The Wandering Soul

Where you're riding him and asking him to talk you dirty.

Warning: smut! 🔞

༘˚⋆𐙚⋆𖦹.✧˚༘˚⋆𐙚⋆𖦹.✧˚༘˚⋆𐙚⋆𖦹.✧˚༘˚⋆𐙚⋆𖦹.✧˚༘˚⋆𐙚｡

Dirty talk?

Not his usual thing—he’s more of a actions over words guy, especially during sex. But if you ask for it....he’ll give it to you.

How can he refuse when you are bouncing on his cock so good? Taking him like a good girl?

Breaking the kiss,he leans back against the couch cushions, gazing up at you with dark eyes now full of filth and heat.

Then—

“Fuck,” Hobie growls,voice low and gravelly as hell. “You feel so damn good on my cock.”

His hands squeeze your hips harder before adding:

“take what you want, luv… ride me just like that"

It’s too much. In the best fucking way possible.

Dirty talk with that voice + his thick cock buried deep in you= You are in heaven.

Hobie doesn’t hold back now. Not with words, not with anything.

“Goddamn,” he rasps, head tipping back again as his voice drops even lower—rougher.

“Y/N....you look so pretty like this… taking me so deep.”

A shiver runs through him when you moan at his talking, so Hobie pushes further:

“That pussy milks me perfect… fucking hell—”

His hands slide up to grab your breasts through whatever fabric separates them (because he can't resist touching every inch of skin available).

So Hobie keeps talking,filthy praise spilling from his lips between ragged breaths:

“That’s it, luv… take every inch,”

“Fucking own me like this,”

“You’re so tight—Christ, luv…”

Each word is punctuated by your bouncing faster, your body moving with increasing urgency now that you are chasing something (an orgasm? just pleasure?). Either way, Hobie’s right there with you.

His hands roam greedily over your skin where they can reach—the curve of your waist, the dip of collarbones—as his own hips start lifting slightly off the couch to meet yours. Matching energy.

The boat cabin fills with the sounds of their passion—moans, heavy breathing, skin slapping softly against skin.

Hobie’s voice is a constant stream now, a mix of dirty talk and encouragement:

“You’re so fucking hot like this…”

“Look at you… taking me so well…”

“I love how you feel—fuck—”

He’s losing himself in it.

Not just physically—but emotionally too. This isn’t just sex anymore; it's you. Together.

When you arch your back or clench around him extra tight, he kisses whatever part of you he can reach—a shoulder, neck—to add more sensation to the overload already building.

And that’s it.

He doesn’t last a second longer.

With a choked groan, Hobie spills inside you—hot and deep—as his back arches off the couch, hands gripping your hips like anchors.

Pleasure whites out his vision for one blinding second; nothing exists except this feeling: you, clenching around him while he fills you completely.

For a few seconds after, hobie and you just breathe.

Shaking slightly. Overwhelmed by intensity (again).

No words yet.

Just skin-to-skin contact as you come down together in the quiet boat cabin.

"forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. it has been a week since my last confession."

a grunt sounds from the other side of the cage-like mesh that separates you from your church's priest. your thighs press together, and you chide yourself for the reaction it incites. you're disgusted with yourself at your sin, yet you cannot stop the thud beneath your ribcage that excites at the thrill.

"back so soon?" his words are merely teasing, condescending, unlikely for a priest, but simon tends to get off script. "what is it this time, kid? steal again?"

no. you shook your head despite the wall that separates you. the silence is deafening, save for the creak of the chair you're sat it, wood carved with delicate curves and ornate crosses.

"no, Father. forgive me for my lust and the actions I have committed."

"lust, you say?" he goes silent, save for the rustle of fabric on the other side. it makes you anxious, even more guilt-ridden than before. you swear you can feel his judgement through the wall that separates you. "go on."

a shaky sigh escapes you, your knuckles turning white with your clenched fists in your lap. "yes, Father, lust. I... viewed pornography."

red hot embarrassment coats your skin, much like the blood of those who died for your sin. you were a meek teenage girl, barely eighteen with insatiable urges and an inappropriate crush. you could only confess one of those sins, for the latter is the more shameful one of the two.

a sound of interest cuts the silence. "what was the pornography? a video? a photo?"

"videos, Father."

"multiple?"

"yes." you admit shamefully, biting your lip. you still remembered how your dainty fingers circled your clit, riddled with disgust as you got yourself off on the religious display of porn. a priest and his devotee.

a satisfied hum comes from the other side, and you want to die of mortification. "describe the video."

"wh...what?" you blanched.

he surged onwards without a hint of awkwardness or shame. you couldn't begin to imagine the expression on his rugged face. "describe it. how many people were there?" he queried.

"there...was two people, Father. a man and a woman."

