First Dance - Peter Parker x Fem!Reader (18+)
Note: the smut has arrived yall 👀 18+ shit below so be warned. College age Peter as always
Contains: 18+, first time, grinding, coming untouched, use of the term ‘good boy’ (which appears in like all my fics so get used to it)
His hot breath is already fogging up your car windows. He’s a lot louder than you thought he’d be, even though you can tell he’s trying to hold the noises in his throat, embarrassment flushing his cheeks red. But he can’t help it. As he so nervously blurted out to you as soon as you started making out in the backseat of your car, “I’ve never done this before.”
The dance was brutal, to put it mildly. Peter admitted he’d never gone to a dance in high school - was too awkward, too nerdy. But now that he’s got a certified girlfriend, maybe fall formal was a good idea? Turns out college’s version of homecoming is just as boring as high school’s. The only difference being that you can bring booze without the teachers shutting it down… Peter doesn’t drink.
After watching the entire night devolve into clothed sex on the dance floor or awkward hand holding by the food table, you two were quick to make an escape.
At first, it was just sitting outside on the bench, watching the night sky as you two talked. Then, the wind started howling and your shoulders prickled with cold. Peter offered to take you home, apologizing for such a terrible night.
“At least we got a dance in,” he shrugged. “It was my first one.”
You didn’t want to leave. It would feel like giving up, and you wanted to give Peter a night to remember. “We could always go get food,” you offered. “Or go see a movie. Do something while we’re all dressed up. Half the fun of homecoming anyway is ditching and doing random shit.”
He nodded, a smile on his boyish face. His hair was combed back so nicely, suit a hand-me-down and ill-fitted, but it added to his innocent charm. He’d even bought you a corsage, which you admitted was really only for high school which made him stutter out an apology, but you happily wore it anyways. A white rose sat on his suit lapel, matching yours.
You made your way to your car, Peter draping his suit jacket over your shoulders to shield from the cold. He opened the door for you, before shuffling over to the driver’s side.
The silence of the night drifted in, a gentle quiet that let you breathe.
“Thank god, it was so loud in there,” you exhaled, resting your head back on the seat.
“Yeah, it… wasn’t really what I was expecting.”
“No! No, being with you was amazing! I think the dance was just…”
“They’re all like that,” you chuckled. “I think the only fun ones are when you’re hammered or high.”
“Oh,” his eyes dart away. He nervously fidgets with his tie. Then his voice squeaked out, mousy and anxious, “I’m sorry.”
Your head whips over. “What?”
“I… I feel bad I couldn’t make it fun.”
“Hey, no, absolutely not,” you cut in. “We’re not doing that. Peter, it has nothing to do with you. I had a great time just being with you!”
“Yeah…” he didn’t believe it. His eyes wouldn’t meet yours, as if your sight was indicative of his failure.
And you wouldn’t have that. This boy, who got all dressed up for you, who searched for days in his uncle’s old stuff to find a suit, begged Aunt May to help him tailor it, bought you a corsage, asked you to fall formal like it was high school homecoming, cheesy sign and all was not going to blame himself.
So, in a move of sheer adrenaline and lack of critical thinking skills, you move over to the driver’s seat, seated on Peter’s lap in front of the steering wheel, dress bunched around your thighs. Peter looks like a fish out of water, mouth agape. You’re honestly surprised you accomplished that without spraining anything.
“I - um - I - what are you doing?” Peter stutters.
Well, he can’t really look away, now can he?
You take his face in your hands, thumbs caressing his cheekbones. He melts under your touch. “I’m having a good time. Don’t overthink anything.”
His eyes dart down to see your legs uncovered. Your satin blue dress bunches up around your waist, and he feels his mouth dry at the fact that you’re sitting on him with only your underwear separating you from him.
His hands freeze at his sides. He hopes they’re not trembling because nothing says inexperience like that.
He keeps hesitating. Wanting to lean in, but constantly stopping short.
“Yeah, I’m just… nervous. I guess.”
“You don’t have to be with me.”
