asheepinfrance

[asheepinfrance]

oh i feel quite abnormal about this

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🦇་༘࿐ thinking about vampire!art (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)

he's always nuzzling at your neck, inhaling your scent, mouthing over that pulse point and groaning when your heartbeat jumps a little, that skittish bunny in your brain reminding you that he's a predator. but he always fights against himself, never wanting to hurt you. he's sure that if he ever sank his teeth into you he'd never be able to pull them back out and he would drink you dry until you were just as pale and lifeless as him.

you can tell when he's hungry, when the animal blood he chooses to feed on just isn't satisfying him. the way he's constantly fidgeting, the way his hands hesitate even more than usual when you get close to him like the temptation is too much.

he is sitting on the edge of the bed when you wake up, leg bouncing and hands fidgeting in his lap as he stares off into some empty corner of the room.

"art?" you call out groggily and his head whips to the side to find you awake. but he doesn't speak, his hands just falling to fist tightly at the sheets. you knew what was happening, how the temptation to rip into you is eating him up inside.

you slide out from under the blankets, walking around the bed to stand in front of him, slotting yourself between his knees as you gently cup his cool face, making him look at you. his eyes meet yours for only a second before they're focused right on your neck, like he can see the blood pumping through your arteries. maybe he can, you've never asked.

"are you hungry?" you ask gently, and it takes a moment for him to respond with a distant hum. you nod slowly, watching the way his adams apple bobs when he swallows drily.

you push him back gently, giving yourself enough room to climb into his lap. your sudden presence on top of him, seems to break him out of his trance a bit and he finally looks up into your eyes like he can actually see you instead of just the red in your veins.

"you shouldn't--" he starts, wanting to push you off, afraid of what he'll do to you as his hands settle hesitantly on your hips.

"shh.." you hush him, running a soothing hand through his curls, soaked with clammy sweat. you didn't even know he did sweat, but clearly he was suffering from this sheer desire. "let me feed you," you offer and his eyes widen like saucers.

"i- i can't, angel, i'd never be able to stop--" he protests, panic seeming to fill him as his eyes flicker from yours to your throat, his hands gripping almost painfully at your hips as he tries to keep himself under control.

"it's okay," you try and soothe him with a gentle hand on his cheek. "i'll stop you. i know you would never hurt me," you whisper. it hurts you to see him like this, trembling and seemingly even paler than usual, his head in a fog of hunger.

"it's okay..." you murmur again, gently guiding his head to your neck with your hand in his hair. you hear the way his breath hitches as he gets so close to what he needs.

you feel his lips ghosting over your pulse point first, followed by a brush of his fangs that makes you shiver. you can tell he wants it more than anything, his hands still squeezing you desperately.

finally, you feel a sharp pinch, the feeling of his fangs sinking into the side of your neck. it makes you gasp softly at the pain, but it quickly gives way to pleasure as he starts eagerly lapping at your neck, gulping down your blood like a man starved.

your eyes flutter shut as he groans and whimpers against your skin. "ohmygod--" he whines, his hips involuntarily bucking up against yours in his lap. "you taste s'good, better than i ever could've imagined," his words are slurring, absolutely drunk on you.

you can only moan softly in response, your hands holding him tightly against you. it's like nothing you've ever felt before. there must be something in his saliva that makes this feel so pleasurable.

its like you can't get enough.

art is only whimpering and whining more as he suckles against your neck, his hips rutting up against yours getting more and more desperate. you feel limp in his hold, your body only being used by him, you were made for what he needs. all you can hear is the sound of him sucking and lapping at your life force and a chorus of quiet moans and grunts and whines, but you can't tell whose throat they're coming from, yours or his.

everything starts to go a little fuzzy, all those noises fading into the background as your vision starts to spot. if it wasn't for that little prey animal buried in your subconscious telling you to tug roughly on his blond curls, you'd let him drink you dry right here and now. he doesn't pull away at first, despite your undoubtedly painful grip on his scalp. he doesn't pull away until you somehow manage to rasp out his name, drawing his attention back to you.

when he pulls back from your neck with a gasp like he was drowning in you, the two of you just stare at each other for a moment, both entranced by the dark mirror of blown pupils. he has your blood coating his chin and dripping down his neck, and it's still oozing from the puncture wounds on the side of your neck, too, getting all over the collar of your shirt.

something suddenly snaps and he collapses against you, going boneless against your chest with a dry sob. "i could've killed you!" he cries into your shirt, but you're still so dazed as the feeling of his teeth in your neck fades and a dull throbbing settles in its place.

"you didn't," you remind him with a hushed voice, smoothing your hand over the back of his hair. "i'm okay," you assure him, gently rocking him back and forth.

you gently shush him as he comes down from the hysteria, gently pulling him back from you to examine his red stained face after he calms down significantly. he already looks fuller, more alive, or as much as he can, really. "do you feel better?" you ask in a soft voice. "all full?"

he nods with a little sniffle, his eyes trained on the wound at the side of your neck with a strange look in his eye. you can't deduct if it's guilt or desire or maybe a mix of both.

"tell me when you're suffering like that, okay?" you gently squeeze his shoulders to get his attention. "you always have me. i'll be your warm little blood bag," you tease gently, cupping his cheek.

his eyes get wide at your words, his lips parting at the sound of that promise. "well now that i've had a taste, i don't think i can go for the rest of eternity without it," he breathes before leaning forward to press a crushing, grateful kiss to your lips.

[asheepinfrance]

delicioso!

bimbo!reader x art donaldson

summary: art gets a private fashion show from his favourite girl, but he can't keep his hands to himself

cw .ᐟ nsfw, public setting

"mm, what'd ya think of this one?" art's in heaven. his pretty little thing giving him his own personal fashion show. he's half tempted to call up his first coach and thank him for work he did, 'cause there's no way he'd have you in your pretty pink dresses parading around for him if he never made it. fuck the tennis, art couldn't care for the slams, his babygirl is the best thing that ever came from his fame.

legs spread as he sits in the leather chair outside the dressing room. "so pretty, baby." he hums, you're a fucking vision, art can barely form any sentences that aren't compliments when you're in front of him. especially when you're in and out of a dressing room showing him all the dresses he gets to spend his money on. his perfect little doll, playing dress up with his prize winnings. he's living the fucking dream.

waltzing back behind the curtain, changing into more clothing for art to add to his credit card bills. sliding into the baby pink lingerie set, little bows darted over the fabric, smirking to yourself before you pull back the curtain, knowing full well art's about to combust at the sight.

