jellyfishyy

[jellyfishyy]

alright google calm down we all know this to be true

[jellyfishyy]

this is great and all but when do i get to sit on patrick zweig’s nose

[jellyfishyy]

don't wrap your legs around my back, you will get bred. i'm warning you

[jellyfishyy]

this patrick specifically could take me back to the locker rooms and have his way with me

[jellyfishyy]

THIS VIDEOOO 😭😭😭😭

ugh he’s so baby

[jellyfishyy]

i love ur preacher’s daughter x dodge! thinking about them doing everything *but* actual sex cause it’s “not a sin” that way

warnings: smut, 18+, f!receiving oral, handjob, everything but fucking tbh, mentions of religious guilt, reader watches him touch himself, a little bit of manipulation...

notes: not proofread i’m nauseous and horny ab cowboys so here x

Dodge knew what he was getting into when he started dating you. That sweet girl that blushes and sputters when he suggests anything more than a kiss. Even a peck on the mouth had your cheeks hot to the touch and eyes averted at the start of your relationship.

But you're getting there. Or rather... he's getting there. Slowly but surely, you're growing more receptive to his subtle demands for more. You stop protesting when his tongue slips into your mouth, or his hand slides a little too far up your skirt. No more making excuses to go when your goodnight kiss in his truck gets a little too heated.

He takes it as his sign to push a little further. As far as your daddy knows, you're at Bible study with your friends. Not sitting with your knees planted on either side of Dodge, his tongue exploring the warm cavern of your mouth as his hands massage up and down the back of your thighs under your dress. There's a movie playing from his TV—Pride and Prejudice borrowed from his sister, because you dubbed the rest of the DVD sets under his bed 'too inappropriate.' Bless your poor little heart.

It's clearly long forgotten. The pair of you are more focused on swallowing each other's soft moans to care about the quartet playing behind you. And then, suddenly, you feel a finger glide over the front of your white underwear, and you jolt forward, forehead bumping against his.

"D-Dodge—"

He hardly flinches at the collision, smiling so innocently at you that you're almost convinced it never happened. "What?"

"You can't—" You take a moment to collect yourself. Swallow thickly. "Too much."

"Why?" His head tilts.

"Because it's a sin," you reply, as if he's stupid. "You can't touch me there. The... the good Lord's watchin'!"

"He watches everything else we do. Why's this any different?"

He has to swallow back a laugh when he watches the way your brows pinch together as you think that through. Logic is very hard to come by when his hand is still resting on the inside of your thigh.

"Well, it's almost—" You pause, lowering your voice to a hushed whisper, "—sex."

Dodge smiles. How cute.

"It's not sex, sweetheart," he says, mimicking your hushed tone. His other hand moves up to pet the back of your head as if to console you. "Don't count unless there's penetration."

You eye him warily. "What do you mean?"

"Well, what's the Bible say about it? No sex without intention to procreate 'n' all that bullshit?" He ignores your pout at the way you call the teachings bullshit. "Can't even be sex if my cock—"

"Dodge."

"What else am I supposed to call it?"

"Just don't say it at all!"

He sighs. Starts over again. "What I'm tryin' to say is that a little bit of touching ain't a sin. No penetration. Not even like our..." He pauses to search for the most appropriate word he can think of. "Parts... will be touchin'."

You frown a little, mulling that over in your head. Well, it makes sense to a certain extent. Besides, if touching in any capacity is a sin, you're already going straight to Hell for how many times he's had a calloused hand cupping your breast or squeezing your ass. It still just seems like a little much though...

"But the sin is lust, not the actual— oh—"

His fingers brush over you again, and the innocent smile from earlier isn't so innocent anymore when you meet his eyes. "Stop worryin' your pretty little head, darlin'. I promise you it's not a sin. Right hand up to God." Funny, considering his right hand is currently the one snuck under your dress and touching your clothed cunt.

You try again. "But Dodge—"

"But what?" He says, fingers dragging back and forth against you in a way that has your thighs pressing together instinctively. "You don't trust me?"

You shake your head. "No, no, I trust you."

He hums. "So, what, you don't want it? Is that it?"

The truth is, you do want it. He's hardly doing more than lazily rubbing you through your panties and there's already an unfamiliar stirring in your gut. Like the build-up of something that could be absolutely explosive. The Big Bang, your brain traitorously supplies. Now you feel even worse. You've never even tried to touch yourself before—considered it, sure, but any time your hand ended up toying with the inseam of your sleep shorts it was quick to retract. You've had to apologise to the picture of Mary overlooking your bed a few times for the almost-slips.

"... No," you lie, straight through your teeth.

But he laughs. He's no idiot. He can see the way your gaze is fixed on his forehead rather than his eyes. Can feel the way your thighs clench tighter with each drag of his fingers, your cunt pulsing a little too eagerly for someone who doesn't want this. "No?" He repeats mockingly. His mouth moves to hover right by your ear, and you shiver at the warm puff of air against it. "Then why are you so wet?"

