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spiderlilyserendipity · 1 year

Note

Hi, I noticed you’re taking requests so I was wondering if you could do a nsfw Yoongi x reader. She’s naturally super shy and he is gentle and protective of her. Sorry if this ask is super basic, I’m a sucker for soft/fluffy senarios. Thank you and I love your writing 😊

Hi darling, thank you for the ask. I love it when anons fuel my delusional ass. Enjoy Safe With Me. 🔞🔞🔞

Safe With Me

TW: Car accidents, hospitals.

Genres: slight angst (I PHYSICALLY cannot write Yoongs without angst), fluff, smut.

Tags: soft dom!yoongi, sub!reader, i wrote this for my delusional brain sorry anon, cockwarming, vibrator use, edging, breeding kink (both), teasing, subspace, lots of kisses, aftercare!!!!, squint to see the plot

WC: 1799 (1.8k)

You’re not sure when it becomes a fact that you love Min Yoongi, but what you know for sure is Min Yoongi has loved you just as long.

It doesn’t take any words, because Yoongi is a man of action. And you’re a woman of gestures.

All it takes is one New Year’s Eve kiss a handful of years ago now, and the two of you have had an understanding since. You are each other’s.

🎄🎄🎄

It’s been a stressful week for everyone. It’s the week before Christmas, and everyone is scrambling to get their Christmas gifts in order. It’s been snowing like no other, and the roads are in bad shape. You’re normally a great driver, but this time, fortune isn’t on your side. One thing leads to another, and your car crashes into another on the highway.

Yoongi comes running from work when the nurse calls him.

You haven’t broken any bones, but the doctor tells you you have bruised some ribs and have a mild concussion. For how bad the car looks, you’re just lucky you made it out alive.

“Baby, are you okay?” He comes in, on the verge of tears. You hug him close, tighter than usual even though it hurts. He pulls back and takes a good look at you, looking hurt to see you in a hospital gown. “What did the doctor say? Do you need me to bring anything?” He badgers you, making you smile. You tuck a stray hair behind his ear.

“I’m okay. It’s going to be okay.” You tell him, reassuring yourself too.

Yoongi kisses your forehead. “Thank God.” He cups your face in his cold hands.

The nurse has an amused look on her face. “Could you sign the discharge papers, Miss Y/N?”

You blush. “Ah, yes. Sorry.”

🎄🎄🎄

“Yoongiiiii,” You whine, following him around the house. “We should go on the double date tomorrow.”

“No.” Yoongi says firmly, but his eyes waver at the pout you give him. “You’re not fully better yet. Jungkook and Namjoon will understand.”

“But I’m fine, babe!” You say, holding your arms out. Yoongi arches his brow. “I mean, sure, I still have to rest another week but ice skating doesn’t have anything to do with my ribs, silly.”

Yoongi sighs, wiping his hands on the kitchen towel. You had been insisting on doing the dishes, but Yoongi refused to let you do them, even though he made dinner too.

“I just don’t want to risk it, babe. I mean, it’s easy to slip while skating. If you hurt your ribs more, you could end up getting hospitalized again.” Yoongi reasons with you. He folds his arms over his chest, his biceps bulging.

At the sight of his muscles, an idea sneaks into your head. A devious one.

You purse your lips, taking a step closer to Yoongi. “I’m just saying,” You start, reaching out to smoothe imaginary wrinkles on Yoongi’s shirt. Yoongi glances down at you touching his broad chest, not quite catching on to what you’re doing. “We haven’t had any fun since the accident.” You purr, and Yoongi frowns.

“That’s because we were following the doctor’s instructions.” Yoongi says, confused.

“If we can’t go out, can’t we at least have some fun on our own?” You take a step even closer, into Yoongi’s space. You have to tilt your head up to look at him now, and Yoongi looks down at you, his bangs hanging in his eyes. “Unless you don’t want to.” You tease, stepping back. You’re about to turn away when Yoongi wraps an arm around your middle, pulling you back against him.

“Don’t push it, babe.” Yoongi chuckles in your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “I've been worried about you enough lately, I can’t risk us having sex when you’re hurt.”

“Don’t be scared.” You whisper. You place your hand on his cheek, stroking with your thumb. “I trust you.”