"jesus christ," art breathes out, his throat feeling tight as his hands clutch the arms of the chair. his whole body feels hot, and he's sure if he looked down there'd be a damp spot starting to show on his slacks. "you're gonna kill me one of these days, princess."

your sweet giggle has art nearly pulling you into his lap, his knuckles white, still clutching the chair, as forces himself to resist. the sounds of rustling in the other dressing rooms pulling him back down to reality. crossing one leg over the other, in some lame attempt to cover up the obvious bulge in his pants. he's desperate to reach out and touch you, but art knows he wouldn't be able to stop if he did.

faux innocent smile on your face as you turn back into the dressing room, being sure to bend over for your own clothes on the floor before closing the curtain. "oh fuck me." art mutters, head falling back before he's pushing himself into the dressing room with you and closing the curtain behind him.

"you are so evil, babygirl." he purrs into your ear, big hands pulling you by the waist against his body. eyes darting all over figure through the mirror behind you, before spinning you around to face yourself in the reflection. one hand gripping where your throat meets your jaw, forcing your eyes to his through the mirror.

"didn't even do anythin', artie." you murmur, batting those long lashes at him.

"liar," art whispers into your ear, gently biting down on the lobe before trailing his lips across the side of your neck. the hand resting on your hip starts to move over your stomach, teasing the hem of the lace panties you were trying on for him. "gonna be nice and quiet for me, pretty girl?"

lip between your teeth as you nod your head, eyes glued to his through the mirror before darting down to watch his hand slip under the fabric of your underwear. art's mouth peppers your throat with wet kisses as his fingers slide up through your folds, spreading your wetness over your heat, humming against your skin as he does.

biting down gently on your shoulder as art slips his middle finger inside, his thumb circling against your clit. "oh, hmm— artie, oh—" you breathe out, before his hand on your jaw moves to clamp down over your mouth. "be quiet, baby." he orders gently, adding his ring finger inside you to move in time with his previous. your knees growing weak as art fucks his fingers in and out of you.

brows furrowed in pleasure, hot breath against his hand while his thumb matches the pace of his fingers inside you against your bundle of nerves. the sounds of those around you still present in your ear, too busy to pay any mind to the whispers of suspect to what you and art were doing. art's hips start to move against your ass, providing him some much needed friction, his own groans muffled into the side of your neck.

"art!" not even his hand can muffle the moan of his name leaving your lips, chuckling into your skin as his fingers keep fucking you. "shush, babygirl." he purrs, nipping the skin of your earlobe once more, pouting behind his hand over your face. the squelch of his fingers filling the empty noise of the dressing room, your knees starting to threaten to buckle as the band in your stomach grows tighter.

"god, look how fuckin' pretty you look, baby," art coos into your ear, watching every subtle reaction of your body through the mirror. his cock leaking through the fabric of his pants as he continues grinding against you.

"gonna cum on my fingers, pretty? be my good little girl?" the whispered words have you buckling onto him, barely holding back the moans as you fall apart under his touch. art's fingers don't halt, prolonging your orgasm as much as he can. only slowing sliding out of you as your body starts to shake, bringing his fingers up to his mouth, sucking the taste of you from them as he drops his hand from your face.

smiling around his fingers as he savours every bit of your wetness, still meeting your eyes through the reflection as his he holds you up against him still. spinning you around to him afterwards, big hands resting on your hips as he presses a kiss to your forehead. "so good for me, princess."

"art?" you hum, tilting your head as you try to bite back a giggle.

"yeah, babygirl?" he murmurs softly, bringing his hands up to your jaw, angling your face up to his eyes. "did you, um, did you just cum in your pants?" you manage to ask through soft giggles, lip between your teeth as you watch the pink blush spread across his cheeks.

"you're too damn sexy, baby, can't help it."

© 222col. do not steal or repost my work without permission.

[asheepinfrance]

Life hard. But im eating tika masala so actually life good

[asheepinfrance]

as per your request these are handgrown on my farm

YYYYAYYYYYYYYYYYY. Thank you farmer

[asheepinfrance]

just peeking in…making sure everything’s going smoothly

well helloooo. yes everything is going smooth. smooth like operator by sade

[asheepinfrance]

mhm mhm waiter waiter 97,652 more please!

BEDSHEETS SMELL.

tw: +18, mdni, mention of God, fingering, vague mention of oral s!x, dacryphilia.

notes: i guess i just had something in mind and had to write it down? no idea if this is good but hopefully it’s readable. also if you saw that repost, no you didn’t.

Patrick can smell you on his sheets. It's everywhere, he can't escape it -- the sweet fragrance of citrus and orange, from your perfume; the smell of sweat coming from the bed. It reminds him of sex in the morning, in the afternoon, during the night. Patrick thinks about it a lot, like a common thing, like one thinks about breathing.

He remembers his lips against the skin of your hips as the sun broke through the curtains; his teeth marking every inches, every spot he could taste. Taste; that's what he can also do, taste you -- it's sweeter than he expected, like a fruit he'd want to devour all day long. He wants it all.

Patrick can smell you on his sheets. It's coming from the way you move, how you sound, how you come on his fingers; it's everywhere in his mind, in his heart. When they go in and out, your hands tugging on the sheets like they could save you from his torment; from the stimulation he brings to your body and heart.

When you call for him, choking on your words and begging for him. God, Patrick can't resist the way you pull his heartstrings -- bringing him closer and closer, until you make one for hours.

When he has to look down at you, one hand holding your hair up; gentle and careful. There's no one that makes him feel like you do, burning and pushing all thoughts aside. He can't talk, because all he knows is that you have him right where you want. In his sheets, smelling like sweat and citrus, with all the freckles on your shoulders he count.

He pushes his hips in, because he knows you can take it; you are always so good for him; so pretty with him in your mouth. Patrick lets a finger wipe a tear, a second and always a third. It makes him throb and you know it; are you doing that on purpose? He wonders, but too focused on the pretty faces you make to even try and let a word out. How could he? How dare he?

Patrick can smell you on his sheets. It didn't mean much at first, one-night stand turning into two, a week turning into two, a month turning into two before he realized that God; how could he let you go?

There's much more than sex, there's much more than feelings, it's about the sheets smelling like you when he wakes up. About remembering the softness of your skin under his fingers, of the noises you make when he goes down on you.

He can smell you on his sheets, and God, he hates the fact that he has to change them.

