#cherry talks

warnings: smut. p in v sex. fingering. memory erased!ex reader.

There's something familiar about your neighbor, Peter Parker. Something warm and cast aside in a distant ache under your ribs whenever you saw him, lips peeled back in a tepid smile, iris swallowed whole by the shadowed black of his pupil. No matter how many days he passes you in the halls, gaze looming on the smooth angles of your face as you echo common greetings ‘Hi’ ‘Nice to see you’ ‘How are you’ you can never seem to find the end of it; the curiosity. Chased by some nagging tell, plucking at the blind spot in your senses, some inarticulate feeling that swayed your inhibitions. He’s a constant. A shadow at your back in the halls of your shared dingy apartment complex, a face you see across the street at your most frequented coffee house, a body the next aisle over in the market where you shop for groceries.

You had driven yourself insane the first few weeks of knowing him, from this unrelenting intolerable torment that urged your being near him. You ached abruptly at the soft lilt of his laugh when you said something not nearly as funny as he thought it was, his boyish grin settling across his face. You had kept a respectable distance, not one that you enjoyed but maintained for as long as you could. Until quick greetings become prolonged conversation and shared smiles in the stairwell become lilted laughs and slow steps up to your shared floor. And a late night drink after your shift at work became…

“Yeah? S’that feel good?” your fingers furled tight into the thick material of Peter’s sweatshirt, black fabric clenched in your wound palms as his fingers pushed past the cotton band of your panties. Your hips rocked against the callous ridges of his palm, sharp pants passed into his open mouth as he curled his fingers up into you, “Gotta use your words. Gotta hear it—please let me hear you, baby, please,” he rasps, thick denim clad thighs tensing underneath you with each stroke of his fingers, the taut muscles of his stalky bicep burning with each piston of his fingers.

“Oh, Peter,” you mewl, a groan rumbling through Peter’s chest at the soft purr of his name from your lips.

“Yes—ah. Love how you say my name, I love—mm,” he grunts, eyes shut tight as he bumps his palm against your clit, showing quick familiarity in all your signs from the twitch of your thighs to the clench of your cunt around his fingers, hips stuttering to a quick close.

His breathes stutter at the paw of your fingers trailing low, tucking under the band of his jeans, swatting his own hand away with little ease, his eagerness to make you cum resulting in an indignant huff to come from his lips, hands securely gripping the sides of your hips to keep you in place, “What—what are you—”

“I wanna feel you,” you whine, nimble fingers tugging at the stubborn button of his jeans as he stared up at you bewildered, “Please, Peter. Need it so bad—wanna feel you inside.”

“Okay, okay, yeah,” he whispered, hips nearly bucking you up and off when he raised himself to shimmy his jeans down, hard cock slapping against the ridged muscle of his abdomen, your hands eagerly tugging the baggy fabric off over his head. Your jaw went slack at the sight of his thick chest, broad shoulders unmasked by the bulky fabric of the sweater, yet not at all reducing in size. You looked down at the generous size of him, bulbous head leaking against your inner thigh, his throat bobbing as he swallowed, “We gotta go slow, okay? I don’t—I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

A squeal left your lips as you were hauled upwards, body locked around Peter’s strong torso as he pressed you down against the couch cushions, settled between your soft pried open thighs. His lips found yours again, open and closed around yours before nodding with a small smile which you returned. A sharp inhale left your lips as he pressed in, fingers clawing into the thick muscle of his lurking shoulders as he guided his cock into your warmth. The thick sheathe of his cock took a minute to fully sit inside you, the weight of it making you choke up on guttural moans, clenching down on the sheer size snuggly pressing against your inner walls. Peter’s own hips stilled with tense control, shaky breaths fanned against your neck, harsh pants you could feel travel through his chest as he held himself over you. His hips pulled back once, rocking back into you with a shared moan that pitched high when his cock pressed to the hilt.

sage of truth is dog coded in the way he was never socialized as a puppy and now he's a huge dog with no manners who keeps tackling truthless recluse and sitting on him like he's the size of a lapdog

AN OREO COLLAB!?!?!?