Yoongi looks into your eyes for a long moment, looking for any sign of hesitance. Then, he kisses your forehead. “Give me a colour.”

“Green, sir.”

If there’s one thing that drives you mad about Yoongi — and there are many things — it’s the juxtaposition between his personality and his body. The way he talks is warm and kind like honey, but his muscles are rock solid. His mind is quick but his touch is slow. His walk is purposeful, but his musings are wandering, yearning.

Yoongi takes you by the hand and guides you to the bedroom, as if you were going to cuddle. But there’s something different in his walk when he’s going to have his way with you, and you know it. You feel it in the way he grabs your wrist, just ever so slightly tighter.

As soon as the door is shut, Yoongi makes demands. “Clothes off. If you are in pain, the scene stops instantly. Understood, babe?”

You nod, beginning to strip. While you do so, Yoongi takes a seat at the head of the bed, fully clothed.

Once naked, the room feels cooler, making the hairs on your body stand. Yoongi’s calculative, appraising gaze has you pressing your thighs together. You know it’s all for show — Yoongi has never cared about your weight. What he’s considering is how he’s going to drive you up the wall.

“How do we feel about a rom-com?” Yoongi purrs, getting back at you.

You purse your lips, already knowing what he has in mind. Yoongi laughs at you. “You didn’t think I’d forget your punishment, did you? Come here and give me a kiss.”

You walk to the edge of the bed, pouting. Yoongi reaches up, pulling you down into a fierce kiss. He takes control fully, working into your mouth until the urge to fight for control fades into nothingness. When he’s got you where he wants you, Yoongi pulls his lips away.

“Grab your vibrator.” He says. You frown, pulling it out of the bedside drawer. Meanwhile, Yoongi pulls his cock out of his underwear and pumps it. “Lube.” He says, and you pass it to him. You watch intently as Yoongi prepares himself for you, making him chuckle. “I’m not wasting time today. Get on it.”

You all but jump into bed, covered in goosebumps from how excited you are. In the black screen a few feet away from you, you see your own hardened nipples. Yoongi places one hand on his cock to line it up to your entrance, and places another flat against your belly, guiding you down. When you’re situated all the way, you whimper.

Yoongi kisses your neck. “Does that hurt, my love?” He checks, petting your hair.

You shake your head. “No, just need a minute.” You say, and tilt your head back against Yoongi’s shoulder. Yoongi kisses your neck, then plays with your nipples, helping you get wetter. Sure enough, within minutes you’re wriggling against Yoongi for more.

“Behave, this isn’t a treat.” Yoongi reminds you, then flicks on your vibrator. The noisy buzzing sound fills the room, then Yoongi places it against your clit.

You whine, arching up against Yoongi’s chest. Yoongi laughs, then turns on the TV with the remote in his other hand.

He puts on an old rom-com, one you’ve watched dozens of times. But you can’t pay attention to even one word, too overwhelmed by the stimulation that Yoongi applies and withdraws at random. You’re nearly trembling, a telltale sign, when Yoongi pulls the vibe away the first time. “Nn, sir.” You complain, but Yoongi ignores you.

Then he does it again. And again.

And each time he does it, Yoongi pushes you into a softer state of mind. By the time the movie is a quarter over, you’re wetter than you’ve ever been and desperate to come. You moan as Yoongi pinches your nipple, then glare at him.

“What is it, babe? Need something?” Yoongi asks. You know this trick, it’s an old one. He knows good and well what you want but he wants to hear you say you regret teasing him. Wants to hear you’ve slipped into your obedient sub space. And that, you most certainly have.

“Need you, please. Please, sir.” You look him in the eye, near tears from how overstimulated you are.

Yoongi kisses your cheek. “I know, my love. You’re safe here. Safe with me.”

Finally, Yoongi turns the vibrator off and places his hands on your skin. His hands are hot now, big and veiny as always. He guides you onto your belly, placing a pillow under it. He kisses between your shoulder blades, then down your spine.

Yoongi smiles when he sees you lying comfortably against the mattress, content with him inside you. “Feel good, babe?” He asks, and you hum in response.

“Feels full.”

“Yeah? Should I fill you up, my love?” He asks, starting to move his hips. He drags against a sensitive spot inside you and you whimper.

