Chapter Text
The dress reaches his knees. Somehow, that part is worse than if it was some skimpy, whoreish thing. Siegblut feels absolutely ridiculous in something so feminine (he’s a man, how could he not?), and the modest, simple nature of the outfit is only exacerbating that sense of wrongness.
There are days where you keep him in your living space. You have him cooking, cleaning, and doing other chores like he’s meant for that instead of war. Ignoring every part of his training in favor of making him your servant—
No, the way you describe it is wife.
It’s that part that makes shameful heat rise to Siegblut’s face and even worse, between his legs. Whenever you call him your sweet, pretty wife, some part of him that he never wants to think about melts into it. Hearing from his Master’s mouth that he’s good does things to the inside of his chest and the pit of his stomach. Your hand on his collarbone and your lips at his throat stoke that fire twofold. You praise him like no one else ever has.
And in a way, it’s soothing. Cooking dinner while he waits for you to get home is a weirdly peaceful feeling. There are no expectations that he can’t meet and no one there to judge him when he does fuck up.
The door opens in the distance. Siegblut almost tenses up on reflex. He has to remind himself that he doesn’t need to snap to attention.
Your footsteps get closer. You set your bag down in the living room and slowly make your way to the kitchen. Siegblut bites the inside of his lip and tries to focus on the almost-done vegetables in the pan in front of him.
“Hello, darling.” All too soon, you’re behind him. Your arms wrap around his waist. At your height, you can rest your head against his back. “How’s dinner? Is your day going well? And did my wonderful wife get all of his chores done today?” Your tone is soft and pleased. It’s not how anyone talks to him— outside of these days, even you don’t sound quite so tender.
“It’s fine,” Siegblut mumbles. “Everything’s fine. Vegetables ‘re almost done.” The smell of them is perfect. He knows he hasn’t made any mistakes, but the sense of awaiting punishment won’t go away. Acting like this is wrong. Accepting your softness is wrong. The way the soft fabric of the dress flows against his thighs and pulls tight over his chest is wrong. You call him so many sweet things, and he can’t do a thing to stop how they affect him.
“That’s good. I’m always happy to come home to you.”
One of your hands wanders lower. You find his hipbone and rub little circles over it with gentle fingers. Over the waistband of the stupid, humiliating underwear you chose for him too. Siegblut’s breath catches.
His dick gives a sharp, interested twitch. Curse his libido. The slightest things turn him on, and knowing what you’re probably about to do isn’t helping. In this awful dress, any kind of hard-on makes a pitifully noticeable tent. Fighting the urge to squirm, Siegblut holds his breath while you keep touching him. You might move on soon, or it might advance to something.
It does. Your tiny, gentle hand cups the bulge of his dick through the thin fabric, and your fingers rub lightly. Siegblut’s grip tightens, white-knuckled, on the stirring spoon still in his hand. He has to focus on getting the vegetables taken care of, but when you’re touching him—
“Lemme finish the damn food...” he grumbles.
With a light laugh, you agree. Siegblut gets all of five minutes to get the vegetables out of the pan and onto a plate, double-check to make sure everything else is in order, and finally, turn back to you.
You’ve been watching him the whole time. There’s a fond smile on your lips, and when he goes to open his mouth and complain about the staring , you cup his cheek and guide him down into a slow, open-mouthed kiss. Siegblut melts into it. He’s still sort of hard, and the wet slide of your tongue isn’t helping that at all. He has to bend over to reach you. You’re so small, but he moves for you like the trained thing he is. You command your weapon entirely, even when its use is merely being your fucking housewife.
“Perfect,” you breathe. “You’ve done so well today. Let me reward you before we eat...” There’s promise in your tone, and the next thing Siegblut knows, your fingers wander up under his skirt, hiking it up so you have access to everything underneath. He’s strainingly hard, and you—
Rubbing him through the silky cloth of the panties you insist suits him just right, you feel out the slick, dripping head of his cock. The firm touches, filled with intent, make Siegblut’s hips jerk forward. His knees go weak. Even this amount of stimulation gets him going in no time. Between the dress, the way his back is pressed up against the counter, and the sheer weakness of the situation, it feels like every bit of blood in him is rushing down.
He brings his hand to his mouth to bite down on. The pitiful whimpers that keep escaping him aren’t at all what he wants you to hear. Squeezing his eyes shut, all he can pay attention to is your tiny, warm body, so close.
Siegblut spits curses when you slip under the panties and touch him skin on skin. His cock twitches into your hand and spurts out a thick glob of pre just for you, and his face burns up to his ears at the needy way his body tries to rut against you. His muscles are going weak. His head is scrambling.
“My sweetheart. So good for me. I love you.”
You keep saying sweet, torturous things. Your thumb finds his slit and rubs, and that’s all it takes. He comes with a strangled, high-pitched moan.
When it’s done and he’s left shaking, you tell him to go change. You’ll eat dinner together after, and he can tell you about his day and what all he did. You smile while you talk, and Siegblut fights the threat of crumbling.