[asheepinfrance]

level ten guy-at

have y’all seen those trends on tiktok where kids make their parents read brainrot phrases? i was imagining lily and arts younger gf making him do that trend and he mispronounces just about everything

[asheepinfrance]

i can i will i did is inaccurate cause no way he wouldnt have been called the f slur at least once

[asheepinfrance]

tap tap…does this thing work…

[asheepinfrance]

nestling this on my bookshelf between dracula and a streetcar named desire

please pretty please tell us all about those terrible things you think about when goon to Josh and his hairy bush. p l ez. you thoughts are safe with us.

hairy!patrick zweig x reader

tw smut!!! i love overcomplicating things so i couldn't just answer the ask outright sorry anon! although i probably should've because not only is this so gross and not at all proofread it's also super self-indulgent lol

----

- the sun is already starting to set by the time patrick is slamming the door to your shared place

- he’s been out on the tennis courts since the early morning, practicing for an upcoming match

- he’s pissed. you’re not sure why, but you know him well enough to assume that he’s getting in his head, that his drills weren’t as easy as they usually are 

- “hey, baby,” you greet him as he enters, sliding some cold water over to him as he throws his bag down

- he’s still all sweaty and his muscles are so tense and his curly hair is flopping everywhere and even though he’s all mad all you can think about is that he’s so hot

- he generally opts to work out in tanks and muscle tees so right now while he’s stretching and reaching for the water you’re catching glimpses of his well-kept pit hair

- patrick’s always been a hairy guy, ever since he was a kid. puberty hit and not only did he shoot up but he was the first in his class to start sprouting a mustache and beard

- so he knows how to take care of his body hair and he also knows not to shave it all off- he’s not trying to give the same pre-pubescent vibes as his best friend, art

- anyway, you’re trying to focus on his voice as he rants animatedly about everything that went wrong today but it’s really hard to do that when you’re watching some lingering sweat bead down his forehead and down his face and neck 

-  and fantasizing about licking it up

- and his shirt is all damp and everything so he pulls it off and holy jesus fuck you’re gone

- like yes his abs are beautiful and he has gorgeous toned muscles and supple skin and that perfect slutty little waist but that is not your point of focus

- you’re looking at that stunning contrast of dark against light

- the light dusting of black hair against his white skin and the way it grows as it trails down and down and down

- the thick stripe of it that starts from his abs and trails beneath his low hanging shorts—god, why did he always have to wear them so low?

- and now you’re too lost in thought that you’re staring at him and he’s not even mad. 

- he’s snapping his fingers at you, laughing a little like “babe are you even listening?”

- and your eyes snap back up like “of course i am!” but the moment he starts talking again you’re daydreaming about letting his big hand hold the back of your head while he buries himself far enough down your throat for your nose to be buried in that bush

- he’s snorting at you because he knows you’re long gone at this point. “jeez, i thought i was the horny one. c’mere”

- and you don’t waste a second

- you start by kissing his lips all sloppy, but then you trail your mouth across his jaw, down his neck, his collarbone, licking up the taste of the salt on his skin

- he’s just watching you because he thinks you’re so perfect and he loves how absolutely obsessed with him you are

- he also loves having someone who matches his freak

- he definitely groans when you twirl your tongue around and across each of his nipples

- and his hand is already in your hair while you lick across every little dip and crevice of his abs

- allllll the way down to that sexy v-line

- and you glance up at him for a moment before you pull his shorts off to make sure he’s okay with it

- and this man is practically foaming at the mouth like “don’t you dare stop now”

- and so you don’t

- the moment his dick is springing free you’re taking him to the hilt

- and just staying there for a moment while his bush tickles your nose

- and you just breathe it in 

- “you gonna suck my cock or do i have to do it for you?”

- he doesn’t really wait for a response, he just grabs you by your hair and starts fucking your mouth

- every little choking noise or gasp that escapes you really only makes him go harder

- and as soon as he sees the tears pricking at your eyes and the drool dripping down your chin he’s grinning like he just won the open

- “you were so desparate earlier baby?? now you’re crying??”

- he’s so big and your mouth is so warm and wet and small and tight around him

- and you can’t help yourself. you have to bring one of your hands down so you can rub your clit with as much vigor as he’s fucking your mouth with

- “filthy little thing. so fucking sexy. so greedy.”

- you’re so perfect that he’s shooting his load down your throat within minutes and immediately pulling you up so that he can stuff his fingers inside you and finish you off

- his big, ridged fingers and his hairy knuckles. yes those ones

- and once your pussy is finally done spasming around them he’s pulling them out of you and licking the taste of you off of his fingers

- and then he’s grinning at you. making fun of you for getting so worked up by his body hair

- “you’re such a freak, babe”

- and you just give him a look because… he’s a fucking hypocrite

-----

tagging: @kimmyneutron @kharwreck @babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime

[asheepinfrance]

wait youre polish?????????

Im kinda a mutt of like most of eastern europe to be fair. BUT im mostly polish, russian and hungarian. MOSTLY polish though since my dads moms parents and moms dads family on one side are polish. I dont speak it unfortunately since my family was desperate to americanize when they immigrated to the states but id LOVE to learn

[asheepinfrance]

this was so so good ugh . ugh . UGH. god somebody tell them its legal now

I Don’t Matter? wanted to give my take on what happened when Patrick found out that Art was going to Stanford. thank you @diyasgarden for your help with this :)

MRTA!Art x MRTA!Patrick

cw: sfw, angst

Junior Year

They had talked about it once. In passing. A very short conversation. It wasn’t meant to be short but that’s just how it ended.

Art was sitting at his desk scrolling through his college applications. He had finished all of them except one, Stanford. He always knew he wanted to go to college. Getting an education was never something he second guessed and to be honest tennis was never something he wanted to do forever. The more games he played the more he realized it didn’t feel the same, he didn’t feel the same.

His passion for it was dying.

It was fun as kid. No pressure. Just about having fun, doesn’t matter if you win or lose. But that’s not how it was at the academy.

Everyone was competing against each other. Him and Patrick included. But it was different with Patrick, it was fun.

Whether they were playing doubles or singles against each other Art always had fun, being good at it was just a side effect.

But they can’t play together forever, it’s not feasible. The US tennis circuit boasts over 300 players, Art would have to play them too if they kept it up. Strangers on the other side of the court who just don’t get him, not like Patrick did anyway.

He didn’t want to be stuck dwelling on his childhood forever. He wanted to see what tennis was like when he’s not always in constant competition with his best friend. But he also wanted to develop an actual career in college, maybe study economics in case this tennis thing didn’t work out. Art was never all-in for tennis.

Patrick got home late. It’s been like that for the past week since he was always seeing Lisa? Liza? Whatever her name was.

He caught a glimpse of Art’s laptop screen with big letters at the top “Collegeboard”.

“You’re not seriously going to play college tennis are you? I thought we were going pro,” Patrick says definitively. No joking manner behind his tone. He’s kidding right?

“And when exactly did you come up with that plan? Don’t think I was there for that conversation,” Art huffs out, keeping his eyes glued to the computer screen.

Art isn’t surprised. Never is when it comes to Patrick. Patrick’s assumption that Art would continue to follow him around like some lost puppy even at the detriment of his own self. Maybe in Patrick’s eyes Art really is that pathetic. Needing his guidance even as they grow into their adult selves.

Patrick scrunches his eyebrows together in confusion, “That was always the plan. Fire and Ice duh. Why wouldn’t we go pro? To spend our prime stuck up in some stuffy college. Stuck playing in NCAA?”