"Well, that's... that's natural!" You insist weakly.

"Is it?" He muses. "You always walk around with your panties damper than a horse's back on a summer's day?"

You wither under the amused look he gives you. You know he's just being an ass now. But there's a glint in his eyes—not quite mischief, something a little darker than that. Something that makes any thoughts of the fiery depths turn to mush.

"... Promise it's not a sin?" You ask tentatively.

Dodge offers you the pinky of his other hand, and the one between your legs stills for just a moment. Your lip catches between your teeth, indenting the soft flesh as you weigh up the truth behind his words. Deep down, a part of you knows that he's just bullshitting you to get his way. You could be about to commit the most heinous sin imaginable and he wouldn't give two shits.

... But then his hand starts back up again, and before you know it, your pinky is looped through his.

It doesn't take long before your dress is hitched up and you're on your back, hair spilling over his pillow. Your panties are discarded somewhere on the floor, a leg hooked over his shoulder as his mouth laps at your sensitive parts. What started as kitten licks and gentle circles of his fingers quickly turned into something else.

Now you feel as if he's trying to devour you.

"S’that good, sweetheart? Feel nice?"

"Nggghh, yeah. Oh my goodness—"

There's been a few times where he's been tempted to slip a finger in. Ease you open, feel the way you tighten around his digits when you climax for the first time. But he'd said no penetration, and Dodge has a feeling you'd be on his ass about semantics. He'll work you up to that eventually, he's sure of it.

So he sticks to working you over with his mouth. Eagerly lapping up the sweet juices your cunt provides him with every time his thumb flicks over your clit just right, his other hand threaded through one of your own. Thumb reassuringly rubbing over the back of your knuckles despite the faster pace his other hand is taking.

And despite the fact his mouth is mostly occupied, he doesn’t stop talking you through it the entire time. "Just like that, angel. Keep makin’ those pretty sounds for me. Y’sound so sweet. Taste so sweet."

Or he tuts. "Keep your legs open. That’s it, uh huh. That’s my girl."

A groan this time. "Fuck, can’t believe I waited so long to do this. S’heavenly, baby."

Neither of you even notice the credits of the movie rolling. All you can hear is your own keening moans and the lewd sound of his tongue lapping at your pussy. The feeling is foreign, unfamiliar, but the peak of ecstasy you're approaching has you thinking life in eternal Hell might not be so bad if this is what you get to experience down there.

That thought is quickly cut off when your orgasm crashes over you. Sudden, overwhelming, your back arching up off the bed as your entire body jolts with pleasure. You swear you black out for a minute, and he takes great pleasure in the way your lashes flutter and your eyes roll back.

The greatest part of all is the cry you let out. "Yes, Dodge, God, yes, yes, yes!" It's blasphemous, the way you worship both him and the Lord in one breath.

He works you through it diligently. Not a drop goes to waste, and he's still moaning against you when your own whimpers die down. When he's fully sated and some of the trembling in your body has subsided, a firm kiss is placed against your inner thigh before he rises back up your body to tuck your hair behind your ear.

All you can manage is a dopey smile, and he grins crookedly. "Worth it?"

"I think so," you say breathlessly.

When you drop to your knees by your bed that night, Rosary beads threaded through your fingers and head bowed, you apologise profusely. But you haven't been smote down yet, maybe you'll be okay.

... Maybe.

It becomes a bit of a routine after that. Whether it's in his truck with your leg hitched up on the dashboard or when he has the house alone, Dodge just can't get enough of eating you out. And every time, you go back to pretending it never happened. You're still daddy's little angel.

There's a pleasant buzz running through your body as Dodge tugs your underwear back up for you, looking just as smug as ever. Dimpled smile, chin still slick with your wetness, as he eases your skirt back down for you. One would think it'd get less intense over time... but God, he has your toes curling and legs trembling each time his mouth descends on your cunt.

"Y'know," he starts, sitting up on his knees and giving your dishevelled state an approving once-over. "I think I might go a lil' insane if I don't get some attention of my own."

It's enough to give you pause. Fair enough—he's spent the last few weeks nestled between your folds and never once asked you to return the favour. But you've never touched a man like that before.

He catches your hesitation. Reaches out to thumb at your cheek, gaze softening a little. "Ain't gotta do nothing, sweetheart. But the blue balls are killin' me."

Blue balls. You almost roll your eyes. "So... what, then?" You ask, shifting to sit up as your fingers curling into the soft fabric in your lap.

He doesn't reply right away. Tilts his head, gauges your expression. "Can I show you? Won't take much. You ain't gotta touch me or nothin'."

Don't even have to touch him... you cast a cursory glance to his door, even though there's nobody home. Your lip is already bitten raw from stifling sounds all evening, but you're back to biting at it.

"Okay."

"Okay?" His eyes light up. He leans forward, a hand braced on your knee. "You sure?"