“Please.” You beg, and Yoongi picks up the pace of his hips.

Gripping the bed sheets, you allow him to move in and out of you fast. This is what you needed all along.

When his hips begin to stutter, Yoongi lays down on top of you. His hand snakes between your legs and rubs at your clit. Continuing to thrust, he kisses your skin.

“Come, my love.” He gives you permission, and you obey.

You’re shaking even after you come, and Yoongi takes it in stride. He slips out of you, then helps you roll onto your back. You wrap your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck. Yoongi hoists you up in his arms, carrying you to the bathroom.

The two of you shower together, not an unusual occurrence for you.

Yoongi washes your back for you, especially careful around your ribs. He also tells you to watch your step when you get out so you don’t slip.

“Ugh, babe. You are so overprotective.” You tease him, putting one of his oversized t-shirts on.

“Can’t be protective enough when it comes to my love.” He teases back, and you fake vomit. He laughs, eyes crinkling. “I literally just came inside of you and this grosses you out?”

“No, that’s different.” You insist, blow drying your hair.

Yoongi rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure it is.”

Later, when the two of you are settled in bed, Yoongi kisses you goodnight. He tries to be the bigger spoon, but you stop him, instead guiding him to lay his head on your chest. You play with his hair.

“If you tell anyone I’m the little spoon, I’ll have to legally change my name.” Yoongi jokes.

“It’s okay. Your secret is safe with me.” You giggle, and the two of you drift off to sleep.

#bts x reader #bts x y/n #bts x you #yoongi x reader #yoongi x y/n #yoongi x you #yoongi smut #bts smut

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percys-writing · 2 years

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"Why hello there, sleepyhead."

The voice at his ear was a purr and it startled him awake faster than anything else, jerking to his feet only to realise he couldn't actually do that, with the pulling on his wrists where they were tied to a chair behind his back burning as soon as he struggled.

He tried forward next, trying to scramble to his feet because they weren't tied down. He pushed up, the adrenaline fueled by pure fear driving him, and was only successful in landing on his face when something shoved him from behind.

He was not at all embarrassed to say he screamed, struggling uselessly as pain shot through his face, the drip of blood hot and wet below his nose.

Someone clucked their tongue behind him and his chair was hauled back up with alarming ease, making his screaming stop to die in his throat as a choked sob as the masked figure whisked around to his front.

Whinan.

Whinan - why was the city's most notorious supervillain standing in front of him? Why had she tied him to a chair? Why was she looking at him like he'd done something wrong?

Andrew swallowed, his throat feeling incredibly dry as he tried to take his surroundings in with a forced-calming-down that he didn't feel in the slightest and he felt was probably entirely see-through with how the villain grinned at him.

It was not a nice grin, so he turned away from it.

The room was small, clean, and looked like it was a flat of some sort. Everything was very open-plan, from the empty living room he was tied up in, an equally empty kitchen barely six feet away, a door somewhere to his left that might have been the way out, or may have been to the bedroom. He wondered, if he screamed, if anyone would hear him. Surely an apartment complex meant neighbours?

Whinan, in all her ghastly glory, stepped into his space with a very overwhelming presence that immediately stilled his breathing. Her first touch was gentle, a rough gloved hand sliding down his cheek, and then she grabbed his chin and squeezed hard enough that it drew a whimper from his throat. She hummed.

"You can scream, if you like. I don't think anyone would hear you. Nobody who can help you, anyway."

She said it so matter-of-fact, so pleasantly, and the panic turned to a gut reaction that made him tear his head up out of her hands.

She had him by the face again in a heartbeat, harder this time, bruising. She wasn't supposed to be strong. She had been wielding fire the last time she'd been broadcasted, a destructive battle that'd left an entire neighbourhood smouldering and uninhabitable when it'd ended. He remembered turning the tv off and praying that it was never him that had to see it first-hand.

"I'm sorry," he tried next, voice pitching, deciding to not even bother with the faux bravery. He was scared, there was no hiding it. He didn't want to die. He had done nothing wrong. "Please- please, I don't know anything, I don't know anything, don't hurt me."

"For a coward, you lie well," was the reply, still pleasant. "Drop the act and I won't have to hurt you, James Goode. Where is she?"

