warmth but without a clear jab either. A straight line.

You felt the urge to jab him anyway, just to see if anything would pierce that smooth surface.

— You look like you’re reading a report, you said, a half-bitter smile twisting your mouth.

The corner of his lips twitched, just a bit.

— I’m trying to figure out how she does it, he answered after a second.

He jerked his chin toward Hannah.

— That. The whole circus there.

He didn’t point directly at your breast, but you understood. He was watching that connection, that back-and-forth of milk and breath that happened without him.

He sat up a little straighter, interlaced his fingers, cracked his knuckles softly, his gaze still on the two of you.

— Looks like she knows exactly what she’s doing, he added in a neutral tone.

In someone else’s mouth it would have sounded tender. From him, it stayed a dry observation. System functioning. Full stop.

You glanced down at Hannah.

Her tiny hand had unclenched, releasing a fold of your nightgown. Her fingers jerked in little spasms, in their own private universe. Her breathing had synced to her sucking, regular. You felt the weight of her forehead against your chest, and despite the fatigue, a stubborn gentleness lodged itself somewhere deep inside.

— She does, you murmured. I’m the one who doesn’t, half the time.

The words slipped out. You didn’t even know if you were speaking to him or to yourself. Dieter turned his head a little toward you but didn’t answer. His eyes ran over your drawn features, the dark circles, the curve of your neck, then quickly went back to Hannah, as if he refused to linger too long on you.

Time passed like that.

The minutes were measured by the movements of her jaw. The milk flowed, the pain turned to heaviness, then to numbness. Your back started to ache, wedged between the pillows and the headboard. You felt split in two: the upper part of you anchored by the little weight attached to you, the lower half leaden with exhaustion.

Dieter eventually glanced toward the window.

The shutters let in a thin blade of orange light from the streetlamp. You could sense the late hour in the thick stillness outside. He let out a small sigh, the sigh of a guy who counts the hours more than he lives them.

— You should fall back asleep fast after this, he said in a practical, slightly grouchy tone. Otherwise tomorrow you’ll keel over again, and they’ll yell at me.

The line tugged a humorless smile from you.

— I’m already not holding up, you answered.

He didn’t rise to the sarcasm. He simply nodded, as if you’d given him another piece of information for his mental file.

Hannah eventually slowed down.

Her sucking grew more erratic, her eyelids almost shut. Sometimes she let go of the breast, mouth open, tongue still pushed forward, then latched on again automatically. You felt the letdown ebb, your breast turning softer, less full.

You slipped a finger into the corner of her mouth to break the seal, the way they’d taught you. She barely protested, a tiny sound puffing out. You gently unlatched her, feeling a drop of milk slide over your skin. Her chin and cheek were damp.

You pulled her up so her head rested on your shoulder. Her hand gripped the fabric without really seeing what it caught. You rocked her in a few slow, instinctive movements.

Dieter finally stood up, like someone closing a folder.

He rolled his shoulders, ran a hand through his hair while muttering something unintelligible, then held out his arms.

— Give, he said. I’ll put her back before she decides it’s time to argue politics.

You hesitated for a second. You didn’t want to give her up. But your arms were starting to tremble. You handed her over, looking out for her head and legs. He took her with that same measured care as before, no more demonstrative, no less attentive. He supported her neck, settled her back into the crook of his arm, checked her breathing in a quick glance.

Hannah barely woke. She stirred, let out a tiny sigh, then collapsed against his chest again. On him, Dieter still looked somewhat foreign. He seemed to be holding something precious he hadn’t ordered but refused to drop.

He threw you a brief look.

— Sleep, he ordered simply. You’re already half switched off.

It was an order without cruelty, but not wrapped up nicely either. Just blunt.

He headed for the door, pale silhouette framed by the hallway light, Hannah in his arms, a small white bundle against his shirt. You watched him until he disappeared into the next room, the one where the crib had been set up near the window.

You were alone again in the dim room, your breast still bare, sticky, sore and empty. The bed seemed enormous all of a sudden, too big for just you. From farther away you heard the discreet creak of the crib, the whisper of tiny sheets, an indistinct murmur from Dieter—probably a grouchy sound forced into a sentence for her sake—then nothing.

Silence fell again, heavy, with the strange sense that something had just happened without you quite knowing what to call it. Nothing spectacular, nothing visible. Just this: you, exhausted, feeding your daughter; him, present, a bit grumpy, a bit off to the side, but no longer fully absent, as if he were looking at his own life through a cracked pane of glass.

You settled more comfortably against the pillows, pulled the blanket up over your chest, buttoned your nightshirt again without really thinking about it. Fatigue rolled back over you, broader, deeper, like a wave returning.

Dieter came back faster than you would have thought.

You hadn’t heard his steps return from Hannah’s room. You just felt a slight shift in the air, the way you do when a door is closed. The mattress dipped on your right: he’d lain down again. Your eyes stayed closed, not by choice but by sheer weight. Your eyelids were heavy once more.

— Sleep, he grumbled under his breath. You need to go back under, otherwise tomorrow’s going to be a circus.

The phrase could have slid right off you. Logical, practical. You were exhausted, you’d just nursed, you needed rest. Everyone repeated the same refrain: sleep whenever you can. Standard instruction.

But inside, it wasn’t sleep that rose.

It was something else.

Rougher. Less controllable.

First, a lump, right there in the middle of your chest. Something wedged between your ribs that made you want to breathe too fast. Nothing to do with your physical exhaustion or your aching belly. More like a tangle of emotions stuck there for days, weeks, choosing this exact moment to push to the surface.

You tried to swallow it down.

To shove it back, the way you swallow a lurking sob. You inhaled more deeply, bit the inside of your cheek. It didn’t work. The lump turned to heat behind your eyes.

Your hormones didn’t care at all about what Dieter had just said.

He could recommend rest like the most conscientious doctor; your body had picked another program: crying. Not a little. Not neatly. Crying like a dam giving way.

The first tear surprised you.

It rolled along your temple, slipped down to the pillow. You felt the wet line cooling on your skin. Then another came. And another. Within seconds, you had lost control.

At first, it was silent. A throat that tightens, a breath that snaps, those too-quick inhales that make your upper chest tremble. You were turned toward him, eyes half closed, your face crumpling like a child’s.

Dieter took a moment to understand.

At first, he thought you were just shifting to get more comfortable. He felt the mattress shiver, your shoulder lift. He didn’t worry. But the movements became irregular. Your breathing changed. He turned his head toward you.

In the dimness he caught the shine on your cheeks.

Then the sound reached him: a strangled little hiccup, then a second. You weren’t pretending anymore. You were really crying. Your lips trembled, your hands clenched on the blanket, your shoulders jerking.

He frowned, annoyed at not understanding, then just lost. His first clumsy reflex was to pull the sheet a bit higher over you, as if you might be cold.

Pointless gesture.

He pushed himself up on one elbow.

— Hey… hey. What is it this time? he grumbled, more worried than truly aggressive.

He hadn’t seen this coming. He had pictured you collapsing, emptied, not starting to cry like this after the fact.

A doubt went through him.

He replayed his last sentence. You need to go back to sleep. Had he thrown it out too harshly? Too much like a command? Had you taken it as one more criticism? With you right now, he felt like he was walking on something fragile with no manual. Either you took everything silently or you shattered all at once.

He moved closer without really thinking about it. The sheet crumpled between you. He slid an arm under your shoulder and pulled you gently toward him. Your hands let go of the blanket at once, like you’d been waiting for just that.

You pressed yourself against him.

It was immediate, almost violent, the way you glued yourself to his chest. You didn’t wait for comforting words. Your cheek flattened against his nightshirt, your fingers hooked into the fabric. Your forehead found its place under his chin. Your breath came quick and uneven, each inhalation bringing a new rush of tears.

He froze a bit at first. Not because he was rejecting you, just because he didn’t know what to do with this flood. He put his hand in the middle of your back. His palm covered nearly the whole length of your spine. He began a slow to-and-fro, a bit clumsy.

— Hey… calm down, he murmured. What is it now, huh?

You didn’t answer right away.

The words jammed behind that block of sobs. You half-heard his tone—softer than the phrase itself—but it wasn’t enough to stop the flood. You needed several breaths just to regain enough control to speak.

He waited. That, in itself, was almost new for him. His hand kept moving from one shoulder blade to the other. His other arm tightened a bit around your shoulders, as if he needed to hold you together.

— Hey. Look at me, he asked after a while.

You shook your head against his chest.

You didn’t want to look at him. You were afraid of seeing impatience in his eyes, or worse, nothing at all. You felt ridiculous, cumbersome, as if your tears were spilling all over the bed.

— At least tell me why you’re crying, he insisted, voice a little more pressing but still quiet. What did I say now?