"Doesn't count if there's no penetration," you parrot the words he told you weeks ago. He smiles. "And... you said I don't have to do anything, right? Bit of watchin' can't hurt."

"Just lookin'," he affirms. For now, anyways.

His hand leaves your thigh to undo the buckle of his jeans, and your eyes follow the movement. There's a lump in your throat and you know you're going to be repenting for this one tonight. Maybe it's time to find some other church to confess at. Certainly not your father's, but you need to get this off your chest somewhere.

His jeans are pulled open, the tension easing off the bulge that seems to be straining there every time he gets his mouth on you. It doesn't take much for his cock to be freed, jeans and boxers down just enough to put him on display.

You swallow. You're definitely going to Hell.

You've seen pictures of them in passing. Dicks, cocks, penises. Whatever vile name the youth has come up with these days. The kind of pictures shared between a few girls at a sleepover, or a cock shown during a movie your father wouldn't approve of you watching. You've never been close enough to see one like this, though. Aching and leaking under the weight of your darkened eyes.

He takes note of your expression. The lust mixing with guilt.

"A little different in person, huh? No camera lenses?" He teases.

"Dodge, shut up. Just... just get on with it, please."

He rolls his eyes but obliges. Can't have you suddenly changing your mind because he gets a bit too cheeky. A firm hand wraps around him, and he begins to stroke himself. Slowly at first, watching the way your lips are parted and the breaths you take seem sharper. The quick rise and fall of your chest doesn't go unnoticed to him.

Feels real fuckin' good to be watched, though. Each jerk of his palm smears pre-cum down his throbbing length, the slick slide obscenely loud in the quiet of his bedroom. A low moan escapes him. Rough, completely unrestrained, so loud it almost makes you jump.

Your gaze snaps up to his face to watch the way his brow pinches with pleasure. You've never seen him like this—is this how you look when he's between your legs? The thought makes you flush. God. He's pretty like this, head tilted back and eyes half-lidded as he watches you absorb every second of his pleasure like it's your own. It's beautiful. It's wonderful. Breath-taking, staggering, perfect—

Sacrilege. Blasphemous. Impious.

You swallow thickly, but you can't take your eyes away.

"You, uh, sure you don't wanna get in on this?" He asks, his voice rough in a way you've never heard before. You find your thighs clenching again as you look back down to the filthy way he's started to fuck up into his fist.

"Dodge."

"What?" He asks innocently, a breathy note to his words. "I'll let you in, sweetheart. Just a little touch. Wouldn't have to do nothin'. Let me do all the heavy-liftin', eh?"

You shouldn't. You've done enough sinning for a lifetime over the last few weeks. Cried yourself to sleep a few times, too. And yet you go against every value that's been instilled with you for years to just touch.

A tentative little brush of your fingers against the underside. It's careful, hesitant and soft. His breath grows ragged. "That ain't so bad, is it?"

You shake your head. "And the... the white stuff. That's a good thing, right?"

"Real good," he laughs. He can feel himself tensing up; you aren't doing much to help, not physically, but with the pressure of his own hand and the way your eyes are on him... Lord, he won't be lasting much longer.

There's a pretty pink flush to his cheeks now. Eyelashes fluttering with each heavy breath, and the way his neck is exposed is giving you the strangest desire to lean in and kiss it. Bruise it, even. Your eyes avert guiltily, hand back in the safety of your lap.

"No, no, no. C'mon. Eyes on me."

"I can't, this is—"

"Please," he rasps. The hint of desperation catches you by surprise. "Want you to see it happen."

Heavenly father, please forgive me. Your eyes are on him again, watching the way his hips lift off the bed. It creaks with each movement, each glide of his hand down his cock. And that little flicker of scrupulosity in your eyes is what sends him over the edge.

"Fuck, yeah, I'm gonna— ah, ah, ah—" His cock pulses, white ropes coating his hand and the hem of his shirt. Face contorted in pleasure, eyes screwed shut as he makes a sound you've never heard from him before.

A whine.

You shuffle back a little—disgusted or intrigued by the sight of the cum spilling out of him, you aren't sure. But you're completely enraptured by the look on his face and the gasps that escape his parted lips. The only sound in the room for a few moments is his heavy breathing as he strokes lazily through the last of his orgasm, pleasure still buzzing faintly through him.

And when your eyes finally meet, you both laugh. Dodge's is hoarse. Yours is a little tentative. And then your sides are shaking and eyes twinkling. God, you can't believe that just happened.

"That's never happening again," you tell him. He grins, like he knows you're lying.