Art lets a half laugh, “You know they offer classes in college right? Don’t want my only skill in life to be hitting a ball with a racket. You can always come with me. College tennis teams tend to consist of more than one person.”

Patrick wouldn’t hear that though. He can’t really hear anything over the sound of his massive ego. As far as he was concerned the MRTA boys team only consisted of one person for singles and that was him. Sure Art was great, but Patrick was better. Art really only coming into play when it was for doubles. And even then Patrick’s erratic style and domination on the court made it feel like sometimes Art wasn’t even there.

He laughs. Patrick laughs and just hopes he wakes up from this fucked up nightmare where the two of you go separate ways in the future. “Sure man, whatever you say.”

Art could tell there was more. So much left unsaid between the two. But he decided to push. Not right now.

Senior Year

Okay so maybe they actually talked about this twice. Once junior year and once senior year. Not a shocker it would come up in conversation again.

Art had officially accepted his offer to Stanford. He was so ecstatic that hitting a ball with a racket got him into one of the best schools in the country. He was being scouted by a few different schools, received multiple offers, but Stanford beat them out by a long shot.

His coach was there when the scout extended the unofficial offer on Friday. He wanted to tell Patrick about it, but he never came home that night. He had been spending a lot more time with Sara? Sadie? lately, almost as if he was trying to push Art away.

So Art didn’t expect Patrick to show up at 8am practice at all. Let alone on time.

“Okay before we start just wanna give a shoutout to Donaldson for accepting his offer from Stanford, let’s clap it up for him,” Their coach says before clapping.

The rest of the team is whooping and hollering. Clapping like crazy, some even clapping Art on the back. Really hyping him up. Everyone except Patrick.

Art can see Patrick. He’s unmoving. Stuck in his place like a statue. His face is neutral but Art can see the hurt behind his eyes. Patrick brings his hands up to start clapping, not wanting to be singled out. And no one else notices, because they never do. Patrick is a master at masking his feelings to the world, except to Art .

Art tries to find Patrick after practice once he’s finished showering in the locker room, but he’s already gone.

He heads back to their dorm hoping to find Patrick there so they can talk about this. He was hoping to be the one that broke the news first but it’s too late for that.

He finds Patrick on his bed. Their beds no longer pushed together which he’s assuming is because Patrick is upset. He’s smoking a cigarette even though he’s not next to a window.

“C’mon man we’re gonna get in trouble if you smoke in here like that,” Art sighs, dropping his stuff on the floor.

Patrick shrugs haphazardly gesturing to the smoke alarm which is covered with a shower cap.

Art walks to stand in front of Patrick’s bed, “Can we at least talk about it?”

“You can fuck right off for all I care. I’ve smoked in here like this before with no issues,” Patrick spits back.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” Art says gripping the bed post. He knew this conversation wouldn’t be easy but he’s just hoping they’d both make it out alive.

Patrick sighs, “Oh you mean the part where you decided it’s fuck me and my feelings right?”

“Patrick that’s not—“

“There are a million things I anticipated when coming to this school but finding my best friend wasn’t one of them you know?”

“I know Patrick I—“

“Like for the first time in my life there was someone who actually gave a fuck and didn’t just think I was just this piece of shit person who fucks around playing tennis. Someone who never thought I was too much.”

Art has always been an emotional person but especially when it came to people he cared about. Patrick being second on that list at the moment (second only to Art’s grandma). He could feel his eyes starting to water just thinking about the things Patrick is saying. Art never knew he perceived himself that way.

Patrick has always been confident and outgoing, the loudest in the room. It balanced Art’s wallflower persona perfectly. He never once stopped to think that maybe Patrick’s ego was just for show.

His voice cracks when he tries to say, “Patrick I’m—“

“No I don’t want to hear that you’re sorry. Because you’re not. If you were sorry you never would’ve accepted that offer. Would’ve went pro.” The “with me” part goes unsaid but Art knows. Of course he knows.

“I can’t keep hitting a ball with a racket forever, we have to grow up Patrick,” Art says wiping the unspilled tears from his eyes. Hoping he also wouldn’t be such a crybaby when he grew up.

“Says who?” He retorts taking another drag of his cigarette, “Stop treating me like I’m some fucking child. At least have the balls to tell me the truth. It was never about that. You never loved tennis.” Patrick has seen Art play tennis against other people and sure he’d win, but it wasn’t the same as when they played together.

Art doesn’t dispute that because Patrick is right. He never loved tennis and he never would.

You never loved tennis, you loved me so why are you leaving me is what Patrick should’ve said.

And why am I not enough to make you stay is what Patrick was really thinking to himself.

[asheepinfrance]

me to you

I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU. us <3

[asheepinfrance]

god. god. god. god god. god god god god gdo gdo odjgaod

A Life of Our Own

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

pairing: knight!patrick x princess!reader

word count: 5k

warnings: smut, p in v, mentions of god and oppressive societal structures, fem!reader

a/n: long awaited part 3 (“official” final part) of the knight patrick au!! I’ve literally been writing and rewriting this for over a month so I feel really accomplished in finishing it. I feel like this mini series has really been a labor of love and is the type of writing I really love doing, so I hope you all love it!! (Also I’ll openly admit, this was very hastily proofread so there’s a chance there’s mistakes and whatnot)

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

After that night, you and Patrick became inseparable. Of course, he was meant to follow you at all times, so by order, you were inseparable, but you both made certain to take full advantage of that. You spent days in the garden chatting away as he tried to stand stoic, obeying his orders but ultimately failing when you would place a woven flower crown onto his head or flick water from the fountain onto him. And there was many a night where he would sneak into your chambers when the rest of the castle wasn’t listening, sometimes to fuck, sometimes to talk into the wee hours of the night, and other times to just to be held. Your attraction was more than just sexual or lustful or something simple of that nature. You were in love.

On a particularly cool night in the castle, in which you and Patrick found yourselves wrapped in each other’s embrace in your bed, a plan was hatched.

"I wish we could be married..." you muse mindlessly as you trace the toned muscles on his bicep.

"Why can't we," he asks softly, turning towards you just a bit more to gauge your reaction. The smile painting his face is boyish and charming, purposely oblivious to the great divide between the two of you.

"Patrick... you know why," you sigh sorrowfully. He sees in your eyes that you long to be his in every sense of the word, in the eyes of the law and the kingdom and God. He frowns, then.

Letting out a thoughtful hum, Patrick thinks. "What if I were to speak to your father...?"

"My father? He would never allow it... he'd find it... preposterous. He'd likely banish you even for thinking it." You thought for a moment, the silence between the two of you tense, but not uncomfortable. “Perhaps,” you faltered for a moment, “we could run away..." Slowly, you move to lock your gaze on him, hope dancing behind your irises.