You inhaled deeply, once, twice. Your sobs calmed just enough. You lifted your face a little from his shirt. The fabric under your cheek was damp.

You raised your head a few centimeters. You looked at him sideways, through tears. He seemed both very close and strangely distant.

— Because… you started, and your voice cracked.

You swallowed and tried again.

— Because you… you hate her.

The word slipped out.

It had been lodged there for a long time, and it had just found a crack. You hate her. You almost saw it bounce off his face.

Dieter froze.

His body, which had just begun to loosen, tightened back up. The hand on your back stopped dead. His fingers clenched in the fabric.

— What? he said.

Not a distracted what?, not quite an angry one either. A short, disbelieving what? He pushed himself up a little higher against the pillow, searching your face.

You kept your head lowered, but the words wouldn’t stop now.

— You hate her, you repeated, your voice breaking. Anyone can see it. You don’t care. You wanted a boy. You wanted a son so you could… shove him in your uniform, make him march in formation, turn him into a little soldier, a little…

You couldn’t get the last part out. The word stuck.

Your shoulders shook again.

— And you got… you got a girl. So you just do the bare minimum. You take her when I ask. You look at her like she’s one more file. You don’t want her. You… you just put up with her.

Every sentence came out in fragments. Your heart hammered. You felt like you were emptying a sack you’d been carrying for weeks, but you were terrified of the explosion in front of you.

The silence that followed stretched out.

Dieter didn’t speak right away. He didn’t let go of you, but his hand stayed very still on your back. You felt his fingers digging into the cloth, as if he, too, were clinging to something.

You dared raise your eyes a little higher.

In the darkness you made out his closed features, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on you without really blinking. You recognized his way of shutting down on the inside, as if he were pulling a shutter down over his feelings.

— You really think that? he asked at last, in a voice a little colder than he’d intended.

The tone stung you.

— You don’t… you don’t show anything else, you shot back, tears flooding again. You weren’t even there when she was born. You were at the station, with your papers, while…

He shut his eyes for a second. You saw him inhale, as if swallowing down a harsh retort that burned on his tongue. He could have cut this short. He didn’t.

— I wasn’t there because they stuck me on duty that day, he said more slowly. Because if I didn’t show up, there’d be consequences. Because not everybody can just vanish when it suits them. Not this year, not in this city, not now.

His voice didn’t sound like self-pity. It was plain fact.

He paused, then added more quietly:

— You think I don’t remember the exact time she was born?

The question hung there. You didn’t answer. You sniffed, wiping your cheeks.

He went on:

— You think I don’t still hear your voice when the neighbor told me on the stairs, “It’s done,” and I ran up four floors, and you were there, soaked, white as a sheet, with…

He broke off. With blood stayed behind his teeth.

You were staring at him now, surprised by those details. You hadn’t even been sure you remembered them yourself.

— You think I hate her, he repeated.

This time his voice had hardened.

You felt his hand loosen slightly on your back, as if something else began to stir in him.

— You really think I’m dreaming of a son so I can watch him raise his arm in some barracks yard? he asked more sharply.

He looked you straight in the eye, his gaze glinting in the dark, not with tears, but with a cold, contained anger.

— You think I’d enjoy throwing him into that mess out there, with those bastards shouting orders all day long? You think I’m longing to hear some kid tell me “Heil” instead of “Papa”?

He’d spoken a bit too loud at the end. He immediately lowered his voice again, casting a quick glance toward the wall between your room and Hannah’s.

— I don’t just “put up with” her, he continued more quietly. It’s just that…

He groped for words. You could see how much he struggled, not to lie, but to drag sentences out that he wasn’t used to saying.

— … that I don’t know what to do with a baby, he finally admitted, almost through his teeth. Boy or girl. I can fill out forms, write reports, deal with drunks punching each other in the rain, but when she starts screaming like that, right there, I…

His free hand made a brief impatient gesture, as if brushing away invisible smoke.

— I don’t know. Nobody taught me this. They taught me to shut my mouth, obey, stand straight. Not to talk to three kilos of trouble yelling in my ear.

The “three kilos” scraped you slightly, but you mostly heard the exhaustion behind it.

He locked eyes with you, for once without looking away.

— I don’t hate her, he said. Not for a second. It’s not because I’m not clowning over the crib that I hate her. It’s not because I don’t know what to say to her that I wish she were a boy instead.

You listened, motionless. Your tears were slowing, though not gone. Everything you’d seen over the last few weeks still screamed the opposite in your head, but his words were shaking the picture.

— When I pick her up and she screams even louder, he went on, looking off to the side, I feel like I’m screwing up everything. So yeah, I hand her back to you. Yeah, I do the minimum, like you said. Not because I don’t care. Because I’m scared I’ll break her. Scared of being… bad.

The word drifted between you. You’d never heard him talk about himself like that.

— And tonight, he added more calmly, when you didn’t move… You looked dead. Cut the drama, you were empty. I got up because somebody had to.

He breathed in.

— And because I can’t stand hearing her cry like that, he admitted in a barely audible murmur.

That little phrase hit you in a strange way. It had dropped like just another detail, no fanfare.

You lowered your eyes, your fingers pressing into his shirt.

— Then why… you whispered. Why do you seem so far? When you look at her. When you’re with her. When you’re with me.

He let out a short, joyless laugh.

— Because I’m exhausted, like you, he said. Because all day they shove names under my nose that get crossed out, people we don’t see again. Because I spend my hours pretending I don’t see anything so they don’t cross out my name. So yeah, when I come home, my head is somewhere else. It doesn’t mean I hate her. It just means I don’t know where to put all of it.

Silence settled again.

His hand slid a bit higher up your back, to the nape of your neck. His fingers slipped into your hair, lifting it off your skin. He pulled you in closer, as if he could at least close the physical gap, if not the rest.

— I don’t blame you for being at the end of your rope, he said. But don’t pin that kind of hatred on me. I’ve already got plenty to carry.

You closed your eyes, exhausted by the flood of words and the tears. Your sobs had shrunk to occasional hiccups. Your head lay on his chest again, and this time you clearly heard his heartbeat, faster than before.

You didn’t answer. You had no big speech left in you. You felt a little foolish for accusing him so bluntly, but you didn’t entirely regret having said it. At least now he knew what was inside you, beyond your sighs and your silences.

Time stretched.

His hand in your hair slowed, then stopped, but stayed there. You breathed in his smell—soap, dried sweat, ink, cigarettes. It wasn’t particularly comforting on its own, but it was him, and your body clung to that.

Just before you slipped halfway under again, you heard his voice once more, very close to your ear, lower:

— I’ve never been scared of a station chief. Or a uniform. Or the cold. But that little thing in the room next door… she scares me more than all the rest. Not because I hate her. Because if I let myself really get attached, I don’t know what…

He didn’t finish. He let the sentence die between you. His arm simply tightened around you a bit more, as if, for that night at least, he accepted being less far away, even if his face still held that restraint that, in your current state, always looked like distance.

──────────────────────────────────────────────────────

You really slept, this time.

Not a jittery micro-nap. A real black-out, no dreams, no jolts.

When you came back up, your first feeling wasn’t the usual jolt of panic.

It wasn’t: Is she crying? Did I miss a wake-up?

It was… wet.

Something warm, damp and insistent against your cheek. A little slobbery smack, followed by a tiny warm breath tickling your skin. Then another. Then a soft noise, somewhere between a gargle and a half-formed “eh.”

You frowned, still cotton-headed.

A third clumsy contact, missed a bit, on your ear. Definitely not coordinated.

You opened your eyes, still sticky with sleep.

Morning light was filtering through the curtains, soft and grey. The living room clock probably showed an unreasonable hour, but you didn’t check. What filled your field of vision was a face, right up close.

Hannah.

Just a few centimeters away, held sitting on the mattress by Dieter’s hands. He was keeping her at your level, turned toward you. Her heavy head bobbed slightly, supported by a finger behind her neck. Her big eyes, that uncertain newborn blue, were vaguely fixed on your face.

And her mouth…

Her mouth was hunting your own with the frantic energy of a little animal. It lunged forward, pulled back, smeared itself over your cheek, slid down your chin, got lost on your cheekbone. Between attempts, she made an odd sound, not really a cry, not quite a laugh: a hesitant baby babble.

Each time she hit your skin, a line of drool stayed behind.

— Mhh… you mumbled, unable to manage anything more articulate.

You turned your head a bit, and your gaze fell on Dieter.

He was sitting beside you in his underwear and open nightshirt, hair sticking up, his jaw shaded with early beard. He looked tired, eyelids heavy, but clearly up before you. He watched you, serious as always, that faint crease between his brows that always made him look like he was grumbling on the inside.