You are. You do it again. And again, until you're bold enough to be the one doing the stroking. It's only a matter of time before his little no penetration excuse goes out the window.

taglist: @gracelynnx @tacobacoyeet @blastzachilles @cha11engers @magicalmiserybore @newrochellechallenger2019 @coolgrl111 @artspats @peachyparkerr @stanart4clearskin @misswrldd @kaalxpsia @downtwngrl @s0ftcobra @strfallz @dazedandconfusedlvr @turnerrst @m4lodr4ma @artdonaldsonmalewife @challengersism @elsieblogs @artstennisracket

[jellyfishyy]

BLUE COLLAR PATRICK ZWEIG X BALLERINA READER

SUMMARY: When a ballet studio renovation forces her to rehearse in the backroom of an industrial garage, the last thing she expects is an audience.

content warning: mild langague, MxF

It started with the music one boring Saturday

Patrick was under the hood of a car when he heard it — muffled strings, the kind that didn’t belong anywhere near motor oil. At first, he thought someone left a radio on. But then it happened again the next day. And the next, and so on for the whole week

It was always in the late afternoon, bleeding in from the back wall of the garage — soft piano, sometimes violin, sometimes silence followed by a sharp thud, like something hitting the floor.

The fourth day, he walked back behind the storage unit and found the source: the old industrial backroom, now cleared out and lit with harsh fluorescents, was being used as a makeshift dance studio. And right in the middle — pink tights, a black wrap top, a low bun that was coming undone — was her.

She was standing on her toes, arms curved, sweat running down her spine. Focused. Light. Fierce in a way he hadn’t expected.

She didn’t see him, not yet, so he stepped back before she could.

But now he was curious, of course he was, who wouldn't be?

They officially met on a Friday. She had come out for air, towel around her neck, clutching a water bottle like her life depended on it

The garage door was half-open; Patrick was smoking outside, leaning against the frame.

Their eyes met.

"You the one dancing through the walls?" he asked, exhaling smoke, eyes unreadable.

She blinked. "You the one revving engines like it's a demolition derby?"

He smirked. “Touché" he already liked her, fierce, he tought

She looked at his grease-stained hands, the rolled-up sleeves, the disinterest carefully painted across his face. He looked at the ribbon marks around her ankles, the polish on her toes and the stubborn way she didn’t look away from him

"You always rehearse in a warehouse?" he asked.

She shrugged. “You always live in one?”

His smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, reluctant but real. “I work here.”

“I dance here.”

“You any good?” he asked

“Come see for yourself,” she said

He didn’t. Not that day.

But the next week, she left the door cracked. And he lingered longer by the wall. Watched the shape of her silhouette in the mirrors. The way her body moved like it was made of glass and lightning at the same time.

She noticed. Of course she did.

One afternoon, the music cut out halfway through a piece.

She muttered something under her breath, crouching beside her phone, clearly annoyed.

Patrick knocked twice on the door frame. She looked up

“Power strip,” he said. “That back socket shorts if you don’t wedge something under it"

She arched an eyebrow. “You spying on me now?”

“Fixing your problem,” he shot back, but there was no bite to it.

She smirked and stood. “You want to help, grease boy? Hold my phone so I can restart.”

He stepped in without hesitation. Their hands brushed as he took the phone, and for a moment, they were both still. Too still

She stepped away and spun into the first move like it cost her nothing — but Patrick didn’t leave

He watched the whole thing. Start to finish. Didn’t blink.

When it was over, she turned toward him, chest rising and falling, sweat beading at her collarbone

“Well?” she asked

He ran a hand through his hair, eyes narrowing slightly. Not with disapproval — with something deeper. Respect. Fascination.

“You’re not bad,” he said, voice low.

She rolled her eyes, smiling. “That’s it?”

Patrick walked to the door, flicking his cigarette to the ground as he went.

Right before leaving, he looked over his shoulder

“Don’t fall for me, ballerina,” he said. “I’m bad for your posture"

She laughed, full and unexpected. “Please, i have better taste in disasters"

But that night, neither of them could stop thinking about the other.

Thanks for reading!

(Ask box in profile ♡)

[jellyfishyy]

BLUE COLLAR PATRICK ZWEIG X BIMBO READER

SUMMARY: When her pink convertible sputters into a no-nonsense auto shop, she’s expecting a fix — not a mechanic with grease on his hands and a cicky smirk always on his face. Patrick Zweig is rough, quiet, and the kind of trouble her friends warn her about. She’s high heels and shiny clear lip gloss.

content warning: mild swearing, smoking, gendered stereotypes, implied sexual tension, suggestive language

She was driving her baby-pink convertible to the nail salon when the engine started choking like it had just smoked a pack of cigarettes.

She barely managed to pull into the nearest open garage, the sign above the entrance reading:

"Zweig Auto Repair" — No Bullshit, Just Engines.

Inside: low rock music, the smell of rubber and coffee, and a guy half-covered in grease with a rag hanging out the back pocket of his oil-stained work jeans. He was leaned over a small metal table in the corner of the garage, doing God knew what on his phone.

That was Patrick.

He didn’t look up at first, but she wasn’t exactly subtle either — a denim mini skirt, pink crop top, perfume that smelled like strawberries, and a little purse with more charms than anyone could count, jingling with every step she took.

