𐔌✶ ﹕@Unnamed_Prussian_Officer

The safehouse was quiet, but not silent. Outside, the wind whispered and scraped across the rotted wood of the shuttered windows, a soft scratching noise like fingernails across the door of a coffin. Inside, it was warmer, but the heat was uneven, concentrated in patches near the iron stove in the corner, which ticked as it cooled between feedings of blackened coal. The scent of smoke and old metal lingered thick in the air, clinging to the walls, mingling with the musty undertone of mold creeping into the foundation. The floorboards creaked under even the slightest shift of weight, and beyond the far wall, somewhere in the ruins of the village, a crow gave a throaty call before going silent again.

Karl sat at the edge of the straw-lined cot, boots still on, posture stiff despite the fatigue in his limbs. The firelight played against the sharply tailored lines of his uniform, catching the polished silver cords draped across his chest and bouncing off the buttons with dull gleams. His jaw was clenched tight, not from pain, but from thought—rigid tension radiating from his shoulders down to his fingertips, which gripped the edge of the mattress with too much force. His eyes, narrowed and grim, stared straight ahead, unmoving, locked on something that was not in the room.

You had seen him like this before—after battles, during debriefings, or when news came from Prussian command that turned his stomach. But this was different. This wasn’t military. This wasn’t political. This was personal, and you could see how deeply it carved into him. He hadn’t said anything, not really, after he pulled away from you. The shift in mood had been immediate—an unmistakable ripple of confusion across his face, then discomfort, then something between horror and rage. It wasn’t directed at you. Not entirely. It wasn’t even something he seemed able to place fully. Just a sudden stillness. A hand pressed low to his stomach. And then silence. A cold kind that drained the warmth from the room faster than any winter draft.

“I—” His voice had cracked. He hadn’t allowed that to happen before. You watched his hand tremble slightly as he stood, swaying for a moment, pressing both palms against the wall like he was trying to steady himself on reality. “No. That… that is not possible.”

But it was.

You both knew the signs. The subtle changes to his body hadn’t been easy to spot under the strict tailoring of his uniform—Karl was meticulous about how everything fit, how nothing shifted or wrinkled. But in moments of undress, when you traced your hands across his hips, or when you kissed down his stomach and felt the faint swell that hadn’t been there months ago, it started to make sense. At first you had thought little of it—stress, maybe. The cold rations, lack of sleep. A trick of light. But now, under your palm, it felt unmistakably real. The slight give beneath his flesh, the warmth there, different somehow. Not soft fat. Not an injury. A change. And when you looked up at his face, you saw that he had figured it out at the same moment you did.

“No. Nein. This cannot be,” Karl said lowly, his accent cutting harsh across each word, sharper than usual. His back was turned to you now, stiff as a statue, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He wouldn’t meet your eyes. “I am not… I cannot be… this is treason.” “Karl—” You reached for him gently, but he stepped aside before your fingers could brush his sleeve. “If the command discovers this…” He finally turned, just enough for you to see the wet shimmer in his eyes, fury diluted by panic. “Do you have any idea what this would mean? For me? For my regiment? For us?”

You did. Of course you did. France and Prussia were bound in an uneasy alliance against the dead, but that hadn’t erased the centuries of blood and suspicion between them. And Karl, a proud soldier of the 1. Garde zu Fuß, could not afford to be found vulnerable—not like this. Pregnant, carrying a French soldier’s child? That would be more than scandal. That would be a disgrace. A stain. One his uniform couldn’t cover up. “I am nothing outside of the battlefield,” he said after a long moment, voice barely above a whisper. He stared down at the floor like it might open and swallow him whole. “If I cannot serve… if they strip me of my commission… I do not exist.” He wasn’t being melodramatic. That was the worst part. He meant it.

You saw his hands curl into fists again, thumbs digging into the fabric at his sides like he wanted to rip it away. His body betrayed him, and worse, he was terrified that you had, too. His breath hitched, shallow and sharp. His jaw was tight again. He wouldn’t cry. He wouldn’t allow it. But his composure was crumbling, piece by piece. The mattress creaked under your weight as you eased down beside him, this time slow enough that he couldn’t shy away without making it obvious. You didn’t speak right away. Instead, you reached up and unfastened the clasp on his shako, removing the tall black hat from his head with both hands, resting it gently on the bedside table. He didn’t protest. That alone said everything.

