ervotica - Tumblr blog

[ervotica]

art’s little jump-midair ballerina split before he yells FUCK has me giggling like a maniac

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how i love u gracie

kissing u rn actually

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drunk people are the best

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i’m at work and this is so fucking nasty, but who fucking cares—

thinking about patrick being obsessed with you creaming on his cock. he gets so excited when you’re ovulating, he just spends an insane amount of time watching his fat cock glide in and out of your hole. you could be whining, shaking, begging him to fuck you harder but he ignores you because he’s so in awe of just how. fucking. pretty.! your pussy looks covered in cream, walls gripping onto his thick girth for dear life.

when i tell you i need this man. i fucking need him. NEOW.

warnings; smut, 18+, p in v sex, unprotected sex, sorta edging (pat is a tease)

you tell him you’re ovulating and just watch his expression light up with unbridled glee. he’s got you on your back in no time, ankles slung over his hips as he rocks into you, agonisingly slow, eyes trained on the way your hungry cunt sucks him back in the moment he pulls back.

you’re whining, grappling for purchase against his sweat slick chest and pushing your hips forward in hopes he’ll drive into you with more force, but all he does is suck his teeth and pin you back by means of a hand pressed to your lower stomach

“i know, i know,” he whispers, and god, he can’t even look at your face, so enamored with the creamy ring your cunt has made on the base of his cock, thick and white and squelching with every rut of his hips.

he pulls the fat tip out and you squeak, hole spasming as it mourns the loss of his thick length breaking your pussy open. it’s shining with slick, dribbling precum in fucking buckets, and a visceral red that has your insides churning with need.

“pat, please,” you cry, big crocodile tears gathering at your waterline.

“okay, baby,” he placates. “you need it? you need my cock that bad?”

you’re pretty sure you’d say anything at this point as long as it makes him put it back in - and he knows it, knows when you get fussy like this he can get you to agree to pretty much anything. so you nod, twining your fingers in the dark curls at his nape and tugging as he feeds his cock back into you, inch after torturous inch.

“attagirl,” he murmurs. “you ready to cream round me? hm?”

your mouth hangs agape when he ups his pace, finally.

it’s no time until you’re creaming round him, gushing and matting down the dark hair that dusts his thighs, shaking round him. until he starts from scratch, slowing the pace to watch your swollen little pussy split open for him all over again.

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watching challengers and then watching josh o’connor be the most polite, softly spoken angel in interviews is hilarious bc how is that guy patrick zweig

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having an ancient vampire develop a psychosexual obsession for me after repressing any feelings of love for centuries would fix me i think

[ervotica]

I'd let her fuck me with a racket. JOSH O'CONNOR as PATRICK ZWEIG  CHALLENGERS (2024) dir. Luca Guadagnino

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holy shit, your milf!reader x patrick imagine has me 😵‍💫😵‍💫🤤

it made me think up a hypothetical quote that would make patrick smirk like the smug little shit he is. “If you were as great at tennis as you are at fucking, you’d be unstoppable.”

omg he would smirk like a little shit

just countering your snide remark with a, “so you think i’m a great fuck?”

laughing as you bare your teeth and growl and lunge for him, rolling you flat onto the bed and sucking your earlobe into his mouth until you go pliant and soft and stop fighting.

[ervotica]

here all night bitches im on a night shift so let’s talk challengers

[ervotica]

milf!reader fucking coach!patrick because she wants her son to get accepted into his tennis program and they’re old friend who used to fuck in college but she despises him but she’ll do anything for her son👀

warnings; smut, 18+, p in v sex, unprotected sex (wrap it b4 u tap it), cum eating, a smidge of foot stuff if you squint, hate sex, exes (ish) to lovers (ish)

a/n; your honor i need him actually

imagining him wolf-whistling at you when you seek him out on the courts, racket strapped over your shoulder, hand limply holding a basket of tennis balls as you watch him practice his serving, trying and failing not to ogle his entire body through his clothes.

a sweat soaked tank top, slick and transparent. the smell of musk and man and tennis. thick corded thighs dusted with dark hair as he moves fluidly, as though the racket is an extension of himself. a thick bulge in his shorts that, no matter how much you hate him, you want to have your mouth on.

he’s all fire and passion and heat, and you know from experience that trait rings true in all areas of his life.

“so, you’re a milf now,” he drawls, beckoning you closer with a tip of his chin. your mouth is dry, chest so hollow it feels like you’re about to crumble from the inside out.

you roll your eyes, hoping to look more confident than you feel, taking place on the other side of the net.