She cleared her throat to catch his attention, suddenly feeling a little out of place after taking a quick look around the place

Finally, he glanced over his shoulder, eyes scanning her once — head to toe — then flicking back to the car after doing a double take.

“You lose a drag race, or just drive it like you hate it?” he asked dryly, his gravelly voice echoing through the garage, blending with the rock music in the background.

She blinked. “Excuse me?” she asked, clearly taken aback by his tone.

He smirked, wiping his hands on a towel. “The car’s crying sugar” he said with a condescending tone

She was torn between being offended and impressed. “That’s so rude. You don’t even know her.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Her?” he said, confused but amused.

“She’s called Baby. She’s special.”

“…Right,” he said after a moment of hesitation, not sure if she was joking or actually serious.

The tension was instant. He was rough hands and dark sarcasm; she was pink lip gloss and no patience for anyone’s attitude.

But the way he looked at her wasn’t dismissive — it was curious, like he was trying to figure her out.

He leaned into the open hood, muttering something about spark plugs and engine abuse, while she leaned against the wall, casually snapping her gum, arms crossed — watching him. Maybe a little too much.

Finally, without turning around, he called out:

“You gonna stand there looking pretty, or tell me what you did to it?”

She smiled slowly. “Maybe I look pretty and know exactly what I did.”

He straightened up, eyes meeting hers with that cocky little half-laugh he gave when someone surprised him.

It was the first time he really saw her.

There was a beat of silence. He stepped a little closer.

“You talk a lot” he said.

“So do you” she replied looking up at him

He didn’t say anything — but a grin flickered on his lips.

Patrick turned back to the engine, the air between them still humming with whatever had just passed.

She didn’t move from where she stood, arms crossed and one heeled foot pointed slightly outward, like she was posing without trying to. Her eyes stayed on him — on the way his forearms flexed as he leaned into the hood, sleeves rolled halfway up. His hands moved like he knew exactly what he was doing, even if he didn’t care whether anyone noticed.

Of course, she noticed.

“Okay, be honest,” she said, loud enough to cut through the hum of music and tools. “Is it, like, dead-dead?”

He didn’t turn around. “Depends. You treat it like a car, or like a purse on wheels?”

She scoffed, offended. “That’s sexist, you know?”

He smirked. “That’s an engine full of coconut-scented disaster.”

She rolled her eyes but chuckled, despite herself. “It was cute. And the bottle was pink.”

He finally looked at her, eyes steady. “That engine doesn’t care about cute, sweetheart.”

She shifted her weight to one hip, unfazed. “Whatever,” she said, then paused at the moment of silence that followed.

“Office is open,” he said eventually, voice low. “If you wanna wait while I check the damage.”

She hesitated — then nodded, but stayed where she was.

“Let me guess. No air conditioning, no Wi-Fi, and an old, stained, dirty couch that smells like gasoline?” she asked with a slight tone of disgust.

He shrugged. “Sounds like you’ve been here before, sugar”

“I haven’t,” she said. “You just seem like the type.”

That pulled a real smile from him — small and slightly crooked, a little cocky too

“Yeah?” he said. “What type’s that?”

She took a step closer, lips parted just enough to hold his attention. “Rough, controlling, and has issues with girls who wear platform heels.”

He looked her over slowly, from her pink crop top to the sparkle of the tiny gems on her nails.

“Maybe I just like when people know what they want.”

“Maybe I do.”

He held her gaze a second longer, then — with no warning — turned back to the car.

Heat rose to her cheeks. Whatever game this was, he wasn’t playing it safe.

“Fifteen minutes,” he called over his shoulder, already elbow-deep in the hood again. “Then I’ll tell you if she’s worth saving.”

His voice rang out, muffled under the metal.

She watched him work for another beat before finally walking toward the office, hips swaying and eyes still lingering.

And though he didn’t look up, she was sure of it:

He was watching.

Thank you for reading ♡

(ask box in my profile :>)

[jellyfishyy]

me staring at my ceiling after y/n does the most FLABBERGASTING thing ever

[jellyfishyy]

⋆* ⋆.˚ 𓆝⋆.˚ ⋆｡𖦹°

about me

lils, 20, sag, art and patrick lover. MDNI

medias

challengers, the crown, bridgerton, the bike riders, west side story, shameless, hotd, the iron throne, vikings, the big bang theory, friends

radio

lana del rey, doja cat, U96, joost klein, sydney rose, she wants revenge, billy idol, ethel cain, the neighborhood

all time favourites

mike faist, josh o'connor, strawberries, blueberries, the moon, perfumes, antiques, romanticizing everything that happens in my life, pinterest, music, crochet, nature, digicams, cats, dogs, my curly hair on a good hair day, piercings, long nails, keycharms, weird trinkets, urbex, grunge, castles, mountains

others:

pinterest spotify substack

please be kind!