"where were they?"

your face burned further. you almost didn't want to admit it, but silence was a greater sin than admittance and pleading for forgiveness. with a hushed mumble, you spoke into your chest. "a church."

"what was that?" he pushed. "speak up, kid. can't hear ya when yer mumblin'."

"a church." you hated how the words seemed to echo off the walls, lingering within the silence that consumed and gnawed at your conscience. like the whole world needed to hear your sin.

he hummed with interest. "is that so?"

"yes, Father."

silence stretched. it was unbearable, an uncomfortable itch settling beneath your skin that, along with your urges, you could scratch. he finally spoke, "who were they to the church?"

"I...I can't say."

"you are ashamed." it was more statement than question because it was obvious from the way you stuttered, to how your words shook, to how you refused to go onwards. "'ts okay. best thin' y'can do is ask for forgiveness. get it off yer chest."

"yes, Father." you said, but it was a mere whisper. you didn't want to confess, for it would unveil the true nature of your indulgences—not just the fact you'd watched videos of people fucking but that they were of a priest and his devotee.

your fantasies were immoral and shameful, something to be deeply ashamed of, but your body couldn't help but react. it was wrong, you knew it, and indulged it anyways. rewarded your body with your fingers circling your swollen clit and plunged deep in your soaking pussy, replacing them in your mind with the thick, rough fingers of your priest. his hand strong, veined and capable of providing you with everything you craved and ached for.

but you couldn't admit it. couldn't admit your priest was the source of your sin, with his tall stature that towered over your meek in comparison frame. thick muscles that strained at the seams against his cassock and clerical collar—because there wasn't a size available to fit without constraint. you could only imagine how mouth watering his bare skin was—carved like marble to create a masterpiece. the epitome of sin. veins that flexed and rippled under his pale skin with his every word.

he cleared his throat, killing the silence. you had forgotten to continue, leaving you two in a deafening quiet until he reminded you. "talk to me, baby. who were they?"

your pussy fluttered at the pet name, forcing your thighs to clench together. the dampness in your panties was apparent, arousal sticking to the cotton and your skin. it shouldn't affect you this much, considering he called all the young kids at church some sweet endearment—sweetheart, honey, baby. it was innocent, but to your debauched conscience, it was anything but.

"it was..." you begin, the words catching on your tongue. with a shaky sigh, you forced it out. "a priest and someone from the church."

he didn't say anything, letting the creak in the wood speak for them. the harsh rustle of fabric whenever either of you moved an inch. you could never come back here, you decided. overran by your debauched immorality, you'd have to find a new church, forget about the brutish priest with sharp features and alluring eyes.

"hm." was the only sound he made for a while, letting you soak in the filth of your indulgences, brew in the depravity you couldn't help but live and breath in.

after an agonizing handful of minutes that felt like years, he finally spoke. "you wish to seek forgiveness?" the words caused a flutter, static rushing your ears. it drowned out the sound of a zipper and the soft clank of metal.

you breathed out in soft relief, nodding with an unmatched amount of desperation. "yes, Father. please."

a sharp slap of wood hitting wood filled the air, coming from beneath the lip of the confession booth. you peeked your head underneath, heart thudding so hard, you feared your ribs would break and allow your heart escape.

there was a small, circular hole that opened up to the other side. on the other side, a familiar, veiny hand strained around a thick, aching cock dripping with pre. it throbbed an angry red, and it twitched with every squeeze of his hand. you froze in shock, but couldn't help the way your mouth watered.

He’s smelled every combination- cloying florals and bright citruses and dark, earthy things.

And… he feels nothing. No itch under his skin. No pull in his chest. No instinct to knot an omega and fill them full of his pups

He handles his ruts alone, teeth sunk into his own forearm, fist working, mask never lifted even when he’s locked in his quarters with the lights off.

Until he smells you.

Tangerine, bright, sharp, almost sweet enough to make his mouth water. Black tea, dark and tannic. Stereotypical. Nothing worth noting. Until he smells the iron, metallic and thick. Catches a whiff of it and inhales until he’s dizzy with it.

His cock swells so fast it punches the air out of his lungs, thickens against the front of his fatigues until the fabric strains, the head already leaking like a faucet, knot at the base swelling fat. His rut scratches at the back of his head, claws raking, vicious, sudden, feral need that makes his vision tunnel and his hands shake.

It takes everything in him to not drop to his knees right then and there, nose between your thick thighs, lick you clean while you squirmed and bled for him. Iron and tangerine all over his tongue, his mask.

He wants to scent you so thoroughly no one else can smell anything but him. Wants to fuck you through it, knot you deep while you’re still bleeding, keep you plugged full until the cramping stops and the only thing you can feel is the stretch of his cock.

He has to brace a hand on the wall. Has to breathe through his mouth even though it doesn’t help, because the scent is everywhere now, in his nose, in his throat, in the low, involuntary rumble that starts in his chest. The thought of your soft belly and plush hips makes his knot throb again, another thick bead of precome soaking into the cotton.