— She’s trying to eat you, he stated flatly.

His voice was low, a little hoarse. Less sharp than usual, but not especially warm either.

You blinked, still foggy.

— She’s giving kisses, you corrected automatically, your voice scratchy.

Hannah took advantage of your half-open mouth to aim higher. She leaned in, helped along by Dieter’s hands, and planted her drooly mouth on the corner of your lips. It wasn’t quite a kiss, but it had the crooked shape of one.

You let out a short, dry, surprised laugh.

— Do you see that? you breathed. She…

You didn’t finish. You just tilted your head to offer your cheek. Hannah went right back to work, applying herself with serious determination.

Dieter wasn’t exactly smiling, but something had eased in the lower half of his face. Less rigid. He followed the baby’s maneuvers with quiet focus, like he was supervising an operation.

— She watches you, he muttered. All those tricks you smear on my cheek. She’s copying, that’s all.

You hung on that sentence.

So he’d noticed. Those quick little kisses you left in passing, in the kitchen, in the doorway before he left, at night when you’d just brush your lips against his skin because you had no strength for more. You’d assumed they slid right off him. Apparently not.

Hannah slid a bit lower, almost reaching your chin. Her hands flailed, and one slapped right onto your nose. You flinched.

— Ow… you said, laughing.

Dieter pulled the baby a bit more upright.

— She’s been up for a while, he grumbled, as if giving a briefing. She opened her eyes, looked at me like I’d ruined the whole world, then started making weird noises…

A quick glance at you.

— I figured you’d slept enough, but clearly she wanted your face, not mine.

You snagged on the “slept enough.”

— Since when…? you asked, trying to sit up.

You groped on the nightstand for the clock. Dieter caught your hand halfway and dropped it back to the sheet.

— It’s after nine, he said.

Nine.

The word hit you.

— Nine…? But… Hannah! She hasn’t…

— She slept seven hours straight, he cut in, hitching the baby up as she began to slip. Since just before two. She grumbled around six, then went back to sleep. And no, she’s not starving to death, he added with that dry pragmatism of his. You, on the other hand, sounded like someone who’d been knocked out cold, so I didn’t see the point of sounding the siren over a hypothetical complaint.

You stared at him, eyes wide.

Seven hours.

You instantly understood why your right breast hurt so much. You brought your hand up to it, stifling a grimace.

Dieter’s gaze followed, without comment.

— She emptied one side last night, he said. The other’s had time to stock up. Quite logical.

— Since when are you keeping a log of my breasts? you blurted, stunned.

He raised an eyebrow, then gave a tiny shake of the head.

— They trained me to observe, he said. Apparently it’s useful in my line of work.

Hannah let out a sharp little “ah,” then dove back toward your cheek. You turned your head and planted a real kiss on her forehead.

— Morning, you murmured. You’re dangerous today.

She kicked her legs, almost taking off. Dieter held her firmly.

— If you want to feed her, he said, I’ll hand her over. Otherwise we can let her keep drooling on you for a bit. She seems highly motivated.

The tone was dry, but there was a flick of humor in it.

Your breast was protesting loudly enough to decide for you. You held out your arms.

— Give her here. Before you start claiming I’m raising her like a little monster.

He lowered her into your arms. You sat up, pillows rustling. Your movements were smoother than in the night. You settled her against you; your body already knew what to do.

Dieter stayed seated.

That was new. Normally he’d invent an excuse and vanish: a glass of water, the window, anything. This time, he stayed put. He just shifted a little to give you more room.

You unbuttoned the top of your nightgown, a bit self-conscious in the daylight. You could still feel his eyes somewhere on you.

Hannah didn’t overthink it. Once in position she turned her head, searched, found, latched on. She took your breast with greedy pulls, gulping down the first jets as if she’d crossed a desert.

A wave of relief rolled through you. The sharp pulling eased into warmth.

When you opened your eyes again, Dieter was looking away, at a pile of clean laundry waiting to be folded on the dresser. His fingers were busy with a loose thread from the sheet. His profile remained serious.

— You’re not at the station today, you noted.

— No. Day off, he replied.

— You could have slept longer too.

— She woke up before me, he snorted lightly. And somehow she wasn’t interested in my schedule.

You pictured it: him, grumbling, her, utterly unconcerned.

— You already picked her up while I slept? you asked, quieter.

He hesitated a fraction of a second, then nodded.

— I’m not going to leave her yelling at the ceiling while you snore like a soldier on leave, he grumbled.

You opened your mouth to protest—you did not snore that much—then shut it again. Another question elbowed its way forward.

— You changed her?

He glanced away briefly.

— Yeah. Well… I think so.

— You think so?

— The dirty diaper was full, the clean one’s on her, and she hasn’t exploded since. I’m counting that as a success, he said, dryly.

You burst out laughing. A real laugh. Hannah startled at the sound, then kept nursing.

— Last time you tied the strings on the wrong side, you reminded him. She had a lump digging into her back.

He let out a long sigh.

— Then this morning I checked twice. She didn’t yell. That’s my new measuring stick.

You watched him, your heart wedged between gratitude and your old habit of suspicion. You thought back to the night, to what you’d flung at him: You hate her. And to the way he’d answered, piece by piece.

In the morning light, what you’d projected onto him looked slightly different, a bit distorted. His distance was real, yes, but it wasn’t as simple as you’d painted it.

You lowered your eyes to Hannah, focused on your breast, her tiny brows drawn together as if she had serious work to do. Her small hand resting on your skin was warm, trusting.

— Dieter… you said.

He turned his head toward you.

— What? he asked, automatically defensive, but without bite.

You tried to line up a big speech and came up with nothing that held together. So you chose the smallest thread.

— Those… drooly “kisses,” you murmured. That was your idea?

He pressed his lips together slightly.

— I just told her, “We’re going to wake your mother.” She started doing her weird mouth tricks and I… steered, he admitted, honest as ever. She did most of the work.

Your throat tightened—not from tears this time.

— You steered them well, you said softly.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. From outside drifted the distant clatter of a tram, a car, a snatch of conversation. Life went on out there, unaware that here, in this bed, a grouchy man who claimed he was no good with babies was quietly teaching his daughter to drool all over your face to wake you up.

Hannah eventually slowed down. You felt her sucking grow lazier, almost sleepy. You detached her gently. A pearl of milk clung to her lip. You wiped it away.

— Want to hold her? you offered Dieter.

He looked at you, surprised.

— You sure? he asked automatically.

— She’s full, you said. And my arm’s starting to complain.

He took her with more ease than before. He laid her against his chest, one hand behind her head, the other on her back. Hannah let herself go. She cracked one eye open, shut it again right away.

You watched them this time without twisting what you saw.

He didn’t suddenly look like a picture-perfect father. He wasn’t melting as he stared at her. He wasn’t spouting big declarations. But he held her well. Really well. His hands were sure.

— You don’t hold her so badly, you said.

— I’m starting to get used to the weight, he answered, like he was talking about a file, but there was a faint different note under the words.

You let yourself sink back into the pillows. Your body, drained but a little calmer, savored that morning: the soft light, the breast less painful, the baby full, the man on his day off sitting on the bed with this little thing in his arms, half-grouchy, half-hooked.

In the corridor, the clock chimed the half hour.

Dieter didn’t move. He rocked Hannah with a motion so tiny you could almost miss it. His hand, the same hand that had signed so many forms, now rocked three kilos of future.

You closed your eyes for a moment, just to print this scene somewhere in your head, with all its smudges, drool, and cracks.

That morning, for the first time in a long while, you felt the day begin without a crushing weight already on your chest. You were still tired, still worried about tomorrow, about the city, about everything else. But here, in this bed, with Hannah against Dieter’s chest and the dried trace of her fake kisses on your cheek, something else slipped in among the chaos.

Not peace. Not blazing joy.

Just a clean little lull, a small slice of morning reprieve.

[aarcticmuuse]

Kink/Flufftober Day 26 ── Someone's sick...

October 26th, (a bit ooc)husband!Dieter x wife!reader.

No cw needed ig.

You were still asleep, tucked in the quiet of morning, when Dieter’s military alarm tore the air like a slap of steel. Three clipped notes. Not the six o’clock alarm—higher, briefer. You knew this one too: the five-thirty, the bell he used on days he meant to outrun the city. You cracked one eye. The short hand barely bit into the six. Winter 1943. Windows sealed, fog on the panes, cold nailed to the walls.

You refused to let the heat of his body escape. You slid into his arms, yours around his waist, your forehead to his cheek to steal thirty more seconds. His skin burned. Truly burned. A damp, foreign heat for such a frozen morning. You growled your discontent instead of phrasing it. He growled back—discipline.

