Pls make a blurb about Reader forcing Patrick to help build a house for calico critters made with real wood and anything and this big man with big hands is just sewing tiny curtains, it sounds tew cute 🥹
It's not you who forces him but your baby girl Eleanor who doesn't like any of the houses displayed on the website. She has this particular idea about a princess looking three storey house with flowers and hearts, having provided Patrick with multiple sketches and thorough instructions on where the furtniture must be located.
"She's gonna be the death of me, I swear. Are you sure we can't find anything like this online?" Patrick mutters in partial annoyance, that is present mainly to find his distress, because - apart from tennis - he's not used to working with his hands at all.
You have a hard time focusing, unable to tear your eyes away from the typical dad stance - feet apart, balled fists resting on his hips - a belt with all the necessary tools ha going loosely around Patrick's hips. Damn, he looks really hot.
You rub his exposed arm, glad for the summer heat that made Patrick wear one of his sleeveless tops, and you thank god that Eleanor has currently gone to the local swimming pool with Lily and the Donaldsons. At least you don't have to control your primal urges.
"Oh, don't be so fussy babe. You're gonna nail it," you coo, pressing a kiss to his cheek.
The sight is a mix of both arousing and comical. Patrick's muscles flex as he cuts the wood planks with a hand saw, the motion reminding you of multiple different things. He's grunting and mumbling under his breath - Why did I agree to this? Goddamn, this is ridiculous. - eyes rolling onto the back of his head when he sees that one piece is smaller than the remaining three.
"Are you having any issues, darling?" you mock with a laugh from where you're sitting in the garden chair, legs crossed comfortably, glancing up from your book. His reaction makes you giggle.
Patrick shoots you a glance, brows furrowed, and a drop of sweat rolls down his cheek. "You wanna try it yourself, sweetheart?"
This is the peak dad performance in your eyes, with you lounging under the sun while your gorgeous husband looks absolutely stunning, sweat covered, with little insults leaving his mouth. He manages to get all the essential pieces before putting them all together, drilling screws into the wood to form the main box shape, and finally putting in the planks make for the storeys.
When the outline is finally done and painted all white, Patrick lets it dry outside and moves into the living now, now fighting with your sewing machine. Unfortunately, the little windows must have curtains.
"This is fucking devil's work. How do you even use that?" he's sitting there like a school boy about to cry over his math homework, completely lost.
You lean over him, your arms on either side of his head as you take one of the pink fabric squares. Patrick's breath hirches completely as you begin explaining the basics. "It's easy, just work slowly. First, you took the thread - yup, here - then just place it there, under the needle."
Your husband has a fucking hard time focusing on the instructions, lips parting hungrily as the soft inside of your arm brushes over his cheek. He really can't resist, pressing a few kisses to your soft skin, for which he earns a gentle slap on the back of his head.
"Focus," you command, earning a sigh in response. He really just wanted to kiss you, to feel you. "Foot on the pedal - good - it begins moving when you step on it. Just let the fabric run through the whole way, and be careful about your fingers. C'mon, try it."
It takes Patrick a few tries - okay, a bit more than just a few - but eventually, he ends up with four squares that resemble curtains at least a bit. That is, unfortunately, all he can deliver. Being a good wife, you do the rest for him, sewing little beddings for the beds, a table cloth and the two remaining curtains.
The rest of the afternoon consists of Patrick painting messy details on the wooden walls and bringing some boxes from your old home down from the attic - thank god you kept all of your Barbie house equipment - and attempting to fit the pieces into the wooden house. He steals a few mint leaves from the garden and makes tiny makeshift house flowers with them, knowing he'd have to swap those every two or three days, but whatever makes his darling daughter happy, right?
And when Eleanor comes back home, her hair damp and a thin layer of sunburn on her freckled cheeks, she can't contain her excitement.
"Daddy!" she squeaks, throwing her short arms around your husband's neck. He picks her up, literally blushing when she peppers his fave with sloppy baby kisses.
"D'you like it, princess?" he asks with excitement shining in his own eyes. He'd be really fucking disappointed if she didn't.
And she nods eagerly, immediately squirming to hop down and examine the small house thoroughly. "It's so cute daddy, they're all gonna fit rhere! The bed's too big but that's okay. They can have a sleepover!"
Later that day, when Eleanor is playing in her room and moving the animal figures into their new accomodation, you take Patrick in your arms. He seems to be exhausted, even though this whole process can't come even close to what he experiences on court, but he's more than happy to snuggle in your arms.
"She really loves it," you whispers, gently threading fingers through his curly hair. Patrick hums in response, digging his face deeper into your chest. "I'm so lucky to have such a handy husband at home. All for me."
At that, Patrick perks up, lifting himself on his elbows to hover over you, mischief glowing in his eyes. "Yeah?
You nod, humming as you begin rubbing his arms, gently squeezing the muscles that flex as Patrick's holds his weight above you. God, you could bite into that flesh. "Yeah. And he's really fucking hot as well."
"Is he?" Patrick echoes, leaning closer to nudge your nose with his own, chuckling at your smugness. You're so pretty.
And you nod again, now wrapping your arms around his shoulders to bring him in for a kiss. His caloused palms move under your shoulders to scoop you into him, fully settling between your legs and pushing you into the mattress. You're so warm and soft for him, a perfect pillow to rest on, cheeky and smug when you compliment him. He supposes that's good enough of a reward for his hard work.
But unfortunately, a high pitched daddy! fills the house before he could move further, and all the appetite is lost when Eleanor asks for yet another home made house.