He smiles, but it feels as if his warmth is masking a sort of grimace. “I couldn’t ask that of you. To leave your life, your world, behind all for me. I would never think to take you away from your life here.” It was simple, straightforward, almost even cold, but he was honest.

“What life can I have if I must love you in secret?” Your response was so plain yet so true. “Patrick, my life is yours. My life is in your hands here, why should that change anywhere else? I am already stifled in my station here as a woman and, at the same time, unfairly lauded for the circumstantial chance I was born into. With you I am equal. In you I find my freedom, my salvation, my devotion. You would not be taking me away from anything here, but instead offering me the life I truly desire.” He sat momentarily in awe, chest pounding as your words lingered in his head. You two had exchanged many a sweet nothing, but these were no longer sweet nothings. These were sacred vows.

Continuing, you sat up, taking his hands in yours to ground yourself as well as find your strength in being together with him. “It would not be a sin, a crime, none of it would be a fault. To love as we do, how we do, that is the holiest thing, is it not?” You searched his face for an answer, longing to hear him relent and give in. The way his eyes scanned your features, a deep line growing between his brows as he was deep in thought, left you feeling bare in a way you’d never felt before. This was how he was, he could see you, all of you, through the layers of petticoats and lavish fabrics, he could see through the makeup and intricately done hair. And you wanted nothing more than to feel seen like that for the rest of eternity. His eyes flitted away quickly, as if he could no longer bear to face his feelings so boldly as you did.

With a shaky sigh, his eyes returned to yours, softening. “It is…” he affirmed. “You are the holiest thing, my dear.” A gleeful smile spread across your features and you leaned in, kissing him gently on the cheek. Your hands roamed his body, his face, through his hair. It is like you were trying to trace his form, memorize it (as if you hadn’t already done so long ago) and prove to yourself that this was real.

“When shall we leave,” you asked in a hushed voice, eager to begin your life -a real life- with him as soon as possible.

“Is tomorrow night too soon,” he returns, his desire to be your husband just as strong as yours to be his wife. Every second you two are just another secret in the palace walls breaks him. He wants to give you more, even if that means leaving the world you have always known behind.

“I would leave this minute if we could,” you whisper, close enough now that you can feel his warm breath dancing along your skin.

“I will fetch my steed tomorrow and tie him up around the back of the castle. By nightfall, once everyone has gone to sleep, we can take our leave.” He pauses, a look of fear crossing his features, but it appears to be mixed with something much warmer… enthusiasm perhaps? “A friend of mine lives in the neighboring town and we can sleep in his cottage for the night,” he continues. “We should be gone by sunrise, though. The moment they find you missing they will be searching all surrounding areas, and we don’t want to be found, do we?”

“No,” you shake your head.

He looks away from you yet again, the same conflicted look washing over him. “Please,” he begins, stopping again to catch his breath, though he has hardly spoken enough to be breathless. “Please, if you change your mind, do not hesitate to tell me, darling. Once we are gone we cannot return, but if you call it off I will obey your wish.” It is clear he is ridden with guilt, feeling as if he has made up your mind for you; as if he is some venomous force pulling you from your true life.

“I won’t change my mind, Patrick, I assure you.” Your hand traces his face, following his cheekbones down to his jaw. “I wish to spend the rest of my life with you… I cannot dream of calling that off.” Gently, your thumb brushes over his lower lip, a bit chapped from the cool temperature, but yours nonetheless. “I only ask, if I leave behind the crown, will I still be your princess?” Your eyes meet his, wide and pleading.

“Always, my princess. Always.”

The two of you fall asleep in each other's arms, Patrick waking up early in the morning to take his position again at your door like always. When you woke, you felt a nervous pit in your stomach. To think that this would be your last day in the palace you had spent your entire life in, grown up in, stirred an unexpected fear in you facing the reality of the secret promise you and Patrick had made. Those same walls that raised you, though, consumed you, leaving you powerless, unknowing, and trapped. You reminded yourself that while the palace had offered you warmth through your nurse, your ladies in waiting, and of course Patrick, it also represented an institution that would never see you win. Already, you had heard talks from the King and Queen of marrying you off to the warring kingdom’s young, arrogant prince, and the thought was sickening. You knew you were not a political pawn, not a mere princess, but a woman, a human, flesh and blood, a beating heart that held more power than any monarch. And you knew above all that Sir Patrick, your knight in shining armor, saw all of that and more in you.

The day passed with menial succession, similar to most of your days. Patrick followed closely, as usual, though the air between the two of you felt tense –not with any sort of malice, but with a mutual concern for the risk you two were soon to take. “M’lady, if I may,” he begins, pulling your focus from the book you held. Truthfully, the words in the book passed you by, your thoughts too crowded to focus on the pages. Upon your attention, he continued cautiously. “Should something,” he paused again, regaining his composure, “should something go wrong… can you promise me you will allow me to take the blame? If we are found out–”

Not wanting to hear any more, you interrupted, bringing your soft hands to cup his stubley face. “We won’t be. We’re careful, we’ve thought it out… Please, have faith, and put these worries aside. I shan’t leave you, even if the worst may come.” Your fingers played with the curls at the nape of his neck as you offered him the softest gaze imaginable, like a warm sheet of silk or cashmere washing over him.

“Of course, my love.” He brings a chaste kiss to your lips, speaking yet again in defense of his concern. “I only want what’s best for you…” The words rolled off his tongue quietly, as if it was a secret. As if he had not already devoted his post, his life, to protecting yours.

At nightfall, while you ate supper, Patrick excused himself to ready his horse for your departure. You found great difficulty in smiling and feigning merriment at a grand dining table surrounded by those who had kept you in your gilded cage. More upsetting, those who would shrink and take disgust in the love you share with a humble night. As if nobility and royalty are so distinct anyways. It is all a joke like those told by a court jester, though, in this instance you felt like the court jester and the audience wasn’t laughing. Patiently, you waited until the table had cleared, save your parents, the King and Queen.

“Dearest, is something wrong,” the rich voice of your mother calls from across the table. Panic rushes through every fiber of your being, afraid you have been much too obvious with your disdain for your present situation. As you were trained to do, though, you conduct yourself calmly and cautiously, as though your heart were not pounding at the seemingly simple question.

“Only tired, Mother,” you assure with a calculated smile, just sweet enough but clearly forced in an attempt to back up your claims of tiredness.

“Why? You can rest easy now that we have appointed Sir Patrick as your knight. Of course, you could rest easier if you were to be wed, as that is the greatest security a woman can have. And if you married we could dismiss Sir Patrick back to his original post.” Your father’s booming voice yet again reminded you why your only option was to escape. Even Patrick being your personal knight was meant to be temporary, and how could you go on if you lost him in your life for good. Would you be doomed to stealing glances and chance encounters like that of your first? It was not worth thinking of. You shouldn’t even consider it, because you knew tonight would change everything. Or, God rest your soul, you hoped.