He eased himself free with the neat economy of someone who can unknot a rope with one hand. The blanket slipped; the bedside lamp snapped on. And the light laid on him jolted you upright: cavernous shadows under his eyes, skin too pale, fever-flushed cheekbones, dry lips, a set jaw, the faint, scattered click of his teeth. You took his hand—reflex—and the cold of his fingers bit your palm.

— Leave it, he said. Flat. Dry. As if returning a spoon.

— Don’t move, you said, your voice still rough with sleep.

He set his feet on the floor. The floorboard complained in a thin creak. He tried to rise in one clean motion—habit—and failed. The world seemed to move without him; he sat again without admitting defeat, blanket across his thighs like a file he was about to sign.

— I’m going to the office at six, he said, like reciting a regulation.

— You’re going nowhere. Look at yourself.

— I have appointments. I’m expected.

— Your chair will survive, Major. You, on the other hand…

You leaned in, hands on his too-hot cheeks, your forehead to his. No diploma needed, no thermometer either. But you had one, of course—the old glass tube, lazy mercury, tiny numbers. You caught the alcohol bottle and a clean handkerchief. The click of the cap irritated him physically.

— No, he said.

— Dieter.

— No.

— Under the tongue. Thirty seconds.

— I categorically refuse.

— Fine. Then I’m putting it up your ass.

Silence picked up a small, amused weight. He blinked, dignity starched and bruised.

— You could, he said, wounded, try to have a sense of decency.

— I’ve seen your ass. Several times. Reminder: we’re married.

His gaze shifted, a tidy retreat in good order. He pressed his lips thin. You set the thermometer in his hand so he could choose, and naturally he chose the honorable option: under the tongue. He slid it in with a telegraphed sigh.

— No talking, you warned.

He raised a hand—“as you wish.” You sat beside him, your back to the headboard, the wood cold through your shoulder blades. His breath went in its hot, irritated loop. The bedside clock ticked like a useless summons.

You drew the thermometer out. The mercury had leapt in one insolent climb.

— Thirty-nine point one.

— It’s wrong, he said.

— You’re what’s wrong.

He tried to smile to close the case, but his teeth chattered right after. He grabbed his shirt off the chair back, groped for the collar like a castaway reaches for a rail. Your fingers stopped him.

— We’re not playing this game. You’re staying home. All day. All evening.

— I am not under house arrest.

— No, you’re sick. Worse: you’re a stubborn sick man. And I have the command here. That’s the rule today.

— I am the major of this house, he said with a seriousness that would have made someone else laugh.

— Today I’m the major. You’re taking soup.

He inhaled like signing a humiliating armistice, but his eyes were already stinging. You tucked the hot-water bottle under the blanket, nudged his elbow; he held it to his stomach with ill will. You pulled the quilt over his shoulders the way you do for someone you love and deliberately annoy for their own good.

The hallway telephone waited—heavy, black, mute. He turned his head toward you.

— Don’t do that.

— I’m doing it.

You crossed the apartment, bare feet on the frayed rug. The receiver weighed in your hand. You dialed, sure-fingered. A line of static, a voice at the switchboard, then another, stiffer one.

— Major Hellstrom won’t be in this morning, you said calmly. Fever. He’ll call this afternoon to adjust his schedule.

A cold pause at the other end. Two clipped jawohl, and the line died. You hung up. Dieter had straightened a full ten centimeters in bed, very dignified.

— It isn’t your role to announce my movements.

— I just did. See? The ceiling didn’t collapse.

— What degree of… formality did you use?

— Enough for them to leave you alone. Too much for them to ask questions.

You went to the kitchen. Tin pan, dented kettle, a sulking fire. You knew your clandestine stash of dried flowers—linden bouquets, a few sprigs of thyme dearly acquired, a pinch of mallow and marshmallow kept in an old paper bag, two elderflowers biding their time. The honey had thickened—sunlight trapped in glass. You sliced a sliver of lemon—your treasure, your rationed half—and fished out a clove, your grandmother’s weapon.

You fed the stove, watched the draw. Water began to clap, the lid dancing. You steeped. The room filled with herbarium, crushed hedge, clean linen. You added honey, stirred rather than whisked, then set the clove into the lemon and let it float like a small ship.

When you returned with the chipped cup, the bedroom already smelled of dignified invalid. He’d pulled his shirt up over his shoulders, a button undone, pale nape exposed. He had realigned the tissue box by two millimeters. The major had lost some ground, but not his quirks.

— Drink, you said.

He wrinkled his nose.

— It smells… like a ditch.

— It smells like medicine.

— Your grandmother’s medicine smelled like a wet fence and tired honey.

— She cured everyone with it. Even the difficult cases.

You set the cup in his hand. He took it like a clean punishment. He blew on it, tasted, frowned.

— It’s… thick.

— It’s effective.

— You do know there are tablets that—

— I know there’s you, shutting your mouth and swallowing.

He swallowed. Grimaced dutifully, but his shoulders loosened by an imperceptible degree. You pretended not to notice. He set the cup dead center on the coaster. You nudged it a millimeter off, for sport. He recentered it, slow and annoyed, and his mouth betrayed a smile that extinguished itself at once.

— You stay in bed until early afternoon, you announced. No longer. After that, you get up, sit in the armchair, and continue staying home. I’m repeating it so it sticks.

— I hate being managed.

— I love managing you when you’re impossible.

You pressed your forehead to his again. The heat flattened you. You came back with a basin of warm water and a washcloth. He flinched, almost childlike.

— No.

— It’s a cloth, not a bayonet.

— It’s cold.

— That’s the point.

You laid the cloth on his forehead; he closed his eyes and exhaled like someone having a ribbon of decorations torn away. Two minutes. Rinse, replace. His breathing found a less spiked rhythm. The lamp drew a softer halo over his red cheeks. You felt his stomach unclench under the blanket, the hot-water bottle pinned against him.

— Sip, you said, offering the cup. Two. Go on.

— I can see you’ve promoted yourself to head nurse.

— And you’ve understood I own your hide today.

He drank. You calmed the room; you calmed the air. Fever and winter made a strange couple.

Administrative conscience flared.

— My files.

— They aren’t running away.

— Eleven o’clock appointments.

— I said: you’ll call this afternoon. Or tomorrow.

— Some things aren’t moved.

— Your body just moved everything you thought fixed.

He made a hand gesture like signing “received,” but it wasn’t a signature; it was provisional surrender. His head tipped back against the headboard. He closed his eyes and—his mistake—let himself sleep a little. No more than ten minutes. Then he tried to sit up, betrayed by his own spring.

— Don’t get up, you said without raising your voice.

— I need to… make a list.

— Make it in your head. Plenty of room in there.

— I prefer writing. Writing clarifies.

You handed him his notebook and a pencil. He took them. Wrote in neat letters, not a blot—Kindly lower the fever a notch could have been there—but he put down names, times, little arrows; order where his bones trembled. He sneezed. You set a handkerchief on the notebook at the right moment. Four hands, one system.

— Your fingers are ice, you said.

— I’m an ice cube in a stove, he said, annoyed at his own metaphor.

— There, you have humor. Won’t cure you, but it helps me.

He sagged a notch, pencil hovering. His gaze drifted back to you, a little blurred.

— I don’t like being seen like this.

— I know.

— It’s not… dignified.

— You’re breathing. That’s dignified.

— You’re fixing the words.

— No. I’m keeping you in one piece. More concrete.

You went back to the kitchen. A crust of stale bread became edible in a splash of broth. You poured; you returned. He held the spoon ceremonially, as if the soup had taken an oath. He grumbled that it was “unnecessary.” He finished the bowl without noticing.

— Disgusting, he said.

— You’re scraping the bottom, Major.

— Out of duty.

— Of course.

He wiped his mouth. Folded the napkin into a square. Straightened the pillow with a careful gesture, then finally let his back sink. The room dropped a half-tone. Your feet were cold; the smell of warm herbs clung to your hair. Fresh cloth, fresh hot-water bottle. Rituals.

— Thermometer again, you said.

— This is harassment.

— You’re free to call a lawyer. He’ll tell you to open up.

He obeyed, resigned. The mercury had fallen to thirty-eight-seven. You didn’t crow. You nodded, simply.

— There. We’re getting somewhere.

— Thanks to your wet-fence potion.

— Thanks to my sense of decency, mostly.

— You have none.

— I married you. That’s impeccable taste.

He almost laughed, caught by his throat and checked by pride. Then he did what he does best after deciding: he fell asleep neatly, without slumping, cup centered, watch aligned, blanket pulled to the exact distance from his chin. You sat a while listening to him breathe, watching the tremor of his lashes, counting the seconds in which his jaw really unclenched.

Early afternoon. You left him in bed until then—no more. At one, you tugged lightly at the blanket.

