House Wife
AN: A queer little one shot I wrote all in one day... it started from an odd little fantasy I was having and... spiralled... a little off topic at that. But it's sweet-ish. So enjoy!
The front door opens, a breeze blows through, down the hallway and into the kitchen, wrapping around her ankles and making her smile warmly. She looks to the kitchen doorway and sure enough he comes right in to see her. He looks tired. He works long hours and gets small breaks, why wouldn’t he look tired? She turns the heat down on the pans and approaches him, takes his briefcase from him and then walks around him to help take his jacket off his tired shoulders.
“Welcome home, darling.” She says warmly as she turns to hang his jacket on the dining room chair, shooing the cat away to avoid getting hair on it - despite it being the weekend and knowing she’ll need to wash it anyway.
He sighs heavily, and steps out of his shoes, using his free hands to rub at his temples.
“How was work?” She asks, though she can tell the answer. It would be the same as every Friday. By the end of the week his stress levels are up again and he can only answer with; “Work was hell.” before he leaves the kitchen, enters the living room, slumps down into his favourite arm chair and shoves his feet into the novelty fluffy cow slippers she bought him for Christmas.
He’s her husband. She loves him with all her heart. He provides for her, keeps her safe and makes her feel loved like a woman should be loved - inside and outside the bedroom. So she grabs him a cold cider from the fridge, brings it to him, and places a soft kiss on the top of his head as he pulls at his tie and pops open the top three buttons of his shirt.
“Thank you, dear.” He always manages to say. She can appreciate that as much as any gesture. Its the little things that count the most, she feels.
Her timing now is impeccable and his dinner is ready in only a few more minutes. His new favourite, and their Friday night tradition; traditional British recipe fish and chips with garden peas, a lemon wedge and tartar sauce. It makes him smile. Makes him feel as appreciated as he is. That’s all she wants. For him to be happy. She loves him deeply.
He joins her at the dining room table to eat. Then cleans up their plates after. He even helps her do the dishes. She has admitted once or twice she’s not the best cleaner and that’s why she wanted the dishwasher. But he understands, and he enjoys simply spending the extra time with her. Her company spoils him, he says.
While the dishes sit drying on the draining board they put on a movie, one of the many favourites they share, and cuddle up on the corner sofa. They’ve seen it a million times. They know every line. So half an hour in, when her head and hand are rested on his gently rising and falling chest, she doesn’t mind that his hand strokes down her side and squeezes her ass. He’s a little surprised it’s taken that long, but she doesn’t mind. She smiles and lifts her hips against his touch to silently show her appreciation.
She can’t see his face, but she doesn’t have to, to know that he’s smiling. Not the warm smile he gives her when she brings him a hot meal; it’s a cheeky grin, mischievous. He lifts his other hand to rest on hers, stroking over her wrist to her elbow as he squeezes her ass again. Neither of them are looking at the screen now. He strokes his hand to her shoulder and pulls her up, towards his lips and kisses her hungrily, yet tenderly. She loves him. She wants him to be happy, always. His kiss lights a fire within her. His touch and his hunger are what she aches for. She reaches to unfasten his shirt. She strokes her hand across his chest, down his stomach. She flicks open his belt with a now practiced skill. She loosens his trousers and he shudders slightly when her hand caresses his hunger. It isn’t long until he guides her gently to the floor, undressing her gently, worshipping her with his touch.
They make love, right there on the floor. It’s not the first time, although it may feel like it. Every time feels like the first again. There’s a perfect connection that takes place when their bodies join. It’s not just a physical connection, but a spiritual. He knows her and she knows him. They whisper to each other throughout; sweet nothings and dirty somethings between lustful, passionate, possessive yet still tender kisses.
Even when they’re both spent they don’t want to let go. He wants to stay joined, stay close to her. He never wants to let her go and she never wants him to. They’ve been together years now. Still they hold their traditions close to their hearts. Their routines and their little activities that make the most of the short time they have together. He carries her upstairs when they part. He lays her gently on the bed and lays beside her, holding her close before pulling the blankets around them both. He has to protect her. He made a vow to cherish her, love her, care for her, provide for her and protect her, as she does for him in so many ways.