Hurt- James? Who the fuck was James? His name was Andrew. He didn't think he'd ever met someone named James in his life.

"That's- not me," he managed, squeaked when she pressed in closer, staring him down with those impossibly cold eyes. "I- my name isn't James, I don't know who James is. I swear. I swear."

"Oh? Then what is your name?"

His mouth snapped shut, shaking his head as much as he could with his face still held in her grip. No. Giving her his name was a death sentence, he knew that, everyone knew that. Whinan, after all, was the ultimate authority in 'what's in a name', and what was in a name for her was power. Oh god, it was so much power.

"James Goode," she said, stepped back, eyeing him where he could only stare at her wide-eyed. "Oh, James, you really aren't that bright, are you?"

"I'm not James!" he tried again, this time a plea, throwing as much desperation into it as he could. Her face wasn't amused anymore, it was back to looking annoyed. Something about the twitch of her lip, how empty those eyes were as they stared at him from behind her mask. "I can prove it- if I was James- can't you do something with a name? If I was James you'd be able to control me."

She sneered at that, and he realised a second too late to rectify his words that he'd done something to insult her.

"My powers don't work on weaker people," she snarled, hands balling into fists. "You're right- you don't know anything, and you're no use. Kill him."

She turned away then, stalking for the kitchen, and one of the literal-wall-of-muscle henchmen who'd been leaning against the wall until that moment pushed up and started towards him at her words.

No.

No!

The panic exploded as he was approached, swelling up into his chest, out his mouth in the beginnings of screams. He thrashed against the ropes, trying through the blinding fear to call up the burning in the pit of his stomach, willing it to explode from him, to make sure this man did not reach him with a knife in hand.

He succeeded somewhere in figuring out how to kick his legs out forward, trying desperately to hit him back, hold him away, though it was clumsy and untrained and all it did was make the man step back out of the way.

Andrew missed, and his foot hit the floor with the strength he'd been attempting to put into the kick, and the shockwave rolled out in an invisible ripple that sent the man flying back into the kitchen counter beside where the villain had paused, where the henchman crumpled like wet paper at the force of it.

Andrew drew in a sharp breath, freezing under her look as she spun back to face him. A hand went up and the two who'd jumped up to help their fellow co-worker stopped dead, leaving the room in silence asides from the harsh breathing Andrew didn't seem to be able to calm.

The man didn't look like he was breathing anymore. He looked quite dead, actually, something about the way his back was twisted against the wood that'd buckled behind him. Or maybe it was the definitely-not-blood that was beginning to dribble down the wall behind him. It looked black against the brown, moved slower than water. Andrew tried desperately to focus on that so he didn't have to look at Whinan and her sharp eyes.

"Well," she said into the silence, voice light, "I know for a fact that James certainly cannot do that. And I know there is no hero nor villain alive in this city who can do that either. So, mister not James, who exactly are you?"

Andrew shook his head jerkily, not any more willing to answer that than last time. He'd wanted it to happen- he'd wanted the power to explode, even though he hadn't known how to force it out, but he hadn't considered the fact that it'd reveal his ability to the villain and without a doubt force her attention onto him in ways he did not want it.

She was in front of him before he registered her moving, her touch gentler this time when she caught his face, moving it so he was forced to look up at her. He squeezed his eyes closed tight and to his surprise, she didn't force him to open them.

"You know, hiding your ability from them is a death sentence," she said very softly, and he swallowed.

"I'm not cut out to be a hero," he said, voice rough, small. It was true- the power hadn't erupted until well into his teenage years when he'd already made peace with the fact he wasn't powerful despite the fact his father had been. His brother had been like his father. They'd both died for it, both drafted into the hero academy against their will, because if you had powers, you didn't have a normal life. You worked for the heroes or you deflected and became a villain.

Andrew hadn't wanted that, so even when he'd come to realise that there was something powerful dwelling inside of him, he hadn't told anyone. Leaving the power dormant and untrained meant it didn't manifest often, and certainly not at will. It was safer to pretend it didn't exist than try and train it himself.

Whinan hummed again. She did that a lot, Andrew thought, focusing on that little bit of her personality in an attempt to ignore the feeling of her gloves on his face.