His hair was slightly damp beneath, sticking to his forehead in fine black strands. You reached up again, brushing them back carefully, fingertips grazing his skin with deliberate softness. His breathing had slowed slightly, chest still rising and falling with tension, but less rigid now. Less like he was bracing for impact. You didn’t force him to look at you. You just sat there. Close. Present. “You’re not just a soldier, Karl,” you murmured. Your voice was quiet but firm, a low and even tone that didn’t flinch under the weight of what had just happened. “You’re a man. You’re my man. And whatever happens, this doesn’t erase that.” He didn’t respond right away, but he didn’t interrupt either. You continued.

“They don’t get to define your worth by how well you hold a musket. Or by how many dead you put back in the ground. You’ve been more than your uniform for a long time now. To me, at least. I see you. I see the way your hands shake when you pour tea, how you still say grace under your breath even when there's no one left to hear it. I know how much you hate the silence after a battle because it means someone didn’t make it back. You cook for the wounded, Karl. You carry them when their legs are gone. You keep order not because you're heartless, but because you're terrified of chaos swallowing the rest of us. That’s not replaceable.” The words hit hard. You could feel the way his body shifted slightly closer, a reluctant gravity pulling him toward you, like instinct fighting against pride. You let the silence fill the air again for a moment, the only sound being the faint crackle from the fire and the distant shuffle of something moving outside the stone walls—zombies or wind or both. It didn’t matter. Right now, the danger wasn’t out there. It was in here. Inside Karl.

You reached for his hand next. His fingers were cold despite the heat in the room. He didn’t resist when you laced yours between them. “You don’t have to do this alone. Not anymore.” His shoulders slumped at last, tension breaking like a wave crashing down. He exhaled hard through his nose, his free hand covering his face briefly before dragging it down with visible exhaustion. You didn’t press him to say anything more. Instead, you shifted closer on the mattress, wrapping an arm around his waist, fingers splayed across the lower swell of his belly, not possessive, not demanding—just there. Steady. Reassuring. He let out a shaky breath, and this time, he didn’t move away.

The blanket had settled over both of you like a curtain dropped after a performance—cutting out the dim firelight, muffling the cold air, drawing everything closer. Tighter. More personal. You could hear Karl’s breath just inches away from your ear, unsteady and shallow, with a faint rasp at the end of each inhale like he was trying not to feel too much. The thick wool above you smelled faintly of smoke and sweat and something worn-in, like safety, like routine, like him. His thighs twitched slightly as you shifted downward between them, careful and slow, like undoing something he’d knotted inside himself for too long. You didn’t rush. Every inch you moved was deliberate, your hand trailing down his abdomen, across the faint rise that now felt more meaningful than either of you could articulate yet. He flinched—not from fear, but from the weight of being seen that intimately. “Karl,” you whispered against his skin, voice low, lips brushing the inside of his hip. “Breathe.”

The cot creaked under your movement. The space between his knees grew wider by reflex, not intent. His palm pressed over his mouth immediately, tight enough to whiten his knuckles. He wasn’t trying to be bashful. He was trying not to be heard. Every sound he made was a risk, and yet, the soft—shhhhhh—of his breath escaping between his fingers said he was already losing the battle with control. His thighs were tense. Then not. Then tense again. Under the blanket, the air grew thick, warmed by body heat and damp breath. When your tongue touched him, low and firm, his entire lower body jerked once—an involuntary reaction. His heel dragged against the bed, spine arching upward a fraction before he forced himself back down with a grunt. “—mmmf...”

You could feel the sound more than hear it, the way it vibrated in his stomach. His hand never left his mouth. The other had fisted into the blanket beside his head, gripping tight, like holding it down could hold himself together. But he was already slipping. Already starting to unravel. The heat of your mouth. The wet pull of your tongue. The slow, steady pressure. Schlk... schlk... shhhhlllkk... Soft, messy sounds filled the cramped space under the covers. It wasn’t loud, but it was wet, rhythmic, impossibly intimate. Karl’s hips bucked once before he caught himself, thighs trembling. His fingers dug into the base of the blanket now, twisting it hard, muffled gasps forcing their way past the meat of his palm. His entire body was strung tight—shoulders rigid, knees spread in tension, his belly visibly rising and falling in sharp bursts.

“Mhh—nngh—hahh…” Each whimper was higher in pitch, more desperate, like he was embarrassed even to need this, even to want it so badly. But he did. And you didn’t stop. You kept going, firm and consistent. You listened to his breath. You paid attention to how he moved—not just how much, but how fast, how hesitantly. Your hands stroked along the tops of his thighs in long, grounding motions, keeping him tethered. Letting him know he was safe here. That you weren’t going anywhere. Karl’s body betrayed him more and more by the minute. The way he tilted his hips forward. The way he moaned softly behind his hand, jaw flexing with restraint. The faint squelch each time your mouth met flesh again.