[jellyfishyy]

his hideous orange shirt omfg he is so silly i need him

[jellyfishyy]

perfect father’s day gift if u ask me

[jellyfishyy]

Love when he looks extra like a mouse who was turned into a real boy because he has a good heart

[jellyfishyy]

bouncer!patrick x party girl!reader headcanons

18+— cunnilingus, fingering ( reader receiving), p in v, spitting , oral sex, hair pulling ..

you, always a common at that club. Glitter filled outfits, makeup done, insane but amazing hairstyles. everyone knows you, even zweig. getting easy cuts in line and hooking up has it advantages.

♪ — You’re glitter and perfume and chaos. always in something short and shining, always laughing too loudly at someone’s joke as you breeze past the velvet rope like you own the pavement. From the first night, Patrick marks you as trouble. Not the dangerous kind, not the kind that breaks bones but the kind that breaks rules. He’s stoic, carved from discipline, the man who sees everything and responds to nothing. But then there’s you, and you keep pressing just hard enough to get under his skin. You flirt shamelessly. You lean close when you talk, always touch his chest with two fingers when you pass, call him "baby” or “Zweig” depending on how much you want to get under his skin. And the worst part? It works. He doesn’t smile, he smirks. And only for you

♪ — He groans when he sees you cut the line again, but never sends you to the back. He rolls his eyes when you ask if your lipstick looks smudged, but he tilts your chin up and wipes it with his thumb without saying a word. He says he doesn’t like “the kind of girl who wants attention,” but his eyes follow you all night from the front door to the bar to the dance floor. And when some guy tries to slide his hand around your waist, Patrick is suddenly there—between you and the idiot, hand on his shoulder, voice cold. “She said no.” You never asked him to protect you, but he does anyway. Rough and quiet. Always watching. Like it’s instinct.

♪ — Even on nights when the line’s a hundred deep, when people are throwing names and bribes and begging for wristbands, Patrick opens the rope for you first. “You’re gonna get me fired,” he murmurs one night, and you smile, because you both know he wouldn’t stop even if it risked everything. There’s always this pause when he sees you coming—the way his shoulders straighten, the way his eyes scan your outfit just a little too long, like he’s checking for danger or temptation or both. You lean into it. You wear dresses you know he’ll like. One night, you wear his name in rhinestones across your necklace. He doesn’t say anything. Just mutters “Jesus Christ,” under his breath and looks away—because yeah, he definitely wants to hook up with you. Probably has for months.

♪ — Patrick’s whole job is about control. Order. Predictability. He watches people come and go, scans for danger, keeps everything running smooth. But you? You blow through his routine like a warm breeze at midnight. The nights you're not there, everything feels... off. He doesn’t realize how much of his shift was spent tracking you with his eyes, checking in without checking in. How much lighter things felt when he saw you laughing by the bar, spinning on the dance floor, flipping your hair over your shoulder like you were on camera. He finds himself tapping his radio harder, chewing the inside of his cheek, more irritable. The other bouncers tease him—“Where’s your girl tonight?”—and he just growls back, “She’s not mine.” But the look in his eyes says otherwise.

♪ — You start showing up... just for him. Maybe it’s subtle at first—maybe even to yourself. You’ll skip another party because “this one has better music” (even though it doesn’t). You dress for the club, but when you glance in the mirror before leaving, it’s not the crowd you’re thinking about—it’s him. Will he like this color? Will he notice the heels? One night you come just for a drink and stay for three hours without dancing, leaning against the bar with his gaze burning into your skin. He always looks like he wants to say something, but doesn’t. Like if he breaks the silence, everything between you will flood in. But when you leave, he always finds a way to brush against you. A hand on your hip. A low “Be safe.” A lingering stare at your back as you disappear into the night.

♪ — He’s never rough with you. Never careless. When someone bumps into you or a guy gets too close, Patrick’s there like clockwork. silent, imposing, calm. He’s not loud. Doesn’t cause a scene. Just steps between you and the problem like a wall of muscle and heat, and suddenly the issue disappears. You try not to let it show how much it affects you, but it does, being seen. Protected. Especially by someone who looks like he wouldn’t care about anything. You wonder what he’s like off-duty. What he listens to when he’s alone. If he’s ever been in love. You want to ask—but you know that would break whatever this fragile thing is between you. So instead, you let your hands graze when he checks your ID. Let your perfume linger. And smile like a dare.

♪ — To everyone else, you're the girl who drinks free, skips lines, and flirts with the bouncer like it's your full-time job. They think Patrick tolerates it because you're hot, maybe because you’ve hooked up a few times, just a casual thing. But no one sees the way his eyes track you across the room like he’s memorizing your shape. No one sees how your fingers brush his when you hand him your phone to hold, and how he doesn’t flinch away. No one hears the way you say “Patrick” like it means something, even when you're surrounded by strangers screaming your name. And none of them know that when your heels start to hurt or your anxiety hits under all the flashing lights, he’s the one you look for. Not the guy with the bottle. Not the friend with the VIP wristband. Him.