Cutting your father off (you had tuned out his ramblings long ago), you stood. “Might I be excused? I’d like to adjourn to bed if it is agreeable.” You could take no more of the royal foolishness. Thankfully, you were dismissed, allowing you to return to the safe haven of your room. As you sped through the hall, you lost your footing when a hand reached out from an alcove, grabbing your wrist and pulling you in. Before you could react, Patrick clasped a hand over your mouth, smiling down at you and bringing a finger up to his mouth in a shushing motion.

“It’s only me, my love,” he whispers softly, tenderly. In the low light of the candles illuminating the hall, he looks breathtaking. Bathed in hues of gold and orange, the shadowy contours of his face are only further deepened, emphasizing his angular features in a way more romantic, you think, than even the finest poets could describe. “The servants won’t retire until roughly midnight, maybe later, but they linger about, so we need to be sure they see you enter your chambers before we take our leave.” You nod, understanding and appreciating the caution he has taken to ensure your safe passage.

As he guides you to your chambers, a strong hand subtly held on the small of your back, you think of just how close to freedom you truly are. How soon enough, you and Patrick could truly live and love freely. How you could have a chance at a real future together; marriage; children. Your nerves were shot, both excitement and fear thrumming through your entire body in a way that was hard to contain. When you reached your room, Patrick took his post outside your door, nodding in quiet reassurance. Inside, however, alone with your thoughts, you felt like a mad woman.

It was impossible to rest, let alone sleep for the few hours before you would take your leave. All you could manage was pacing your room, back and forth, endlessly. You felt consumed by your overwhelming love for the man right outside your door, but equally consumed by woe and anxieties that rolled and swelled like waves through your mind. Selfishly, your fear that a terrible fate would befall Patrick outweighed your fear of God. After all, sin was the last thing you were concerned with anymore. Busying your mind to distract from your nerves, you decided to try to memorize every detail of your room, the room you had lived in your entire life. As you looked to the walls, the windows, the patterns of the window panes, you realized that the room had never truly felt alive until you let Patrick into it. Before, the moonlight felt cold, like a distant observer of your solitude, but now the moon reminded you of him. That first night in your room, where the blue-ish light shone down through the glass and onto him, was the first time it felt warm, as light is supposed to feel. It was then you realized that you would not miss the room at all, though it brought you many great memories, as a room full of love is still only a room, but the love inside transcends.

Before long, you had calmed yourself enough to drift off, if only for a couple hours. The feeling of warmth against your skin caused you to stir, realizing that Patrick was at your bedside calling softly to you. “Princess, it is time,” his voice was hushed but excitement clearly rang through in his tone. You followed him, grabbing the satchel you had packed a few garments (and your circlet, figuring you could sell it) in. Without any light, the two of you crept out of your room and through the dark corridors of the palace, finally reaching the back stables where his horse waited readily.

Patrick was sure to help you up onto the horse. “My apologies that there isn’t more time for introductions. I’m sure you two will become fast friends later.” He mounted the horse, giving him a quick pet before taking hold of the reins and calling out a soft ‘ya’, the steed racing into action upon its cue. You held tightly to him as you watched the castle grow smaller and smaller in the distance, until you could no longer make it out under the cover of darkness. You rode until dawn, thankfully reaching the nearing kingdom’s town and finding Patrick’s companion, Arthur –Art for short, who had previously offered you shelter before daybreak.

“It’s not much, but it can offer you security for the day,” his friend croaked, his voice cold, but kind in an odd sort of way. His cottage in the village was small and a little further from the main town, but that was better under these circumstances. The room you would be in, luckily, did not have any windows but as he said, it was small and simple, though you didn’t mind in the slightest. After a life of luxury, simple was all you truly desired. “I would advise you two get further away as soon as possible, though. Once they realize your gone,” he fixed his gaze on you, “if they haven’t already, this is the next place they’d look after your town.” It didn’t exactly quell your anxieties, but Patrick wrapped an arm around your shoulder, offering you much more comfort than one may think, and you nodded in acknowledgement.

“Thank you,” you spoke gently. “We can never repay the kindness you have shown us, truly.” But his friend only shook his head, chuckling in response.

“Nonsense. I owe my life to your knight, here. ‘Tis the least I could do for you, your majesty.”

Holed up inside the room, now, you and Patrick could finally relax, at least to some degree. He sighed heavily as he sat on the end of the bed, leaning hunched over his knees in exhaustion. You were so grateful to him. He had borne the brunt of the hardship that came with this plan, leading strong and unwavering to help reassure you, but you could see now in his physicality just how scared he was too. Crawling behind him on the bed, you massaged his shoulders tenderly, longing to be his relief.

“You don’t have to do that…” he murmurs quietly. “You’ve hardly slept at all.”

“You haven’t slept at all,” you remind him. He doesn’t say another word, but from the way he allows his tense, muscular shoulders to relax with your touch, you could tell he had relented.

The two of you slept through a majority of the day, the lack of windows certainly helping, before rising when called by Art. “The coast is clear. Some knights came into town asking questions but to my knowledge they have no leads and think you were both taken by rivals,” he reported, straight to the point. It was a relief to hear that they had no real idea where you had gone. “I suggest you two get going then,” he urged, fixing a pointed eye on Patrick. Patrick agreed, of course, thanking his friend several times over and insisting he would repay him someday.

Within the following night and into the day, we had made it further, to a point that we didn’t have to fear suspicion. It’s not like news ever reached these far off forest villages, anyways. After a few days of travel, the two of you seeking sanctuary in a local cathedral in your current town, you elected to marry. A priest did so, his witness one of the nuns. Patrick was clad in his finest tunic (which, truly speaking needed restitching in certain places) and pants, while you wore your white, velvet gown (notably, the only full gown you had packed, packing chemises and underdresses the rest of the way for their ease and lighter storage). The vows, though traditional, were beautiful and the two of you could not have been happier than when you were finally, really permitted to kiss under the eyes of God.

On the move again, you and Patrick finally reached your destination, a stout little cottage tucked away deep into the woods hundreds of miles from your kingdom. “My mother’s cousin lived here,” Patrick explains. The two of you observe the ivy grown walls and the foggy, circular windows. “He’ll either be home, or he’s died.” Though morbid, you understood, the plague claiming many lives over the years. To neither of your surprise really, the door opens easily and the home appears long abandoned. You enter, taking in the dusty interior. It’s quaint in a comfortable way. Patrick turns to you after setting down the few things you had brought, an unfamiliar look on his face. “Can you be happy here,” he asked plainly, eyes hopeful but a wash of embarrassment apparent in his voice.