“and you’re still a prick. your point?”

“why are you here?” he presses, tossing the ball up and catching it with a skilled ease that has your stomach flipping.

“how do i guarantee my son a place in your tennis program?” the words feel heavy on your tongue, struggling not to curl your lips into a sneer at the sight of his smug expression.

“you think i’m a prick but you want me to teach your son?”

“i think you’re a prick but i know you’re good at tennis. and you’re a good teacher. and i want him to be good.” his brow quirks. at least you’re honest.

he discards the tennis ball behind him and crosses the distance between you, long legs coming up to step over the net.

“i can think of a few things.”

that’s how you find yourself at his place, legs slung over his shoulders. it’s wet and dirty, each rock of his hips squelching as he feeds you his cock into your needy cunt inch by inch.

“yeah, know this pussy missed me, baby,” he rasps, pinching at your twitching clit. his throat works around a thick swallow, lips parted in a groan when you clench your cunt round him, shifting your hips upward to allow him to sink further into the wet clutch of you.

“stop talking to my pussy, you freak,” you hiss, quickly silenced as he flattens his thumb over your swollen bud, rolling it in tight circles until you’re creaming round him, wailing with the sheer force of your orgasm

he lifts your ankle, turning his flushed face to mouth at the smooth skin there, huffing hot air against the sole of your foot that has you squirming.

there are some perks to fucking patrick zweig.

he knows every inch of your body, knows what makes you tick and which buttons to press to keep you babbling nonsensical filth beneath him. knows your pussy, knows how to fuck you until you cry.

you’re clinging to his shoulders, almost drawing blood as you dig your knuckles further into that skin, because you know him just as well. know that this gets him going, keeps him rutting into you with that fervour that - despite yourself, despite hating him - you’ve missed so desperately.

because despite hating patrick zweig, no one fucks you like he does.

when he cums it’s in excess, spurt after spurt of it until you’re plugged full and it’s flooding you, dripping out of your spasming hole and gathering over your furled asshole. he gathers some of it with two fingers, feeds it into your eager mouth.

“i’m sure we can work something out about those tennis lessons, sweets.” and he grins, all teeth. the look should have you balking, send you running, but you find yourself drawn to it, clinging to the familiarity of him.

you’re caught in his honey trap once again, and he has no plans of letting you get away this time.

because you both know, no matter how much you claim to hate him, he’s the best sex you’ve ever had.

and he’s sure he can make you love him. just with a little time.

[ervotica]

gracie baby im so obsessed with your theme it’s so pretty <333

ari baby i love you! your themes always eat😛😛

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do u still write for tlou

occasionally but only for joel now really bc the tlou fandom is wack and ngl i hate most of u :)

[ervotica]

and if i made an exes to lovers w tashi w the song good luck babe then what

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oh. my. god.

what if i said the words step dad patrick……….. fucking ur mum for a place to stay when he finds your cute little college ass and oh look! you’re into tennis! he can show you some stuff if you like, he used to play art donaldson and win………..

why would you say this to me. what have u done what have you wrought. wow this got away from me and i ended up giving us a whole backstory here my bad fr.

i imagine you're visiting home from college - a prestigious one - not excited, in the least. probably a horrible relationship with your mother, father nonexistent, out of the picture. probably got into tennis as just a hobby, but it turned into a way to channel all your anger and resentment built up towards your mother - how she never pays attention to you, how money and jewelry and the next man who'll blow smoke up her ass to leech off her, is more important to her than you are. every slam of your racket against the ball is you smashing a vase in your picture perfect mansion.

so, no, you're not happy to be coming back for the summer but all your friends are going back home and you dont want to be the one girl on campus who wont go back home - you dont want to be that girl. you're perfect over there, you're good. no one knows you hate your mother and mourn a father you dont even know the name of. no one knows you feel so alone it empties your chest out sometimes, leaves you with a pit that feels like its rotting you inside out. you're good at tennis, and you're cool and you're friendly and you have men falling all over you. they never fill that void, but its nice to feel desired. even if their age stifles you. irritates you. immaturity grinds your gears.

so, no, you're not eager to throw all that pretend and comfort away for the summer. lugging your suitcases up the pristine driveway with a scowl already in place. wondering if your mother will even notice you entering the door. probably not. probably she's already out, or making plans to be so.

anyway, you're miffed and moody and not at all prepared for when a man jogs up to you. you startle when a hand, a very tan hand connected to a strong arm - arm that has fine hair, and veins and muscles you can see - intercepts you to take the handle of your suitcase. you look up.

you look up to see the hottest man you've ever seen in your life grinning down at you. dark curls damp with sweat, heat kissed skin, freckles and seagreen eyes. tall and broad, and soaked in sweat. his tank top is practically see through, you can see through. right to his equally strong chest, which is hairy and tan looking - two twin nipples peaking, red and flushed. you throat feels dry. "uh."