He wonders if you’d let him. If a nervous little thing like you would let him put you on your back and spread you open, let him bury his face in that iron sweet mess until your thighs shake around his ears, or if you’d fuss and try to close your legs before his big hands pinned you wide and his tongue found the source of it.

Wonders if you’d cry when he finally fucks you, when the knot catches and locks and he keeps you there, breeding you through the blood like some feral thing that’s finally found the only scent worth crawling on his knees for.

simon riley and his spouse don't wear wedding rings.

work makes it risky for him. you simply don't want anything between your skin and his when he entwines his fingers with yours.

instead, you get matching tattoos. small, black hearts on the inside of your ankles, and identical ones tucked behind his ears - hidden by the mask at work, and by tufts of blonde hair when he's at home.

no dates. no names. nothing that would obviously link the two of you.

now he’s got you folded in a mean mating press - knees crushed to your chest, legs hooked over his shoulders, cock buried as deep as it can go. every thrust makes you whimper, nails biting into his biceps, his breath hot as it fans over your neck. your ankles press against the sides of his head; the hearts tattooed there lining up perfectly with the ones behind his ears - permanent reminders of your favourite position to be in together.

Neither does the book in your hand, neglected a few minutes ago, based on the way you haven't flipped a page no matter how many times you try to focus back on it.

Kyle continues to pretend it isn't obvious. Giving you quick smiles from where you're sat at the shore, legs restless, shifting to lay straight and then bend and then squeezed together.

Perhaps you're still sore from this morning, where he'd lapped at your cunt to wake you. Slow and reverent and teasing until you begged to come, a request he was happy to indulge.

He slips under the water again, letting it rush over him, trying to calm his cock at the memory; at the sight of you in that wet, tight bikini; or just the thought of your blissed smile alone.

You're still staring when he surfaces, until he meets your gaze, burning even from meters away and you avert your eyes shyly. Almost as if you're just a random girl caught ogling at her crush and not the man you married four days ago.

Of course the venues too hot, so the jacket comes off almost immediately, slung over his arm and framing that watch he loves. Leaving him in just a thin, white button-down.

Everytime he moves, those muscles flexing over cloth that hugs a bit too tight, you can see faint shadow along his shoulder, back, chest.

"I didn't know you had tattoos, sir." You mumble when he finally approaches after catching you staring for the fifth time that night.

"Got 'em back in basic," price hums, and you swear he reaches past you to grab a glass of champagne just to get you tight and close to his body. Chuckling at your obvious embarrassment with a "they're probably older than you, kid."

He turns back around, and you go right back to staring at the faint tattoos through the shirt, all along his broad shoulders and–

SINGLE

Shocking, considering the guy wears a Halloween decoration everyday, but he hates all the social interaction. Strangers knocking on his door, begging for sweets. He'd rather decorate for a day or two, enjoy his night alone, and call it a day.

So why is he going all-out to try and attract the most trick-or-treaters this year?

Because you're participating this year. You, the single parent across the street who he maybe-kinda wants to invite on a date but hasn't figured out how yet. Thus...decorating. anything to get a conversation started, right?

"Alright sweetie, go ahead and knock," ghost hears your voice across the door. He's been hovering since he spotted you and your daughter three houses down. Three knocks, and he opens the door–

"Trick or treat!!! Guess what I am!!" Your little one squeals, holding her bucket decorated like an acorn up to him.

"Sweetie, you need to wait for treats first–" you try to tell her, knowing she'll get tok disappointed and forget to get candy if the stranger can't guess.

Ghost takes one look at her and nods "proper weevil, innit. Good costume, kid."

"Yes!!! Yes I'm a weevil! You got it right!!" She yells, hopping in place in pure joy, cheeks no-doubt hurting from the force of her smile. Finally, she looks around at his house, then back up at you "can I go look at the big skeleton?"

"Yes, yes, go ahead." You smile at her, checking that no one's waiting. Thin about having little ones is you always beat the Halloween rush. Then, you smile at ghost "thank you. No one's been able to guess her costume, and she was about ready to quit."

"'S a good costume," ghost nods to himself, "she a fan of bugs?"

"Oh, it's all she talks about!" You laugh, that fond laugh all parents have for their children "she's in love with all things crawly."

"....oi've got beetles, if she wants to see 'em."

Which is how a bowl with a hastily scrawled "take one" is left on the porch, meanwhile your daughter is about ready to explode when ghost lets her hold Betty, his Hercules beetle.

"You wouldn't mind if she comes back, would you?" You whisper, both of you stood back while she stares in awe at his centipede enclosure "you're the first person able to keep up with her bug talk."