Your brows knitted together. “My dearest,” you utter, coming closer and resting your arms around his shoulders as you look into his eyes. “Wherever you are is where I am happiest. And I know here we can share a long, beautiful life.” You brought a hand up to cup his face, rubbing your thumb along his jaw, the familiar scratch of his stubble playing against your fingertips. You lean in, slightly tip toed, kissing him sweetly. When you pull away, you fix your gaze on him again, humming as you think. “We are free from the confines of the palace walls. Please, do not put up walls now in the name of ‘protecting me’.” He sighs, leaning his forehead against you as if he were trying to melt into you.

“Okay…” he whispers softly.

After resting, working to clean up the place, and making it more of a real home, you and Patrick are finally able to settle into your new life. He travels into the village, not far from the cottage, some days to sell things, some days to buy things. Together, you start a garden, something you had always wanted to do, though your family would not let you at the castle. You find peace in wearing less opulent, constricting clothing, enjoying the freedom lighter fabrics and less layers offer. But what you enjoy the most is waking up next to Patrick every morning, seeing him finally in the morning sunlight, as opposed to the secretive moonlight.

“Mmph… ‘morning,” he mumbles as he rolls over, slinging an arm around you. He pulls you in closer to him, his bare chest warm like a furnace as you nuzzle against him. You pepper chaste kisses along his jaw, trying to wake him up a bit more. Though he once followed the rigid regimen of the King’s guard, rising early and resting late, he now reverted to his nature, able to sleep deep into the afternoon.

“I had the most wonderful dream…” you spoke, carding your fingers through his curls and tracing along the winding patterns they made. When he hummed in acknowledgment, eyes flitting open (though still hanging heavy), you continued. “We were in the garden, just out back, and we had children. Children, Pat!” You sat up slightly. “A little girl, with dark curly hair like yours was running around picking daisies,” you gushed, not realizing how thrilling an idea it truly was until you divulged. “And we had a son, too. He looked to be older than our girl, only by a little bit though. His eyes were just like yours and his freckles too.”

“Imagine that…” he commented, sitting up a bit to match you. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, yawning before turning to face you. “Is that something you want? Children, I mean?” You blushed at that, a grin you couldn’t hide making its way onto your face without even trying. You nodded then, enthusiasm clearly apparent. “Well what are we waiting for,” a smirk grew on his face as he turned to you.

Patrick rolls over so that he is now on top of you, placing sloppy kisses all over your face. “I love you, my angel,” he mumbles against the skin of your ear as he nibbles at it lightly. He moves his hands to pull your sleeping gown up and over your head, revealing your breasts. Returning to kiss your neck, he palmed at your breasts, adoring the little mewls and breaths you let out. “You’re divine, love. Like some mythic goddess or an angel fallen to our Earth.” You can already feel his hard length straining in his trousers against your leg, reaching a hand down to offer him some relief too.

He sighs, melting against you like wax to your flame. His eyes flutter shut and you take in the details of his face; the way his eyelashes sit heavily like a curtain over his under eyes, his freckles scattered about his face as if God himself had flicked a paintbrush on his skin, the fine little wrinkles in his lips, so memorized in your head that you could likely recognize him from his lips alone. Then, he sat up, untying the drawstring of his trousers and revealing himself to you. The image of his taut abs, winding hairs scattered about and leading down to his hardened member would linger in your mind for the rest of your life, you thought. Though you had his body memorized, every time you saw him you were still in awe of how statuesque he was. No artist could ever truly capture the beauty of your husband.

Climbing back in the sheets, Patrick swirled his fingers gently around your opening, ensuring you were ready for him before moving to line himself up. As he looked down at you, he had never felt more sure of anything in his life. After all the turmoil, anxieties, and fear, he knew together you had made the best decision, the right decision, and hearing you speak so hopefully for your future together only cemented how much he yearned for that. He sheathed himself inside of you slowly, allowing you the time to adjust while you left out quiet gasping breaths. He reached out, cupping your jaw and kissing you deeply, passionately, before slowly rocking his hips. You felt so safe in his arms, so loved, and that was the most alluring feeling you could imagine. Knowing he wanted you, all of you, the good and the bad, for better or worse… it made your heart skip a beat. Even just thinking of how much you loved him, you clenched around him, causing him to groan into your hair.

“You’re too good to be true…” he huffed as his hips quickened in pace. He laid a flattened palm against your lower stomach, pushing ever so slightly while he gave you deeper, longer thrusts. The sounds you were making now were even prettier, leaving him powerless against his desire for you. As his strokes grow rapid, more desperate –messier, even– he brings his face in line with yours, not kissing you just yet but halting so close that you could feel his hot breath against your lips with each exhale. “I love you,” he grunts, he was lost in his motions but his tone remained as meaningful as when he had uttered those same words at the altar when you were wed. Hearing the tenderness, the raw honesty of those three words, you spasmed around him, chest heaving as you reached your high. As he continued thrusting into you, he finally closed the space between you, your lips slotting together like they had been made for each other. You could feel him spilling inside of you, filling you up with his seed exactly as you had desired. He refrained from moving immediately, merely remaining inside of you, motionless, and lazily mouthing at your shoulder. “Finally mine…” you could make out of his mumbling. “My lovely bride… my beautiful wife…” And you just held him.

Five years later…

“Arthur, fetch you sister, dear,” you instructed your son while continuing your stitching. The curly haired boy ran out of the room, returning quickly with your daughter in tow. “Delphine,” you started. “Come here, darling.” She toddled over to you and you held up your cloth work to her little body, trying to gauge if it would fit. “I think that’ll do…” you mumble, more to yourself than to either of them. “Go play, children. Your father should return home soon.” Patrick had taken a job at a stable, caring for the horses and ensuring they were ridden while their owners boarded them. You now spend most of your days tending to the garden, reading, and caring for your children. You were so proud of them. Arthur, named after Patrick’s kindest friend, was brave like Patrick, and Delphine was remarkably intelligent for her age, already doing well with the simple reading lessons you were giving them.

You could hear the whinnying of Patrick’s horse and the cheers from your children outside and knew in an instant that he had returned. Eagerly, you abandoned your work to greet him. Watching him hop off the horse and scoop your children into his arms, you couldn’t help but smile. Walking over to him, you couldn’t help but notice how he needed to shave, his salt and pepper beard actually starting to form a beard, but honestly you didn’t really mind. In tiny little spots, strands of hair had started greying ever so slightly, something you joked was because of the stress of your kids, though in reality they were the best you two could have asked for. “I missed you,” you confessed as he pulled you flush against him in a tight hug.

He laughed at that, handsome smile fully on display. “I only left this morning,” he chimed in response. Your family had set off, trailing inside to start preparing supper. “How are you feeling? How’s the baby?” He came closer to where you rested against the carved wooden table, placing a gentle palm against your stomach, only a small bump thus far.

“I think the sickness has finally passed,” you muse. “I’m feeling good.” You reach up, clutching his jaw then to keep his focus on you. “This is the last one, though,” you insist, playfully but with an undertone of seriousness.

“You say that now…” he replies smoothly.