"fuck, hey." he lets go of your suitcase to shake your hand. you limply let him. hes smiling at you in a practiced sort of way, almost like hes nervous. odd since hes clearly older than you. but hes trespassing, so maybe thats why. "i wanted to get cleaned up before i met you, but you're early, huh. i was just on the court - here let me."

he takes the handle of your luggage again. he seems to know you already and you squint. a familiar feeling of irritation filling you. hes not so different looking from all the help your mother has hired over the years, pool boys and yardworkers and the like. young men she could ogle. although this man does seem older - he's definitely ogle worthy. more than.

your mouth twists in a sneer. you haven't even gotten into your house and you're already dealing with your mothers shit. you can't be fucked.

"rule number one," you snap, curt, jerking your luggage back from his grip. you try to stand tall, but he still easily towers above you. no matter. you're still above him in station. "dont fucking touch my stuff."

you flick your hair behind your shoulder as you make to walk by him. you hear his sharp inhale of suprise. curious since you're definitely sure your mother has degraded him in many ways by now. he should be used to be talked down to. maybe its his first day.

he comes up in front of you again, walking backwards as you walk forwards, with a kind of ease that irritates you. he holds his hands up, placating, still smirking, which irritates you even more - "got it. got. you know she warned me about you - didn't think you'd try to bite my fucking head off so soon, though."

something in your gut sours. not new, then. your mother has spoken to.... the help, about you? this makes you uncomfortable. prickly and hot like you just found out someone had been talking shit about you behind your back. your hackles rise.

you stop in your tracks. glare at him.

"my mother spoke to you about me?"

his eyebrows - he has annoyingly smooth eyebrows, annoyingly long lashes too - lift, as if to say, 'fucking duh.' he makes a so and so motion with his hand, you glimpse a ring on one of his fingers. "here and there."

your grip around the handle of your suitcase burns its so tight. you think you could melt it with your anger if you concentrated long enough.

"and? what did the bitch say?"

a shocked laugh leaves his lips at your curse. your eyes narrow because you dont find it funny and because the longer you are around him the more you notice about him and the more attractive he noticeably is becomes apparent to you. when he lifts a hand to run it through his hair, the muscles in his arm bunch and flex under his skin - which is still very much gleaming with sweat.

"man, its fucking bad with you. the mommy issues -" he has this little smirk, one that lifts one side of his mouth more than the other. "- she said you were a fucking brat, that i shouldn't bother with trying to make a good first impression. i can kinda see why now."

yeah, you really dont appreciate his attitude. hes hot and all, but he's spoken way out of turn and you're done entertaining it. you want to go inside and flop onto your bed and scream.

you take a step forward and poke him in the chest with a manicured nail - he looks down at it, like, oh hey - sharply. "just because you have a pretty face and a big dick my moms probably sucked more than once, doesn't mean you're fuck all to me. you're still just the help. you can remember that when you're cleaning up my shit." you take your hand away, trying and failing not to smile like a bitch when his lips part in shock at your words, knocking his - fucking broad - shoulder with yours as you walk past him. you pause at the steps to turn just a little. he's looking at you with this unreadable expression, but if you'd have to guess you'd say it closely resembles amusement. "and I'd like a smoothie. have it brought up to me ASAP or I'll make your life here hell, got it?"

you raise an eyebrow.

his mouth finally snaps shut. you hate that he still looks amused. his lips just barely quirking. he works his jaw like he wants to say something but thinks better of it, biting his bottom lip instead as he looks up at you with those green eyes.

"got it."

-

its sometime later when you wake up. head a fucking rats nest. you've just managed to drag yourself out of bed and to the chair in your vanity, working a pink brush through what you can of your locks when your door flings open.

you dont even look up from the mirror. only one person wouldn't respect the privacy of a closed door and what it means.

"hello, mother." you say cooly, not taking your eyes from the mirror. you try to smooth the brush through your end strands first, coaxing your hair into submission. she's probably here to rub something in your face under the guise of saying hello. a new car she'd bought, a new boyfriend she has, a new vacation home she rented in malibu, ect.

her perfume fills your nostrils with its potent stench as she sashays into the room - your room - and perches her ass on your vanity, rudely jostling several trinkets there. your eye twitches. you brush some more of your hair.