— Up. Armchair. You’re still staying home.

He opened one eye, already displeased.

— I agreed only to “early afternoon.”

— Exactly. We’ve reached it. I keep my word. You get up, slow, you sit, and you keep on healing.

He preferred to rise in one go, missed the step, recovered. You didn’t comment. You slid your hand under his elbow—he pretended your hand wasn’t there, but you felt his weight settle on it for a second. He reached the armchair, boarded it like a ship he respected.

— Telephone, he said, voice rough.

— Later.

— Now.

— Two minutes of tea. Then you call.

— Make yours. Mine is a punishment.

— Yours is a masterpiece. You secretly love it.

— I confirm nothing.

— I hear you loud and clear when you confirm nothing.

You set the cup down. He took it. Played through the comedy of disgust and duty. His eyes had calmed—not defeated—just returned to a war he could fight: him against himself. You turned the radio down to a thread of nothing. The walls stopped being walls. A cart rattled in the street, a dog barked, the kettle began murmuring the obvious again: you hold, you tend, you don’t give in stupidly.

He called at last—three sentences, no complaint, laconic. You’d think he was announcing a train delay. He straightened a single centimeter afterward. Just one.

— See? you said. The world turns. You too—slowly.

— I hate slowness.

— Then hate it with a scarf around your neck. It suits you.

— It’s a taste.

— I have it; you said so yourself.

The minutes stacked up. The radio whispered something unimportant. The radiator ticked like an insect. Dieter ended up pulling a book at random—not even his kind—an old, rumpled collection of poems with a faded blue cover. He pretended to read. His eyes moved over the lines, but fatigue turned the pages. His head tilted a few degrees, lifted, dropped, persisted. You watched without noise, the draft between the sealed window and the curtain breathing on your wrist. You smiled for yourself: him, with a badly held book, lips parted, breath rasping a little. Rare. Protected species.

His head bobbed in earnest, neck gone slack; the book slid a centimeter down his thigh. You stepped closer. Your socks had lost their elastic and wrinkled at your ankles—stupid detail, true detail. You touched his shoulder.

— Settle here, you said, simple.

— No.

— Yes.

— I’ll give this to you.

— You’re worried about me. That’s very cute.

— It’s not cute.

— It’s adorable.

— No.

— Yes. Come on. Here.

You perched on the empty armrest, then slipped down so your sides met. He gave you the look of a man clinging to dignity like a guardrail. His hand clung to the book like a permit to remain upright.

— Drop the book. You’re going to lose it and it’ll land on my foot.

— I drop nothing.

— You’re dozing. I can see you.

— I’m thinking.

— You’re sleeping sitting up, Major. That’s called sleeping.

Heavy eyelids, fever shining him up; he defended himself with the soft energy of the sick who refuse to sign the confession. You slid your hand behind his nape. He twitched—a reflex, not a no. You tugged a little. His head hovered, came, retreated.

— You’re going to rest your head on my collarbone, all right? Like a normal human being.

— I—

— No argument. Quiet. Breathe. Let go.

— You might try prudence.

— I am. I want you here, prudent against me.

He fought a little more, tightrope; fingers clamped on the book. You decided for him. You took the book from his hands, set it on the table, came back. He opened his mouth to protest; you beat him to it.

— I didn’t ask for a speech. I asked for your head here.

You drew his shoulders in, sank into the chair with him, adjusted your weights so nothing pulled, nothing pinched. His temple touched your shoulder; he held himself too straight, as if he wanted twenty centimeters of air between you out of sheer stubbornness. You pressed a little. Gravity did the rest. He gave. His head settled into the hollow exactly where you wanted it. Heat soaked your collarbone; his skin smelled of herbs and honey—fever, laundry, and a fading old cologne.

— There. Good.

— No. I—

— Hush.

You slid a little more, and with that motion you brought your chest under his cheek like a pillow. He understood what you were doing.

— Decency, he repeated, very politely outraged.

— You’ve seen my breasts. Plenty. We’re married. Stop playing priest.

— That is not the argument—

— It’s the perfect argument. Quiet and get comfortable.

— I— it’s incongruous in broad daylight.

— The curtains are drawn. Problem solved.

A protest noise got stuck between his cough and his pride. You smothered it by sweeping a damp lock from his forehead. His cheek was tacky. You arranged the blanket over your legs, fished the hot-water bottle you meant to wedge between you; he took it with reluctant precision and pinned it where the heat soothed. His body loosened in little stages, internal creaks. His breath tapped your collarbone; you felt the vibration of his fever through your skin. You ran your fingers through his hair—not for pretty, just to tidy the damp strands. He said nothing. He made a small thirsty animal’s “hmm” at last.

— Every time you fall asleep, you think you’re losing, you murmured. You’re not losing anything. You’re letting me handle it, that’s all.

— I don’t like the verb “let.”

— Then keep “hold.” You hold on. Here. Against me.

Useful silence. Outside, a bicycle bell pinged once; the courtyard sent back a sliver of metal; two voices passed—one word heard, the other not. The radio swallowed its crackle and exhaled a thin violin. You felt, against your sternum, the precise instant his jaw stood down. His forehead burned; you reset the cloth. He shook his head faintly, then yielded again. Slow. You measured his breathing like you measure a fever without an instrument: deeper in, less rasping out. The war outside could make faces all it liked; in here there were two breaths and a hot-water bottle.

— You’re going to sleep, you said into his hair, not as an order but permission.

— I-

— Sleep.

— All right.

The word fell small, almost transparent. He hadn’t weighed it; good. The fingers that had held the book like a parade weapon slipped into the fabric of your dress. They didn’t grip; they existed. You felt him go down by steps with quick returns to the surface: a sigh, a shiver, a glance that saw nothing, two German words in his throat you let pass untranscribed—no need. You kneaded his nape, inch by inch. Skin hot and dry, hotter still near the temples. You switched the cloth. You settled into the role you liked: load-bearing wall.

— If I give you my illness, you’ll complain eight days, he mumbled, balancing on the last wire of consciousness.

— I’ll complain better than you. Promise.

— No one complains better than I do.

— We’ll see. Sleep.

He obeyed. Finally. The minutes stretched like caramel. You didn’t move, not even to fight the cramp forming in your hip. The tiniest maneuver would wake him, and you wanted him exactly there because he never let go like this and you needed to store the image somewhere no one could take it from you. Time passed. The radiator knocked a little as it expanded; the honey on the saucer set into a thick rim. You tilted your head to shade his eyes from the light. That was enough. He stayed.

When he woke, there was nothing dramatic about it; he reclaimed his tools one by one. Shoulders back in line, gaze returning, mouth closing, one hand seeking his watch, the other smoothing the blanket. You felt him go back on duty.

— How long? he asked—rough, polite.

— A good half hour. Maybe more.

— Enormous.

— Useful.

He eased back very slowly, like disconnecting from an embrace that might set off an alarm wire. You let him. He cleared his throat, regretted it at once, endured the noise he’d made.

— Water, you said.

— Please, he conceded, made more civil than usual by fatigue.

You passed the glass. He drank. Dabbed the corner of his mouth—poor man’s gesture at staying impeccable. You picked up the thermometer; his look darkened.

— No.

— Yes. Under the tongue.

— No.

— The other option is still on the table, you know.

— … Under the tongue.

— There we go.

You counted without counting, seconds tucked between your breaths. You drew it out.

— Thirty-eight point three.

— Rigged.

— Yes—by tea and a nap.

— By your authoritarian streak.

— I’m keeping it.

You went to the kitchen, put water back on; returned with a clean cloth, changed the compress, tugged the curtains one more centimeter to steal light without displaying your silhouettes to the neighbors. He tracked your movements—not to control them, to recognize them. He didn’t like your word “adorable,” but he was doing exactly what you’d wanted since morning: letting you handle it without calling it that.

— Early afternoon, you said, he reminded you, one brow up, voice less shredded.

— Almost. Settle a bit longer, then sit properly in the chair, with the scarf. And stay home. All day. All evening.

— I understand.

— Say it.

— I’ll stay home. All day. All evening.

— Good.

He took the scarf, tied it without hurry, applied himself as if writing his name on the world’s door. You replaced the cup on the coaster; he centered it by half a millimeter, laughed inside at you, at himself, at your graph-paper wars. You took his hand to help him up; he made a show of not needing it, but leaned anyway. Two steps, and the armchair swallowed him neatly. He settled. He exhaled long.

— I admit… that… he began.

— Yes?

— That… this position is… tolerable.

— That’s a love declaration, Major.

— No.

— Yes.

He shot you a look that didn’t wound; you kissed his temple to annoy him, tucked the scarf around his throat.

— And my breasts, he resumed, mounting one last theoretical defense, have no place in the care protocol.