Link below the cut again to an amazing artist, one of the best of our times: Credit to Theo Draws (u/Strange_Particular24)

Simon Riley, whose moans get louder when you lean further to suck on his fat breeder balls. They’re massive, hanging heavy in your mouth as you rest his dick on your face just to watch him squirm at how big he is against you.

“You like how big you feel, hm? Naughty boy,” you grin up at him, leaning further to slather the underside of his balls with- when Simon suddenly goes stiff. A high whine leaves his lips, eyes shooting open as he darts down to your equally bewildered eyes. Spurts of cum suddenly spurt from his swollen needy tip, all over his own stomach as you pull back to stare.

Your tongue had danced across the rim of his ass. Light, a gentle and quick sensation- apparently he was a quick shot when his ass was involved. Simon looks mortified at himself, desperately starting to apologize- grunting when you shove his hands back down against the couch.

“Love- ‘m sorry, won’t cum again till you do- I- I don’t know what happened-“ he tries to explain, only quieting when you cup his face.

“Simon.” You murmur. “Are you gonna let me eat your ass, or am I gonna have to strap down these pretty little hands of yours?”

ᯓ𑣲 cw warning: s/o pierced dih, f!reader, spit in mouth f receiving, piv, missionary, alluding to squirting.

exhales that pass as moans escape from your lips as you sink into new sensations. your legs were pushed to the sides of your head you’re flexible okay it’s fun and your hands kept them up while man pushed into you, dragging your soul out with each thrust cause it felt too good. your yoni grew accustomed to your two finger girthed dildo in your period of waiting for your man’s scandalous piercing to heal, so the stretch to adjust back to his length and the newest feeling of metal rubbing and poking at your walls pleasured you beyond any expression.

each stroke was gentle, deep, and so fucking good. sounds beyond grateful sighs couldn’t manage to escape. the cold, metal balls from your man’s newest dick piercing continuously pressed on all of the spots inside you that made you feel good. he made sure to move in a way that also gave a massage to those places, which only drove you crazier.

he chuckled at your fucked out expression, “so you are liking it? what happened to being ‘mad that I’ve been suppressing your needs’?” all you could do is shake your head. not out of denial that you feel good, but because you couldn’t say anything. your previously closed eyes fought to open and take a look at him.

soon as you looked in his eyes, your pleasure began to increase and overwhelm your body. your moans finally returned and your man cooed, “there you go, luv. thought I’d never hear your pretty song. thought I’d have to stop.” he began to move faster and your moans only got louder. “s’that feel good, baby? you like the piercing I got for you, huh? like how it hits every spot I couldn’t hit before?”

you groan in response and tears of pleasure swelled in your eyes. “yeah, baby, I know. must be sorry you were so mean to me earlier, huh. you sorry?” he teased. you fought to respond but your moans suffocated your words. he taps your face in reprimand. “m’talking to you.” he stops his thrusting and you cry.

“please, please” you whisper through your dry mouth and move your hands to his lower back, attempting to start his moving again.

“you sorry?” he asked again, leaning into your face. your eyes peeled open and you nodded. “unt un, words. you sorry?”

“m’sorry.” you say quietly. not cause you wanted to but because your throat was literally dry from hanging open.

“huh?” he moved his hand to cup your chin and pushed your mouth open, letting a harsh spit into your mouth in order to moisturize your throat. you flinch and swallow, talking again.

“I’m sorry.” you said more clearly, still pushing at his back. “please” you plea, hinting for him to start moving again.

“I forgive ya, baby. you just didn’t know I was doing it all for you,” he hummed and placed a slow kiss to your lips before backing away and moving your hands from his back to your legs again, “I ain’t tell you to move those either.”

he began to move again and the pleasure seemed to hit 1000x harder. all you could do is let him pleasure you with his newly pierced cock. you praised whatever cosmos told him to get this piercing for you, because everything was about to get a whole lot better. you let him rock-it-till-waterfalls. the sheets under you both unbelievably wet and creamed out. he let you experience every position yall used to do before he got pierced and now they all made you see stars.

when you finally tore off of eachother, you stared at his dick that was now shiny with cum and the piercing seemed to wink at you. you laugh and toy with it. “I do love this piercing, btw.”

Inspired by: my insane mischaracterization of Hobie Brown— you can imagine ‘he’ as: Ryomen Sukuna, Toji Fushiguro, Jabber Wonger, Satoru Gojo, Suguru Geto, Gris Rubion, anyone else you think fits the part.

it freaks you out to the point where you ask johnny to stay the night, your nerves running you ragged because what if this guy tries to break in after johnny leaves? it’s only natural that he calms you down with soft kisses and gentle sex

simon only leaves his place in the alley after he gets a text from johnny, a photo of your head on his chest, fast asleep and his fingers running through your hair

a few seconds later another picture comes through, a pair of frilly panties with a damp crotch