♪ — The crowd thins. The music’s still going, but the energy shifts. You’ve danced yourself sweaty, your lip gloss worn off, mascara smudged from sweat and laughter. And when you step outside to cool off, he’s always waiting. Leaning against the brick wall near the back door, arms crossed, smoke curling from the cigarette between his fingers. He doesn’t say anything. Just jerks his chin slightly like, “You good?” You don’t answer, not really. Just sit beside him, knees touching, and borrow his lighter even if you don’t need it. You always smell like sugar and something sweet and fake. He smells like leather and smoke and every mistake you want to make twice. Sometimes you talk. Sometimes you sit in silence until someone shouts for him. But that little bubble, those minutes where no one else exists is yours. Every night.

♪ — Patrick’s not a soft man. His job’s physical. His world is simple: protect the line, break up fights, get through the shift, go home. He’s slept with girls before. He's had flings, entanglements, whatever you want to call them. But nothing sticks. He doesn’t let people close. Doesn’t let them in. But you… you mess with his rhythm. You're unpredictable, mouthy, too clever, too bright, too full of life for a place like this. And yet every time he sees your name light up on his phone at 11PM with a “you working tonight?”, he answers “yeah.” Every time you drunkenly pull him into your selfie videos, he pretends to hate it but keeps the clips saved in a hidden folder. You’re messy and wild and not the kind of girl who wants to be kept but for the first time, he wants to be the one who keeps you anyway.

♪ — Maybe it’s after a fight. You kissed someone to get his attention, and he finally lost his temper. Maybe you showed up in tears and he held you like it was instinct. Or maybe, after months of hovering on the edge of something more, you just asked him straight-up: “Do you ever think about what it would be like if I stayed?” And the way his eyes changed when you said it—like the whole foundation cracked—was your answer. That night, you end up in his apartment. It’s quiet. His walls are bare, his furniture simple. You sit on the kitchen counter while he makes you eggs at 3AM, shirtless, half-asleep. It’s not flashy. It’s not loud. But it feels like the safest place in the world.And for once, you're not the party girl. You're just his.

♪ — he captured you officially even though it wasn’t supposed to be that way. The way his goatee tickled you as he ate you out, his tongue flinging and flicking across your folds making you moan out his name like it was a club song. Screaming like you were cheering at the club, gripping his hair and pulling it making him send vibrations up your body like it was the bass of a song you loved. When his large hands slid from your thighs to your hole, sliding them in as his mouth worked on your clit. He occasionally looked up to see your beautiful face contorting, your makeup not complete smudged but halfway there. your eyes half lidded, he loved the sight of you.

♪ — another night it was different, his large hand guiding your head. Gripping your head as you sucked him off, your head bobbing up and down. Your eyes clenched shut and your mascara, eyeliner and eyeshadow either faded or smeared down your pink flushed cheeks. Words of reassurance leaving his mouth, “it’s okay baby, you’re doing so good.” He groaned before more words left his mouth, “I know..I know you’re struggling but you can do it.” He nodded. Petting your head now like you were a cat.

♪ — it had suddenly evolved to more than that, now he thrusted into you without warning. Making you freeze and gasp, continuing to thrust into you in multiple positions. from behind, the way he thrusted into you before pulling your hair aggressively to pull your back to his chest. His relentless thrusting continuing. Then hovering over you, the words “open wide for me baby.” and you listened, his spit entering your mouth, staring at your face and now your face was officially a mess, drool, makeup smudged everywhere. Lipstick prints on his chest and even on his cock. and after all that? he enjoyed you more at the club, sneaking off with you whenever he could and he definitely let you in first without a care.

[jellyfishyy]

hihi i hope you’re doing well!! tis me.. mommy issues!art anon.. >:3

mommy issues!art who is just so needy. he can’t help but melt into your touch after a long day, he’s completely pliable in your hands. he just wants mommy to hold him!! it’s not his fault that being cuddled by you leads to him eagerly shoving his tongue down your throat!! he just missed you!!

then he’s breaking away to beg, “please- mommy, can i?” while he paws at the neckline of your top. his desperate, wet eyes are too much, how could you ever say no? not that you’d ever pass up a nursing handjob, anyway…

(p.s. may i claim 🍼 anon… seemed fitting lol)

mommy issues!art anon hii:3 love to see you in my inbox again; this is so yummy.. also 🍼 is yours!

cw (18+) : sub!art, mommy kink, messy nursing hj, desperation/neediness

art immediately pushes your top up and over your breasts as soon as you give him permission, his blue eyes glazing over with unfiltered arousal. his cheeks are flushed the prettiest pink you’ve ever seen, and then you notice that his bottom lip is wobbling like he’s about to cry. it wouldn’t be the first time that tears were shed down his cheeks when faced with your nurturing dominance. you feel both sets of his fingers squeeze at your chest—thumbs rubbing circles over your pebbling nipples, whimpering when you stroke your fingers through his blonde curls. he’s stuck in a trance of some kind, it seems.