— Your eyes have spent hours on them. They’re certified medical. Official.

— That’s folklore.

— It heals. See? You’re already speaking better.

He chose not to answer, which, for him, was a way of conceding a point. You handed him the cup again. He drank with a professional grimace.

— Still disgusting, he said.

— You love it.

— I confirm nothing.

— Duly noted.

Night slid along the walls, charcoal behind thick curtains. The fever had stepped down a notch—not beaten, but less arrogant—and you kept him in the armchair until the hours packed tight. When you rose to put water on, Dieter announced, in an administrative tone, that he had “perfect control” of his evening wash.

— I can do it alone.

— Fascinating. Come on.

— A wife shouldn’t—

— Spare me the chapter, Major. Your microbes filed the forms; approved. I’m in charge.

You set up what you needed: the enamel basin on a stool, the kettle breathing in little bursts, a rough towel that still smelled of last summer’s sun, a soap worn to the bone, a toothbrush that had lived through sieges, a dab of camphor ointment salvaged from a kind pharmacy, and the razor you left shut—no need to pit fever against a blade.

He arrived in the little washroom, dignity in slippers.

— This apparatus is disproportionate, he said, eyeing the basin like a hostile witness.

— So are your airs. Sit. Good. Not complicated.

— I’m the major of—

— You’ll be my patient for five minutes. Courage. It’s worse on the other side of the door; that’s called the world.

He pulled a vexed face but sat. You slipped his shirt off—he’d insisted on half-buttoning it out of habit; the skin at his nape stayed warm under your fingers. You rinsed the cloth, wrung it out, passed it over his forehead, his temples, behind his ears. He snorted a long breath, a disgruntled horse.

— Too cold.

— Effective.

— My nerves—

— Your nerves will live. Tilt a little. There.

You moved down to his throat—short, undramatic gestures, just steady work by steady hands. With every pass he tried to restitch a few words of doctrine—“bearing,” “domestic protocol”—but the warm water kept him busy breathing. You smoothed two fingers of ointment along his throat and just under the collarbone, where it still burned.

— No, he protested. The smell is an assault.

— That’s camphor taking the barricade. Let it win today.

— Smells like a badly washed guard post.

— You’ll see tomorrow it cleaned house.

You handed him the towel. He dabbed with ridiculous delicacy, as if his face were porcelain. You brushed his hair straight back to tame the damp. In the speckled mirror, there was a bare second of confession: a man bent by a long day, accepting—without naming it—a hand at his nape. You tidied up, poured the leftover water into the bucket, wiped the basin’s rim, killed the kettle.

— Bed, you said.

— I know the way.

— Perfect. Then pretend not to wobble. I’ll catch you “by accident.”

He chose silence. You offered your arm; he pretended to ignore the hand but took the forearm—old trick to avoid admitting it. The hallway swallowed your steps. In the bedroom, the low bulb threw a yellow halo over the coverlet’s folds. You fluffed the pillow, turned back the blanket, set the water glass within reach. He rearranged the nightstand by a centimeter—because his world is built on centimeters.

— A wife shouldn’t— he began as he slid under the quilt, the familiar bad-faith ritual; because her husband is sick, and all the rest, improper burdens, inverted roles, the—

— Stop.

You sat close. He opened his mouth for the next paragraph; you cut him off with a kiss to the brow. He recoiled a centimeter, scandalized.

— You’ll catch my germs.

— Too late. I married the source.

— It’s not funny.

— It is.

You kissed his temple. He lifted a hand to hold you off. You kissed the other one. He grumbled.

— Truly—decency—

— Forget decency in bed. And going by my memories, you don’t exactly hold back.

— This is not the time to produce archives.

— It’s exactly the time. Stop sulking. Let me kiss you.

— I’m telling you—

You kissed the bridge of his nose. He groaned.

— Germs.

— I’ll take them all. Forehead, brows, nose, cheekbones. Full coverage.

You punctuated each word with a light kiss—one for the shadows under his eyes, one for the corner of the mouth that still wanted to command, one for the obstinate jaw. He tried to push you away with a token gesture, not convinced, not decided.

— You’ll be sick eight days, he murmured, tragic.

— I’ll make a festival of it. We’ll hang bunting. Be quiet and be kissed, Major.

— I hate when you mix affection and orders.

— Lucky for me, I love it.

You felt his resistance settle. He let you, pretending to hold the line for strategic reasons—when in truth it felt good. You pulled the blanket up to his shoulders, wedged the pillow under his nape. He adjusted it, because he always will. You found his hand under the quilt; his fingers were less icy than in the morning.

— Tomorrow, he said, I’m up at six.

— Tomorrow you’re up at seven.

— Six-thirty. I concede.

— Seven. Convalescence.

— Six fifty-five.

— Seven, you repeated, and I’ll hide the alarm.

A tiny silence—measuring pride against reason. He sighed.

— You are… intrusive.

— I’m your wife. It’s on page one of the manual.

— I have no manual for… this.

— Then I’ll write one. Chapter one: you take a sip of water.

— I don’t—

— You drink.

— … Very well.

He drank—docile and annoyed, his best evening self. You set the glass down. You brushed his throat to check the heat: still coming in waves, but cresting lower.

— Thermometer, you said.

— No.

— The butt option still exists.

— Under the tongue.

— There we go.

You counted in silence, fingers on his wrist where the pulse kept its patrol. You drew it out, read it.

— Thirty-eight on the dot. We’re winning.

— Planning a victory speech?

— Just one bonus kiss for the trophy.

— No.

— Too late.

You stole a dry kiss at the corner of his mouth. He pretended to wipe it away; he didn’t. He rolled onto his side, back to you—a way of saying he still had a vote. You fit yourself to him without ceremony, arm around his waist, nose in his shoulder that still smelled faintly of camphor. He made an outraged sound that scared no one.

— Decency, he repeated—last firework.

— Sleeping with your wife is peak decency. Shut up and breathe.

— I’m trying, he said, and the saw-edge had left his voice.

You reached over him and turned out the light. Darkness fell like a coat. The house sounds settled: a pipe creaked, fabric whispered, the world outside scraped a barrow somewhere very far away. In that reasonable dark, Dieter moved—a small adjustment that meant “don’t go.” You didn’t. You felt his hand searching for yours under the blanket—no fanfare, no confession; he found it, closed, guardian of nothing but that.

— You’re going to… he murmured, wrestling a last beginning of a sentence.

— I’m going to stay, you cut in.

— Very well.

The word was so low you felt it more than heard it. His breathing evened out, rhythm returning, human. He grumbled once more for form’s sake:

— Seven o’clock, tomorrow morning.

— We’ll see.

— I’ll win.

— I’ll consider the hour you get up. That’s already generous.

He let out a muffled, almost silent laugh that got caught nicely in the pillow. You counted without counting the next minutes—the time it took for the day to slip off his shoulders. He fell asleep without his uniform: mouth slightly open, eyes fully closed, hands at peace.

You stayed, pressed to him, keeping the night warm, holding this simple, victorious position: he sleeps, and you keep watch. Tomorrow the city will restart its hours; tonight, decency has changed sides—and that suits you just fine.

I was lazy as hell to finish this os... It's 2 a.m. where I live when I post this...

[aarcticmuuse]

Kink/Flufftober Day 27 ── Rough day...

October 27th, (a bit ooc)husband!Dieter x wife!reader.

No cw needed ig.

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.

He felt you anyway.

— 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.

— Eat, he said.

— I will after.

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.

You rose halfway.

— Chicory? you offered, simple.

He lifted his eyes. Hesitated again. Pinched his lips.

— Yes.

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.

— Take it.

— Thanks.

You took it. He bit the other half. The crust cracked. He chewed evenly. A little normal came back.

— Salt, he said.

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?

— No.

— A cool cloth.

— No.

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.

— Good.

You stood to clear a plate. He lifted a hand, brief.

— Leave it.

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.

— All right.

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.

— Okay.

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.

— No.

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.

— Why are you staring?

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 not staring.

— You are.

— I’m… checking your count. You’re skipping a stitch.

— I’m not skipping anything.

— Then keep going.

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.

— No.

— Yes.

— You’ll crush me.

— I weigh nothing.

— You are… intrusive.

— I’m here.

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’re impossible.

— I know.

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.

— Two more and I stop.

— One.

— Two.

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.

— All right.

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.

[aarcticmuuse]

Kink/Flufftober Day 25 ── Cooking together !

October 25th, (a bit ooc)husband!Dieter x wife!reader.

No cw needed ig.

The street noise of late afternoon filled the kitchen. It was warm—very warm. You slid an eye to the little thermometer nailed to the window handle: 28 °C. A late-summer heat, heavy just enough to loosen the nerves. Through the half-open pane rose clean scraps of sound: voices dragging from the sidewalk, the sharp clack of heels on the cobbles, a street vendor packing up his crates.