“Now and forever,” you reaffirm, fixing him with a serious eye.

“Alright. Whatever you desire, my princess, it will be done… Or, I suppose in this case, it won’t be done.” A soft laugh leaves him, like music to your ears. You are glad to hear him laugh, something you didn’t hear from him often when you were still a princess.

“What have I said about calling me that?”

“I told you then and I will tell you now, you will always be my princess, royal or not.”

[asheepinfrance]

yeah no cause its like. but yknow i see where youre coming from cause.

i just. sometimes i just feel so. like. no really sometimes i. like actually if we’re gonna talk about it and i’m gonna be honest it’s like.

[asheepinfrance]

I think you would write сute/comfort fic patrick× pregnant reader 🎀

ACKKKK thank you this is so. im so. i dont know when the last time i got a request was. thank you, deeply, for trusting me with making something you imagined come to fruition in some way. i hope this is something you can enjoy. im calling this one aubrey

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The words ‘Patrick Zweig’ and ‘commitment’ had essentially never been spoken in the same sentence. Of course, he wasn’t entirely a lost cause when it came to settling down, finding a comfortable life for himself with all the amenities a trust fund and pro-tennis money can buy, but he never, ever wanted to settle. When he looked himself in the mirror, saw himself getting older, a beard growing in that he was reluctant to shave and slightly more dull of a shine to his skin, he still never quite saw himself stepping into traditional adulthood. A 9 to 5 in a cubicle, answering calls on a landline and typing away at a too-slow desktop, carefully adjusting an old picture frame of the wife and kids on the corner of his desk? Not his speed. He preferred freedom with the occasional presence of femininity. He liked that he only had to clean should someone be coming over, that he could hog as much of the duvet of his bed as he so pleased. Hookups were frequent, spontaneous, and usually fairly good. There was an unspoken contract each time: We fuck, you can stay the night but not the morning after, we never speak again. Always kept up, never broken. Sure, you’d been one of his favorites, someone he’d actually spoken to for a decent bit prior to inviting you back to his. Someone he laughed at not to ease them into things, but because they were actually funny. He noticed a lot about you that he didn’t see in most people, from the shape of your teeth to the way the light bounced off your skin when you slept beneath his covers. He could almost feel something, and it made him sick, both to know you’d be gone the next time his eyes were open, and that he was still capable of doing so. 

And then you showed up again, positive test in hand. Precautions had been taken, of course, you weren’t both stupid, and yet, here he was, and here you are, standing on his front porch and asking for him to do something. What it is exactly, he’s not sure. Responsibility, maybe? A promise to pay some kind of child support? Be a father? How was he meant to do that when he hardly had one? He sure as hell couldn’t raise someone from childhood through adolescence up to the big eighteenth birthday, the precipice of mortgages and the reminder that holding onto life is as futile as trying to avoid its reality. Now this was his. And, still, you were one of his favorites. He would figure something out. 

Figuring something out, apparently, had meant calling his parents up for the first time in a few months. After the exasperated greetings, the dreadful small talk, and the false promises of an incoming marriage, he announced there would be a new (probably more suitable) heir to the Zweig estate, there was no question of if he was to receive some financial assistance, maybe even a small job here and there. Anything for the family image, of course. The proliferation of the Zweig family continues with Patrick, apparently. The least proper, least Zweig of all the people in his family to have ever bore the last name. Thank God for rich parents, he thinks each time he sees you. The woman he’s managed to start letting himself feel for, despite his initial resistance. He hasn’t seen you since he woke you up with a kiss this morning, pulling away just in time to see your eyes softly flutter open and your lips open like the red velvet curtains of a stage to see teeth. He pressed a kiss to your stomach afterwards, which was finally starting to show signs of the intense changes your body was undergoing, and you’d let out something between a scoff and a laugh, mumbling something about looking fat. He hadn’t stopped until you’d pushed at his forehead, and when he looked down at the swell of where the life you’d made together was resting, he saw the shining, wet outline of where his lips had been. 

Even if you’d only just begun to show, the differences between the woman at his door holding the most important piece of plastic he’d ever seen to the one now making a space in his home are striking. He’d been the one to hold back your hair the first time you’d been wracked by morning sickness, and each of the subsequent times. He never minded, really. He’d spent many nights emptying his guts into toilet bowls with a friend’s assistance for stupider reasons. He’d been woken up at odd hours of the night to fetch cravings (lately, it’d been butter chicken) or to rub away any aches and pains which had developed. It was a little unpleasant, sure, at times, but he wasn’t experiencing half of it, and he found himself just wanting to make things easier where he could, lost sleep and spicy smelling kitchen be damned. 

He can remember the exact date and time he’d felt his child kick for the first time, mostly because it had nauseated him to no end upon first impact. The idea of a living, breathing human being nestling itself inside walls of muscle and tissue, kicking around amongst the insides of you, made him feel horrendous until he felt it a second time. A living, breathing, just-about human being was doing the best it could at touching him back, and it was one he’d made. When he heard you laughing, most likely at the expression which had pulled over his face like a veil, he joined you. Wonderful. How absolutely wonderful all of it was. Your skin had changed recently. Glowy in a way his hadn’t been since his teen years. It suited you. Made you look almost like a goddess in your softness. He wanted to kiss you until your knees gave out. He wanted to hold you until he began to rot. He wanted to start the process of becoming a father all over again. 

On the way back from one of your appointments, poking and prodding at the taped down gauze in the soft, flat crook of your elbow, feet resting on the dash, he watched the road just a little less than he should. He can’t fault himself. The sun was setting orange, and it gave you the halo he’s sure was hidden behind carbon dioxide and thick, palpable adoration that surrounded you in his presence. He’d let you choose the music, the way he always did. He liked knowing what the inside of your head might sound like. A song he didn’t quite recognize on the strum of guitar strings and the vibration of vocal chords alone struck him. 

“Aubrey… that’s a pretty name, don’t you think?”

He hummed a bit, looking at the display screen to note the name. Aubrey. A not so very ordinary girl or name. 

“I don’t wanna name our daughter after a song by a band named Bread.”

Besides, if you hadn’t gotten your current name, or the slew of pet names he’d placed upon your shoulders, he thinks Aubrey would suit you best. At least, if the lyrics meant anything. He’d do it, though. Maybe if Aubrey was her name, then it’d place just a little bit of your spirit into her. He hoped he hardly had a trace of himself within her. He hoped she had your kind eyes and soft hands, your matter of fact way of approaching things, but the gentleness to comfort. He was too rough, he thought, even if you relentlessly insisted he’d only ever been soft with you. Maybe he liked thinking there was still a bit of toughness left to him outside of his professional life. Life with you wasn’t about winning anything, so he let himself relax. 

He thinks Aubrey’s not so bad.

[asheepinfrance]

Wow look at us. Us <3