"hello, my darling girl."

her voice is faux sweet. the pet name makes you want to flinch, recoil from its fake meaningfulness from her cold lips. they dont mean anything coming from her. you're not her darling anything. she'd treat a purse more fondly than you. yet, she calls you these sweet things sometimes. you think because it amuses her to play the part of a doting mother. she did always love acting.

you dont say anything more. work the brush. easy and slow wins the race. you remember when you used to be so frustrated with your hair you'd yank the brush through it in a rush, until your scalp bled from the stinging yanks. you'd lose clumps. an act of self harm, your therapist had told you. anxiety of not being perfect. you'd forgotten to put hair serum in your hair to make it easier to deal with before you'd fallen asleep. you shouldn't forget such things. your meeting with that man had rattled you.

"i have some wonderful news."

your mother drums her fingers on your dresser. you imagine her fingers as a witches, long and spindly. no amount of cream and lotion could hide her aging. that made your lips quirk.

"oh? what is it?"

"I've met someone."

not new. you barely restrain the urge to roll your eyes. brush some more hair. you've worked mid way to the top now. almost to the roots.

"have you." you couldn't sound more bored if you tried. really, you couldn't.

"i have." she lets out a swoony breath - "oh, hes wonderful, darling. he's different from the others. treats me like a woman ought to be treated - not that i expect you to know - and its going so well."

you've heard it all before.

"why, he's asked me to marry him!"

you hairbrush stills. you look at your mother for the first time. shes beaming. you feel sick all at once when you look down to her hand - see the ring she's flashing at you, gaudy and dramatic.

"i bought it for myself, of course. he's not the richest man - but he's wonderful! I'd like you to meet him - "

your memory flits back to hours ago, when the man you'd assumed was the help had lifted his arm, hand sifting through his hair and you'd caught a flash of something around his finger - silver in constant with his tan skin - a ring.

your lips part at the same time your brush snags on its first tangle, and footrests, heavy, thumping, a mans, approach your room. your mothers puttering is like static to you now, your eyes flitting from her to the door - and there he is. filling your doorframe. leaning against it with a kind of confidence like he belongs there. like the house is his.

"- eet patrick zweig." your mothers voice comes back to you. you imagine her mouth splitting open from how wide shes smiling - teeth flashing at you like a horse. "my husband. your new stepdad!"

she leans back against him and he wraps and arm around her easily. drops a kiss to her stiff hair, but he doesn't take his eyes off you when he does. everything about him is screaming cat that got the cream. his eyes are twinkling. his cheeks dimpling with a barely hidden grin.

"and." your mother claps. so fucking full of energy, the old bat. "he plays tennis!!! isn't that the most beautiful thing - he used to play with that - oh whats his name, honey -"

"art donaldson." patricks voice is thick and smooth. easy like syrup. he's still looking at you. pinning you with his gaze like you're one of those taxidermied bugs with its wings splayed open on display. "yeah, we used to play together. beat him a couple times."

"him, yes! oh, i told him all about your crush. dont flush, sweetheart, you had his posters in your room! and i thought- wouldn't it just be so fun if patrick and you trained together during the summer! oh, i know I've just been a mess over the years." she puts a hand to her heart - where it would be if she had one, that is - "bringing men in and out of our home. i can only imagine how lost you've felt without a proper male figure in your life. well, no more."

she pats patricks chest. hes opted out of a tank top for a soft cotton top. it hugs his frame too well.

"patrick here is all the father figure you'll need. thing's are really going to change around here, button. we'll be a family."

"a family." you echo, hollow.

"of course." patrick nods. he wants to grin so fucking had you can tell. "oh - and here you go - " he hands you a smoothie he'd been holding, you take it numbly. humiliation burns through you at the memory of how you'd talked to him before. when you'd assumed he was the help. "- that smoothie you wanted."

you stare at him. not sure what to make of any of this. your pride is shot to shit, you're embarrassed, you're angry, you're you're you're -

"and dont worry, babe." he jostles your mother under his arm. he's still. looking at you. you can see what the emotion was now - from before - worse than amusement. fucking glee. he's eating this shit up. "we'll get along just fine. won't we?"

no. no you absolutely fucking wont.

but saying that wont get you anywhere. not just yet. you set your smoothie down and try to smile. it feels wooden. this feels like a chess game suddenly, and hes knocked down one of your knights. and you have to try not to fucking scramble as you jump to defend your queen.