You smiled in spite of yourself, imagining Dieter’s face when he came home, late in the evening, and discovered what you’d prepared. Then, methodical, you lined everything up on the enameled counter to the left of the sink: the puff pastry you’d turned the day before and left to rest in the fridge; a dish of apples already cut into slices, soaking in vanilla spiced rum—his rum—you’d siphoned in secret the previous night; a handful of raisins to plump; a packet of brown sugar unearthed at the morning market; a small jar of cinnamon, two lemons, a few almonds to crush; some crème fraîche and one egg for the glaze. At the tip of the sideboard, the ration cards hung from a clothespin, mute witnesses to the day’s thrift.

The key turned earlier than expected.

The click knocked the breath from you. You started, fingers still floury. The front door pushed inward on a warm draft, carrying the smell of metal and stairwell dust. Dieter was early.

— You… you’re already here, you said, low.

He came in without answering, set his cap on the sideboard, smoothed the seam of his tunic automatically. His jaw worked. He didn’t look at you right away; his eyes swept the room, stopped on the bottle you’d left deliberately half-hidden behind the fruit bowl. He went to it, took it in one hand, turned the label. The paper had that confident handwriting in black ink: “3 years maceration — vanilla, spices.”

The line of his mouth hardened.

— What is this? he asked, neutral as a report, catching the bottle in his wide hand.

— Apples. And… the raisins. They’re marinating a little, you answered, plain, palms open.

— In what, exactly?

Your gaze slid to the flask. You didn’t dare lie.

— In your rum. A spoon. Maybe two… small ones… maybe three…

He lifted his chin a fraction, an officer’s gesture that counts the faults before announcing the penalty. The bottle made a dull sound when he set it down.

— We don’t touch that one, he said, clipped. It’s reserved. I had it sent from far away. I waited for it.

His voice hadn’t risen. That was worse: sharp, regulated. He picked up the dish, sniffed over it for a second, then pushed it back with his index finger, precise.

— How much did you pour.

— Enough to perfume it. No more. The rest is intact.

— You tasted it.

— Yes.

— And?

— It smells good. The vanilla is soft.

— I know perfectly well what my rum smells like, he cut in. What I want to know is why you opened it without asking.

He finally looked at you. No blazing anger; the annoyance that tugs a brow slightly, the one he serves to subordinates when an order has been ignored. You braced against the edge of the sink so you wouldn’t step back.

— For… the strudel. I wanted it to be good. The dough is ready. It’ll be hot; it’ll bake fast. And you usually come home late, you said, simple.

He blinked once. His eyes slid over the dough, the egg, the cinnamon. His finger tapped twice, dry, against the bottle’s neck.

— Next time, you ask. Clear?

— Clear.

He pushed a chair aside with his foot, shoved it back, nervous, then returned to the table. His hand passed over the thermometer, as if to check it himself.

— Twenty-eight degrees… You left the window open, he noted.

— To chase out the oven heat when it’s on.

— The oven is not on, he observed.

— Not yet. I was waiting.

He drew a long breath. His gaze fell back on the dish: the apple slices bathed, golden, flecked with vanilla; the raisins had begun to swell. He pinched his lips.

— Wipe the rim. It’s dripping. And put away that bottle.

You were already doing it. He followed your movement with a cool eye, then added, lower, without sugar:

— You don’t need to empty my cupboard to make something ordinary.

— I didn’t empty it. I took a little. For the two of us.

The “two of us” floated for a second. He let it drop.

— Hm. But no excess. And no breakage. The counter is new.

He pulled off his gloves, finger by finger, set them next to the cap. The scent of vanilla—his—mixed with the sharper smell of the lemon you’d rolled under your palm. He passed very close, his shoulder grazing yours. You felt the heat of the uniform, the dry sweat of too long a day.

He turned on his heel toward the bedroom without a word. You watched him into the hallway, then took the bottle by the neck and slipped into the living room. The liquor cabinet waited against the wall, dark walnut, glass doors. You put the flask back in its place, label straight, between a cognac and a port he only brought out for official visits. The wood clicked softly. Silence.

Maybe one day you’ll have the courage to empty that cabinet. But the thought retreats as quickly as it appeared.

When you came back toward the kitchen, he was already crossing the living room the other way, bare-chested for an instant—a simple shadow cut by the window—then the door closed behind him. A few minutes later, he reappeared, in civilian clothes: a white shirt open at the collar, a fine wool vest, flannel trousers, soft leather slippers. All expensive without making a sound. Cuffs immaculate. The pocket watch slipped on its chain.

He cast a glance at the living room, adjusted a cushion with a brisk gesture, turned off the radio as one stamps a seal, then headed for the main room. You caught him on the threshold.

— Stay a minute, you said. Come… with me. For the strudel.

He stopped mid-pivot, brows low.

— No. Not now.

— Five minutes.

— I don’t cook, he cut. You know that.

You kept your tone neutral, steady.

— You don’t have to do anything. Just be there. Stir a spoon. Hold the towel.

He sized you up, sideways. His mouth made that pout that meant “bad idea.” He started off again. You followed by half a step, placed yourself in front of him. Nothing dramatic. You lifted your eyes, simply. Soft eyes. Nothing more.

His breath brushed you. He looked away first.

— …What exactly do you expect from me, he growled.

— To come.

A beat. He pinched the bridge of his nose, let out a sigh, looked toward the kitchen as if toward an interrogation room.

— You’re going to get rum everywhere.

— I’ve already put the bottle away.

His jaw tightened. One more second, then two. He yielded by a millimeter.

— Ten minutes. No more.

— Very well.

— And I do not taste raw dough.

— I know that.

He barely nodded, approached the kitchen threshold, stopped again, as if not to give the impression he was obeying you. His fingers skimmed the counter. He eyed the knife, turned it a quarter so it lay perfectly parallel to the edge. His eyes passed over the drained apples, the egg, the cinnamon. He sniffed, brief.

— Where’s the sheet pan.

— There.

— And the paper.

— Bottom drawer.

— Hm.

He rolled his sleeves up two precise turns, face closed. The slippers made a soft sound on the tile. He brushed the oven, checked the knob, shot a look toward the window darkened with a cloth. Everything was in order. He resumed, crisp:

— Call me when you’re ready.

— I’m already ready.

A flat silence. He didn’t smile. He followed you to the counter anyway, at arm’s length.

— If you spill, you wipe, he said.

— I know.

— And no more rum. That’s settled.

— I’d understood, you sighed.

His shoulders loosened by an imperceptible notch. He set his hand on the towel, lifted it, folded it again—a gesture to keep his fingers busy. Then, without looking at you:

— All right. Tell me what I should do.

You nodded, simple.

— The almonds. There. Crack them. Not into powder.

You put the packet in his hand, set down a knife and a small board. He slid the almonds under a towel, took the flat of the knife and tapped cleanly, regular. Tack, tack, tack. The pieces rolled, amber, uneven. He stopped, lifted a corner of cloth.

— Like this.

— Perfect. Not finer.

He started again. You tipped the apple slices into the bowl, gave a gentle shake to drain the excess, then added the vanilla sugar, a good pinch of cinnamon, the raisins, a spoon of crème fraîche. The spoon moved, heavy; the apples got coated. You paused a moment. His hands kept working, efficient, clean, the blue veins rising at the thumb’s joint, the silver wedding band (which makes you smile every time you look at it). The blade clicked on wood. Heat rose to your cheeks. You looked elsewhere, feeling like a teenager with her first love. The oven, the knob, anything.

— Done, he announced.

Without asking, he poured the crushed almonds into your bowl. You folded them in; the mass turned glossy, punctuated with paler shards.

Dieter grabbed the baking sheet, pulled the drawer, took out the parchment paper and set it down with a neat motion. He unrolled the dough over it, let it slide, pressed it with the flats of his fingers until it formed an almost perfect rectangle. He tugged a corner by a millimeter, squared the angle, stepped back.

— Don’t smile like that, he growled without lifting his eyes.

— I admire your perfectionism, you answered.

He finally shot you a glance, brief, then turned away at once. The pout flickered. You stifled a laugh.

— Focus, he said.

— I’m focused.

You drew the bowl close. He positioned himself by the oven, arms crossed, looking like he was supervising a maneuver. You took one step, then another, until your back pressed to his chest. You slipped between his arms that framed the sheet. Your elbows touched his shirt. You tipped the bowl over the dough.

— Careful, he breathed, reflex.

— I know.

— You’re going to get it everywhere.

— Watch.

The filling slid in one heavy mass, then spread in a low heap. His hand settled—without gripping—on the edge of the sheet near yours, steady. He tilted his head; you felt his breath against your temple.