“It’s not you. It’s me,” he bites the inside of his cheek. And that’s when he tells you. I’ve never done this before.
You don’t want to say you’re not surprised, but Peter’s always been on the nervous side whenever it came to physical affection… or really anything involving love.
“Hey, it’s okay. I can guide you. We’ll take it slow. Nothing you don’t feel comfortable with, okay?”
He nods, and finally feels comfortable enough to lean in and press his lips to yours. It’s tentative, as if he’s asking permission. You kiss back heavy, passionate, quick to let him know that you want this just as much as he does.
He readjusts in his seat. Blood rushes through him and all that’s in his head is just no, no, no, that’s way too fast. He hopes you don’t notice. That you don’t say anything.
And you don’t. You just pull away from his lips to smile. And somehow that makes it worse. His cheeks flush pink.
You don’t want to ruin his hair, but you can’t help but run your fingers through it as you pull him back into a rough kiss, tongue prodding at his lips. He doesn’t waste a second to open his mouth wide, letting you take whatever you want from him.
His breath comes in heavy waves, panting as if he’s running a marathon. The tent in his pants presses against your thigh, unconsciously grinding.
Your fingers fumble with his tie, and as if he can read your mind, he undoes it with lightning speed (almost choking himself in the process), and chucking it in the backseat. Both of your hands fight to unbutton his shirt.
Once the top few are undone, you mouth at his neck, shivering at his whispery moans. His hands clutch at your hips, grasping the fabric of your dress so hard, it’ll tear.
“You’re so tense,” you remind between kisses. “You can let yourself relax, you know.”
He thinks he’s going to explode, actually. Your hot mouth on his neck, sucking his skin in. He’s never gotten a hickey before, but he’s pretty sure this is how it happens, and he’s already devising a plan to hide them from May.
He should not be getting this worked up over just your mouth. You’ve barely even touched him, and he’s leaking a wet spot into his boxers. If he wasn’t so damn horny, he’d be on the verge of tears in embarrassment.
He’s just starting to become conscious of the fact that he’s grinding his cock on your leg like a dog in heat. The hot, rough scratch of his dress pants against his cock is enough to have him rolling his eyes back.
“You’re so sensitive,” he hears you smile, and his retort dies on his tongue in a moan.
“I just know you’ve been waiting a while for this, huh?”
Oh, fuck. Are you dirty-talking him right now? Because it’s working.
“You need it so bad.” You nip at his collarbone, and his dick twitches, leaking so much precum he’s sure it’ll soak through his boxers to his pants.
“Please,” he whimpers, voice small as a mouse.
Your lips pull back. His eyes pop open. “Wha-“
“Please, what? What do you want?”
“Peter, baby, what do you want?”
He’s still grinding, harder and harder against your leg. You act like it’s not even happening, letting him have his fun while you toy with him, and he fucking loves it.
“You gotta say it or you won’t get it.”
He bites his lip, red and raw. “I want… I want to finish.”
He moans at your words. How easily you say those things, how easily you tear him apart.
He’s so close. He grinds just right, the fabric of his boxers teasing the head of his cock perfectly.
“I wanna cum,” he pleads, big brown doe eyes staring up at you, begging for mercy.
You dive back into his mouth, hands tugging at his hair. God, Peter’s so close, so fucking clo-
“Good boy,” you whisper against his lips.
He short circuits. He never thought simple words could tip him over the edge, but suddenly he’s trembling and moaning, coming inside his boxers in his girlfriend’s car, outside of the fall formal dance.
The windows are fogged over, the parking lot empty. It’s just the two of you. You, smiling down at him, proud of him and of yourself, of course. And him, coming down from his high, the biggest high he’s ever had, head flung back against the headrest, hands grasping your thighs, thumbs rubbing absent-minded circles into the skin, eyes closed as he takes a moment to just breathe.
“That was amazing,” he finally says, a smile creeping onto his lips.
“Your first dance and your first time in one night,” you smirk. “A good night for you.”
He’s so flushed you can’t see the pink blush creep onto his cheeks.
“A good night to remember.”