And, like every night, before they drift off into a peaceful slumber, he whispers against her neck, “I love you, my wife.”
She smiles and squeezes his hand, “I love you, my husband.”
“Welcome home, darling.” She says warmly as she turns to hang his jacket on the dining room chair, shooing the cat away to avoid getting hair on it - despite it being the weekend and knowing she’ll need to wash it anyway.
He sighs heavily, and steps out of his shoes, using his free hands to rub at his temples.
“How was work?” She asks, though she can tell the answer. It would be the same as every Friday. By the end of the week his stress levels are up again and he can only answer with; “Work was hell.” before he leaves the kitchen, enters the living room, slumps down into his favourite arm chair and shoves his feet into the novelty fluffy cow slippers she bought him for Christmas.
He’s her husband. She loves him with all her heart. He provides for her, keeps her safe and makes her feel loved like a woman should be loved - inside and outside the bedroom. So she grabs him a cold cider from the fridge, brings it to him, and places a soft kiss on the top of his head as he pulls at his tie and pops open the top three buttons of his shirt.
“Thank you, dear.” He always manages to say. She can appreciate that as much as any gesture. Its the little things that count the most, she feels.
Her timing now is impeccable and his dinner is ready in only a few more minutes. His new favourite, and their Friday night tradition; traditional British recipe fish and chips with garden peas, a lemon wedge and tartar sauce. It makes him smile. Makes him feel as appreciated as he is. That’s all she wants. For him to be happy. She loves him deeply.
He joins her at the dining room table to eat. Then cleans up their plates after. He even helps her do the dishes. She has admitted once or twice she’s not the best cleaner and that’s why she wanted the dishwasher. But he understands, and he enjoys simply spending the extra time with her. Her company spoils him, he says.
While the dishes sit drying on the draining board they put on a movie, one of the many favourites they share, and cuddle up on the corner sofa. They’ve seen it a million times. They know every line. So half an hour in, when her head and hand are rested on his gently rising and falling chest, she doesn’t mind that his hand strokes down her side and squeezes her ass. He’s a little surprised it’s taken that long, but she doesn’t mind. She smiles and lifts her hips against his touch to silently show her appreciation.
She can’t see his face, but she doesn’t have to, to know that he’s smiling. Not the warm smile he gives her when she brings him a hot meal; it’s a cheeky grin, mischievous. He lifts his other hand to rest on hers, stroking over her wrist to her elbow as he squeezes her ass again. Neither of them are looking at the screen now. He strokes his hand to her shoulder and pulls her up, towards his lips and kisses her hungrily, yet tenderly. She loves him. She wants him to be happy, always. His kiss lights a fire within her. His touch and his hunger are what she aches for. She reaches to unfasten his shirt. She strokes her hand across his chest, down his stomach. She flicks open his belt with a now practiced skill. She loosens his trousers and he shudders slightly when her hand caresses his hunger. It isn’t long until he guides her gently to the floor, undressing her gently, worshipping her with his touch.
They make love, right there on the floor. It’s not the first time, although it may feel like it. Every time feels like the first again. There’s a perfect connection that takes place when their bodies join. It’s not just a physical connection, but a spiritual. He knows her and she knows him. They whisper to each other throughout; sweet nothings and dirty somethings between lustful, passionate, possessive yet still tender kisses.
Even when they’re both spent they don’t want to let go. He wants to stay joined, stay close to her. He never wants to let her go and she never wants him to. They’ve been together years now. Still they hold their traditions close to their hearts. Their routines and their little activities that make the most of the short time they have together. He carries her upstairs when they part. He lays her gently on the bed and lays beside her, holding her close before pulling the blankets around them both. He has to protect her. He made a vow to cherish her, love her, care for her, provide for her and protect her, as she does for him in so many ways.
And, like every night, before they drift off into a peaceful slumber, he whispers against her neck, “I love you, my wife.”
She smiles and squeezes his hand, “I love you, my husband.”