— Stop. Not a mountain, he ordered.

— We said “no excess.” I’m listening.

You shook the spoon, scraped the sides, let the last raisins fall. Behind you, he didn’t move. You took a second to adjust the blanket of apples, then turned your head slightly. He looked away, too late.

— You’re turning red, you observed.

— No, he said, crisp. Focused.

You snickered. He clenched his jaw, but his arms still enclosed the sheet. You made use of the brace, well anchored.

— Give, he said at last.

He took the spatula, leveled the filling into a clean band, left two finger-widths at the edges.

— If you load the ends, it leaks, he noted.

— Yes, boss.

— Not “boss.”

— Yes.

He stepped back half a pace to let you pass, then came back at once, very close, like a spring. You took the brush, beat the egg in a cup, moistened the rim. He watched you work, silent. Your wrist barely trembled; he set two fingers under your hand to steady it. Simple. Efficient.

— Thank you, darling, you said.

— Hm.

Together you pulled the nearest edge of dough. He held the far side, the weight of his palm firm on the paper. You began the rolling, slow, tight. The dough whispered. He followed, corrected a fold too sharp with one gesture, set it straight.

— There, he said. Continue.

You continued. With each turn, his forearm brushed yours. The rectangle became a smooth log, a sleek promise. At the seam, he skimmed the join.

— Press. Not too much. There.

You sealed it with your fingertips. He let you breathe a second, then pushed the sheet to center it.

— Slits, he ordered.

— With what?

He passed you the small knife, handle first so you wouldn’t cut yourself. You made three fine slits. He approved with a breath.

— Now the glaze.

— Yes.

You ran the brush. He followed you with his eyes, fixed on the edge as if holding a line. You could still feel his presence at your back, heavy and calm.

— That’s good, he said.

You smiled wide at the ready, not-yet-baked strudel. The thought that he had helped you—surely “reluctantly”—warmed your belly. You turned in his arms, rose on your toes. He backed a half-step, a sharp reflex, but your arms were already around his neck and your mouth found his. His breath hitched; his hand hesitated at your side. One straight second, taut. Then he answered, brief, precise, like signing.

— You’re going to get flour all over me, he muttered against your lips.

— That’s already done.

— Hm.

You laughed low. He framed your hips, firm, and eased you back with a minimal pressure.

— The sheet, he said. Before it falls.

You slid the sheet in together. He held the oven door; you shoved the tray in. The hot breath struck your wrists. Metal clapped; he checked the knob, an index tic on the dial.

— Thirty-five minutes, he announced. I’ll check at twenty-five.

— Very well.

You set the brush down, wiped your fingers on the towel. He looked at you, then your forehead, then your nose.

— You’ve got a mark. There.

His thumb swept your cheekbone, erased a streak of flour. He kept the contact a second too long, then took his hand away as if nothing had happened.

— Thank you, darling, you said.

— Hm.

You came to him again, slower, slid in front of him, chest to chest, between his arms. Your fingers sank into the knit of his vest.

— You’re sticky, he grumbled.

— Yes.

— I’m not… (he searched for the word and gave up) a teddy bear.

— I know.

He breathed out through his nose, capitulating in his way: his hands settled at your waist, flat, calm.

— Don’t move, he added.

— I’m not moving.

The oven purred. At the bottom of the bowl, one last slice clung to the side. You reached out; he drew you back to him with a brief tug.

— Leave it. It’s fine.

— You’re supervising everything now?

— Yes.

You turned to look at him. He held your gaze, then dropped his eyes a beat too late. The corner of his mouth tightened.

— Stop smiling like that, he grated.

— You’re being shy.

— I’m being serious.

— You’re being shy.

— …Focus on the oven.

You leaned in and placed a short kiss at the hinge of his jaw. He didn’t move, but his thumb anchored harder in the hollow of your hip.

— You’re warm, he said, factual.

— The oven.

— You too.

You blushed, turned your head toward the glass. Inside, the dough was starting to take on a yellower tint. A smell of vanilla and butter stretched out.

— No other bottle next time, he warned, without softness.

— Promise.

— And you don’t open the oven before the end. You wait.

— I know how to wait.

— No.

— Then watch me do it.

You peeled away, went to the sink. He followed two steps, by habit. You turned on the tap, washed your hands; he nudged your shoulder with a finger.

— Not on the vest.

— Take it off.

— No.

You shrugged, turned, and came to press close again. His forehead touched yours very quickly, like an accidental gesture. He closed his eyes for a second.

— We look like a married couple, you said lightly.

— Don’t start.

— Anyway, it’s true, you murmured, looking at your own wedding band.

— Hm.

You turned, slid your arms around his waist; he let you, stiff for two seconds, then softened by a notch. His hand climbed your back, tugged an invisible thread.

— Thirty-one minutes, he said after a glance at his watch.

— You’re really counting?

— Always.

— Then count this, too.

You kissed him again, slower. He answered, curt but present. He tasted, stepped back, came back a moment, stopped.

— That’s enough, he cut, low. Otherwise you’ll forget the oven.

— I won’t forget.

He edged you aside with a palm at your hip and went to the counter. Lined up the knife, folded the towel into a square, turned the cinnamon jar so the label faced front. Everything straight, everything neat. You watched him, amused.

— You’re pretty when you tidy.

— That’s not the point.

— It’s mine.

— Change the subject.

— All right: are you staying here while it bakes?

— Standing twenty minutes. No more.

— Thirty-five.

— Twenty-five. I’ll come back at twenty-five if I leave.

You stepped closer, lifted a hand and tucked his rebellious lock behind his ear. He held your hand for a second, turned it, looked at it, then lingered on the ring.

— You’re trembling, he observed.

— No.

— Yes.

He let go, without comment. The oven gave a steady little puff. The kitchen smelled of warm apple and brown sugar.

— Sit down, he offered, brusque.

— No. Here.

You stayed against him. He anchored behind you, solid. His hands returned to your waist, surer.

— When it browns, call me, he said.

— You’re here.

— I’m here, yes. (A beat.) Stop looking at me like that.

— Like what?

— Like that.

You bit your lip, stayed quiet. He sighed, but his mouth brushed your temple.

Thirty minutes later, your hand was already reaching for the oven handle.

— No, he said flat.

His palm intercepted your wrist. He took two towels, opened the door; the heat spilled out. He pulled the sheet with sure gestures, set the tray on the stovetop. The crust still sang, a thin skin cracking.

— We wait. One hour, he ruled.

— One hour?

— Yes. Otherwise you’ll burn yourself.

— Can I at least taste a corner?

— No. You’ll burn your tongue. And then you’ll say it wasn’t my fault. So no.

You sulked openly, arms crossed.

— Just a crumb.

— No. Living room. Now.

He switched off the radio with one gesture, motioned you over. You moved to the sofa. You pulled a stack of magazines; he took out a sheaf of noncom reports. The paper rasped; the smell of ink and cinnamon mingled from the kitchen. You read. He turned pages at regular intervals, snapped the cover to flatten a crease. His pocket watch clicked now and then: he checked, put it away, checked again.

— Stop looking at the time, you said without lifting your eyes.

— I’ll look if I want.

Time slid. Your fingers ran over dull photos; he annotated two lines in pencil, crisp. Sometimes your shoulders touched. You felt the heat drop in the apartment. The cinnamon held.

When you saw the minute flip on his watch, you smiled to yourself.

— One hour.

He tucked the chain, closed the case.

— Up, he said.

You went back to the kitchen. The steam had stopped. The crust was golden, matte; the slits had drunk the sugar. Dieter tested with a thumbnail, satisfied in spite of himself.

— Plate, warm knife, he ordered.

— Yes.

He ran the blade under water, dried it, cut a first clean slice, then a second.

— Not too big, he warned.

— All right.

— And blow.

You blew, giggled. He raised an eyebrow. You set the plate down and, before he could say anything else, you came close, very close. A quick, simple kiss at the corner of his mouth.

— For today’s help, you murmured.

He stayed still for half a second. Then his cheeks took on a discreet red. He turned his head, grabbed his fork.

— Eat. Before it gets too cold, he gritted.

You tasted. The puff pastry snapped clean, the apple was tender, the rum—just a shadow. You looked up.

— Well?

He chewed, serious, swallowed.

— Correct, he said.

A silence. He speared another bite at once.

— Very correct.

Dieter when he saw his fucking rum bottle behind the fruit bowl

[aarcticmuuse]

🦇 ── Kink/Flufftober

Here is my kink/flufftober calendar. I apologize in advance if I am late with some os.

Btw we love Dieter.

"Cooking together!" has been posted "Someone's sick..." has been posted

That's all ig n sorry it's flufftober*