My Wight Wife is Embarrassed by her Model Building Hobby! 1

Your wife has something of a shameful secret. If you said that to anybody else, they’d probably think that she was cheating on you, or had an embarrassing medical condition, or any other of the things that normal people worry about. You know it’s none of those things; you know every inch of her body inside and out and she is seldom seen in the halls of the manor without you next to her.

Your wife is a Wight. She isn’t a normal person. She’s undead nobility that was born hundreds of years before you. She is elegant, regal and always dignified. You feel blessed to be married to such a woman of status, but that status is perhaps her biggest worry. The entire reason it’s a secret in the first place is because she doesn’t want any of her dedicated followers to find out.

There are only two rules in the manor. The first is to not have sex in the corridors, as couples end up blocking the way for others; the second is to never ever enter the Mistress’ room under any circumstance. In fact, your wife was so adamant about this rule that she specifically chose a doorway that was not visible under normal circumstances. The master bedroom of the manor is not surrounded by windows on the outside, nor is there a direct line of sight inside due to an exterior wall. There is also a barrier to prevent spirits from phasing through.

For all of her efforts the other undead in the mansion call her “privacy conscious.” You’re the only person who knows the truth. A secret shared between husband and wife. Which is why, once again, you are forced to sit inside of the lobby and await a knock on the door. You flip through a book in silence. If there has been any benefit to this routine, it has allowed you to catch up on a lot of reading.

Bang, bang, bang. Three loud knocks echo throughout the greeting room. You place the book down onto the plush sofa and move over to the large wooden doors. You labour and pull them open, revealing a very nervous looking delivery man. He squints at you and holds out a device, “Um, sign here please?” You take the device from the man and scribble your signature.

“Lord… Aumont‎?”

You nod, “Thank you!” You give the man a polite nod and push the door closed. You hold the box in your hands for a moment before hiding it underneath your jacket. You’d better take this to the good lady before she gets paranoid. You hustle your way through the corridors of the mansion, making sure to take the routes that you know your underlings generally avoid. While a few spot you, they know better than to ask the lord of the manor questions when he seems to be in a hurry.

You pass an interior courtyard before taking a sharp right. This corridor leads to your room. Originally there was a set of windows on the right that looked outside, but your wife had them removed some decades ago. You knock on the door, three times. “You may enter, darling!” she crones. Checking one last time to see if anybody is looking, you enter your shared domain with a sigh.

The normally radiant, unflinching and ever-smirking leader of your merry house of zombies and ghouls lay on the ground, her pert behind exposed to the air through a pair of lacy black undergarments. An oversized shirt tries and fails to cover her modesty. Her platinum white hair is messy and unkempt, rather than tied up into an elaborate bun like it usually is. Your wife is unnaturally attractive, even like this. Cecille means the world to you. You circle around and stare into her red eyes, handing over the contraband.

“Oh! It’s here!” She says. She pushes the magazine she was reading away and crosses the room. In the centre right is the largest, most comfortable bed you’ve ever slept on. Across from it is one of the few modern conveniences in the house, a large flat screen TV which is hooked up to her computer. Every other wall is covered in shelves. From top to bottom, posed, assembled and stood within carefully decorated dioramas of battlefield and hangars, is her model collection. Your wife approaches her work bench and pulls out a box cutter. She slices away the tape holding it closed and pulls out a model kit, “Hm, this one is quite large, non?”

It’s a mecha from her recent obsession, Redanner V. You’d also become familiar with it over the past month, because she insisted on watching all six seasons of it with you before you went to bed. Your wife wasn’t… hurting for money. So, she indulged her hobby with great joy and without regard for the cost. Despite her love for model building, and everything adjacent to it, she absolutely refused to let anybody except you know about it.

But as frustrated as you can be with her sometimes, you have to admit that the smile on her flawless face when she pulls you into bed, or when she finishes working on a project makes it worth it. Those are the little things that made you fall for her in the first place. Your wife opens the box and pulls out the runners, at this point she doesn’t even need to see the instructions to figure out what everything is for.

“This material is, how you say it, it is very nice.” She admires the metallic printing on one of the runners for a moment. She swivels around on her chair to face you, “Thank you darling!” You lean down and give her a kiss on the lips. Before she can lose herself building another model you grab her shoulder and stop her in place.

“Don’t forget, you have to go out to town today.” As a Wight Cecille has a number of responsibilities, mostly involving domains within the undead kingdom. Your town is a sleepy little place that is rather far away from the hustle and bustle of the larger tomb cities. Cecille makes sure that everything is running smoothly.

Cecille pouts and collapses back onto the chair, “Merde, I was hoping to start this today.”

She places the runners back into the box and packs up her tools. Cecille may put on a front but she wasn’t an irresponsible person. She’d never let her hobby get in the way of work. She holds out her pale arms with a smile and closed eyes, you grab her wrists and pull her to her feet. You push her over towards your walk-in wardrobe. Inside are rows and rows of elegant dresses in every colour, but Cecille’s favourite was a deep green. In the shelves below are… her other clothes. Shirts for lounging around your room with, and underwear for having fun in.

“Get dressed my Lady, we can’t have you being late!”

You back away and leave her to it. You clean yourself inside of the bathroom and remerge to see her already ready to go. A deep green dress with a white fluffy collar, (that of course, exposes a copious amount of cleavage and thigh,) her favourite tiara, smoky makeup and a pair of high heels. She’s the image of perfection as usual, despite looking out of sorts only moments ago. In her hands she’s holding a flyer that was included inside of the model kit.

“What’s that?” you ask, putting on your shoes.

“Cette? They are holding a model competition in Amanda’s Ward. The distributor must have put this inside of their deliveries.” Amanda’s Ward is a much larger tomb city to the north. Ran by… Amanda, a popular and well-known Wight. You can tell that Cecille is interested in participating.

“Would you like to join?”

Your wife bites her lip, her mind scrambling for an answer. She shakes her head and places to flyer back onto the table. “Non, I cannot.” She holds her hand out again, which you lay a kiss on. She’s a scruffy woman in private, but as soon as she steps out of the door she changes completely. It’s important for undead nobles to keep up appearances.

She takes one last forlorn look at her worktable as you close the doors. You wrap your arm around hers and begin the short trek down into the town.