"sure." great move. real intimidating. that'll show him.

"yeah." he smiles at you - kisses the side of your moms head. "why don't you get dinner started, hm?"

you try not to gape as your mother preens and flushes like a housewife. your mother cooking. in the kitchen? preforming labor? doing tasks? willingly? you watch her flit out the room in a daze, wondering if fairies are real and one of them has bodysnatched your mother.

its just patrick and you now. the air in the room thickens with that fact, and you swallow. you've never felt this out of place. never felt so blindsided. not in awhile. you'd made sure of that. taken deliberate steps to adorn armor to prevent yourself from feeling this way. from feeling small. from feeling like the barely adult that you are, freshly nineteen and still so fucking confused and raw and scrambled about everything in your life. not at all like the 30 something in front of you who is a fucking man. a full adult. a full frontal lober. who's been through shit, you can tell, by the callouses on his palms, the hair on his body, his stubble, and the enormity of him in your space. in your little girl room that's still all pink ribbons and plushies on your bed and fairy lights strewn everywhere. he feels like the big bad wolf leering down at your straw fucking house, seconds away from blowing that shit to the ground.

you say nothing.

he crosses his arms and takes his time looking at you. you feel every touch of his eyes on your body, suddenly aware of how little you're wearing. just a sheer nightgown. you feel your nipples pebbling under the fabric that's definitely fucking see through and swallow.

"so."

he lets that hang in the air.

and what can you fucking say? you haven't had the time to recalibrate. you hairs still a mess.

"so.... what?"

you want to stand up - make the playing feild more even except thats a fucking joke because hes taller than you regardless. you feel pinned to the spot anyway, your muscles locked in place in your little chair. like you haven't been given permission to move. its the oddest feeling.

"she's right you know." he tells you, and he eases off the door frame, comes closer so you have to crane your neck up to look up at him. you feel demeaned. and yet, you dont look away. "things are different around here - they have been for awhile now."

you find some semblance of your fucking fire. try to hold your little straw house together. glare up at him.

"you can swing your dick around all you want and make my mom cook and clean for you but you're not the boss of me. you're not my dad."

he just looks at you. folds his lips together. his tongue peeks out to run against the front row of his teeth, wolfish.

the lean in is so jarring you nearly fall out of your chair. you do let out a squeak, jolting as your space is invaded suddenly by him, his arms braced on either side of you, one gripping the neck of your chair. his breath smells like spearmint and the chain around his neck swings back and forth as he gets in your face.

he straightens back up. casually like he didn't just rock your whole world off its fucking axis.

"you think I haven't dealt with you before? i fucking was you - spoiled little rich kid with mommy issues and no fucking daddy. s'that why you think you can stick your fucking nose up at me? dont try to play the game with the man who wrote the fucking rulebook. your display back there at being a big girl was cute, I'll give you that, but it ends there. this is my fucking house now. my fucking rules. and as long as you want to park your polished little ass here in your princess castle you'll listen to me." he does grin then, "I'm your daddy now."

"we cool?"

what can you do?

"we're cool."

he just blew your fucking straw house down.

[ervotica]

i want to put josh o’connor in my pocket

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patrick zweig is nasty and gross and actually fucking disgusting and you fucking love it. sidles up close next to you when you’re just sitting minding your own business and licks a fat stripe up the side of your neck with a flattened tongue, letting the spit drip from his bottom lip and gather in your collarbone. trains for hours and hours until he stinks and then forcing your head between his legs to wrap your pretty lips around his balls, jerking his cock against your face until your eyes roll back, drunk off of the nasty musky sweaty smell of him. pinches your nipples through your shirt and cups your cunt through your pants when you’re in public, not deterred by his friends’ averted eyes as they turn away from the lewd actions. eats it from the back, spits on your cunt and your little furled asshole until you’re screaming, until you squirt all over his bedsheets and then sucks your juices from the fabric. leaves you covered in bite marks and wet crescent moons where he’s dragged his tongue and his teeth over every spare inch of your body. never wears underwear, and grabs your hand to shove it down his shorts furiously dragging your fingers into every crevice of his sweaty sack, lips parted in a groan as his cock throbs against you. tucks your face under his armpit and clamps your nose right in the seam of it even as you squirm because he knows you secretly get off on the smell. just patrick being gross😍😩

[ervotica]

man who responds to your fucked out babbling with a soft measured laugh and an ‘i know baby, im listening,’