“go on, i said you could.”

those simple words of encouragement are all that he needs to be snapped out of his stupor and surge forward to take one of your tits into his warm, open mouth. he slathers your bud in his sweet spit, moaning with pinched-up brows and suckling like he’s expecting something to come out. it’s hard not to stick a hand down into your panties at the feeling of him working his tongue so greedily over your flesh.. and his whimpers aren’t helping. your touch tightens in his strands and pulls a high-pitched keen from his chest. he unlatches and looks up to you, pouting, afraid you’re about to cut him off.

“are you going to be a good boy for me, art?”

he shudders, his legs tensing.

“yes, mommy. whatever you want..”

“you want help?” your fingers tease the waistband of his sweats before dipping down into them and his boxer briefs, playing with the base of his swollen length. his eyes roll back the instant you make contact with him there, and you laugh breathily in response. he’s always this easy with you. you drag your nail against the pulsing vein that you feel bulging from the underside.

“ye—yeah, help—help me, please,” he mewls, lifting his hips to press further into your palm, “be good, ‘m gonna be so good, i need it..”

your hand moves and wraps around his cock without further pleading from the blonde curled against you. he’s already filthily covered in his own juices, so it’s easy to stroke him without feeling like you’re hurting him. he gives confirmation of that in the form of a instantaneous, shattered cry and an arching back. he clutches your tit harder before burying his face back into the other one, trying to muffle his pathetic sounds as you jerk him off in time with the hollowing of his cheeks around your bud. he laps at you for another minute before his pelvis starts to stutter and roll up into your fist. it’s normal for him to try to take what he needs, even if you’re already giving it to him exactly the way he likes it. you smirk.

“you wanna do it yourself?”

he sobs around your flesh, shaking his head and letting his eyes flutter open to look up to you. “nmph—mmm-mn—“

“okay, then calm down and let me finish you off. have some faith in me,” you tease.

art’s mouth parts into a slackened ‘O’ around your sensitive skin when you twist your wrist and begin working his aching tip, the wet sounds emanating from your motions only heightening his pleasure. his toes start to curl, his legs clamp shut, his breathing picks up rapidly. he nearly squeals at the sensation of your thumb playing with his glossy slit. he hates (loves) it when you do that.

“mmm-my—mmm-my—! mmmngh!”

it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what lewd nickname he’s murmuring around the mouthful of your plush breast. you bite your lower lip, letting out a stream of breathy moans to accompany his sounds, and stroke him faster. his eyes fly open wide before squeezing shut so tight that wrinkles appear at the outer corners. reaching your free hand up, you move to lightly trace his cheek, his brow, the bridge of his nose. such a pretty little toy.

“are you close?”

he nods.

“are you gonna come?”

he suckles harder, wails louder against you.

“you can come for me, baby. give me a big load.. show me how much you’ve been wanting this..”

three more flicks of your closed hand around his throbbing appendage and he’s gone—his lips detaching from you with a sharp, trembling gasp, a string of spit connecting to your body; his head falls into your lap as he bucks into your touch and feels several viscous streams of fluid spray from him and into his clothing, as well as between your moving fingers. it sticks between your digits like glue. he wails like he’s being taken apart by you, praying that you’ll put him back together afterwards, and you closely watch his abdomen flex with each orgasmic contraction—every single one followed by a puny whine of ecstasy.

you don’t stop pumping him until he begins to wheeze and jolt. it’d be unfair to expect him to vocalize his overstimulation, given how wrecked he is. your ministrations slow and then rest in a pause at the base. he catches his breath as best he can and winces when you accidentally force an aftershock from his spent dick. tugging your touch from his soiled bottoms, you look down to your hand that has become creamy with his frothed-up release.

“such a mess, artie,” you croon, showing it to him as he pants and gazes up to you with an unfocused stare, “did that feel good?”

a single nod is all that he can manage. his lips part a few moments later, trying to muster up the energy to tell you exactly what he wants to say.

thank you. i love you. i needed that. i needed you. please hold me.

but none of it comes.

he leans in and kisses your breast, giving one more languid lick over your nipple in hopes that it’ll get his point of gratitude across. once he’s got his bearings back, he’ll give you everything he has.

now, though, he just needs a moment in your arms.

“mommy,” he whispers. he swallows thickly after and tries to blink away the wetness stinging his vision. it'd be embarrassing if he was with anyone but you.

you caress his jaw, give him a soft smile.

that’s all you really need to hear.

tags : @voidsuites @asheepinfrance @fawnnpaws @artstennisracket @andyrambles @imperishablereverie @ghostgirl-22 @lexiiscorect @cha11engers @patricksbf @newrochellechallenger2019 @pittsick @blastzachilles @oncefaist @tacobacoyeet

[jellyfishyy]

mike faist and his fuck ass necklaces 💖

[jellyfishyy]

whenever i miss mike faist i feel like a wife clutching her shawl standing in the fields staring at the horizon with the wind blowing her hair wondering when her husband will return from war