"So you won't give me your name," she said, letting him shake his head a third time in her loose grip. "Then you'd like a name, perhaps, would you? Would that make you feel better? To be named?"

Not remotely. Not even in the slightest. He didn't want her to have his name and he certainly didn't want her to give him a name, because what did that even do? The same thing? Did it mean she'd have control of him anyway? God, he did not want her to have what he had. She'd tear the city apart.

Her hands disappeared and he heard her muted footsteps move, and then abruptly the ropes holding his wrists tight went slack, and he jerked his hands up to his front where he curled them into his chest protectively.

When he opened his eyes she was in front of him again, eyes gleaming.

"Lucky Egg," she said, voice light. "You are a very Lucky Egg. Consider this a headstart. Get out."

He blinked, needing a second to register that and-

A headstart.

He jumped to his feet and bolted, through the door that lead to a stairwell, down those stairs, skipping three at a time, four at a time, desperate to just get down. The front doors weren't locked and he burst into the derelict parking lot, heart pounding, spinning wildly to figure out which direction to go, where was safe. Footsteps behind him and he ran without considering it further.

When he finally stopped, lungs burning, legs shaking like he'd collapse if he didn't stop soon, it was at least somewhere he recognised. The sky that'd been blue last he'd seen it was beginning to turn scarlet. He felt like he was going to throw up.

A headstart.

She'd let him go.

Fuck.

#writing snippet #villain x civilian #heroes and villains #heroes #villains #writing #my writing #how do people even tag their writing stuff to be seen #anyway #im in a hero/villain mood and im having fun writing the characters from this story so i wanted to post a bit of it #thank u bye #////#andrew colsburn #whinan caddie jones #///#wc: 1799 #1k-2k

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yeeharley · 3 years

Text

day one: next to me by sleeping at last / childhood friends / musicians au

⭒

The inside of the bar is musty and overcrowded, filled to the brim with customers far beyond its capacity. There are people perched on the arms of couches, atop the bar itself, sitting right on top of each other’s laps- which definitely looks far too uncomfortable to Harry, but hey. None of his business, really.

If he’s being totally honest, he’s uncomfortable with this for so many reasons other than lap-sitting. He hadn’t even really wanted to go, but when Flash and Betty had asked him and pushed every time he’d said no, he simply hadn’t had the strength to refuse.

Betty was wonderfully persuasive when she wanted to be, and Flash’s argument had been so convincing: it’s your twenty-first birthday, Osborn, and your pop’s in jail, and you’re fuckin’ CEO of your own billion-dollar company. What else is gonna get you in a celebratin’ mood?

Hm. Not this, definitely. Harry doesn’t think he’s ever felt less interested in celebrating.

God, you’re such an idiot. Shouldn’t have ever let them convince you.

Flash and Betty have, by this point, all but abandoned him; they’re over at the bar joking with some long-legged blond guy that Harry’s never met, and he’s managed to shove himself into a cramped, humid corner so that they can’t change that and introduce him. The glass in his hand (he has no idea what it is and definitely isn’t interested in putting it in his mouth) has long since warmed to room temperature.

Harry watches from the shadows for a few minutes, eyes fixed on Flash and Betty as the former jokingly shoves the blond man into a nearby barstool and knocks it over. The resulting crash is enough to turn a few heads and dim the noise, but nobody seems to care very much and conversation picks up again before Harry can help pick up the fallen chair.

He’s never really been into places like this. His entire life, Harry had been reminded that he was built for corner offices and board meetings and marble mansions.

This place is all strobing lights and loud laughter and happy people. Carefree.

Sometimes, he wishes he could loosen up enough to actually enjoy his life.

Harry’s just about to tell Flash and Betty that he’s taking himself home instead of playing designated driver when the overhead lights shut off and a flickering white beam fixes itself on the raised platform a few feet to his right- a stage, equipped with curtains on the sides and everything.

What kind of music do people even play in hole-in-the-wall places like this? Country? If Harry has to listen to country music, the police will never find Flash and Betty’s bodies. It’ll be a Buzzfeed Unsolved case in twenty years. He’s going to drain their bank accounts and move back to France.

Harry takes a sip of his lukewarm, barely-identifiable drink (beer, watered down beyond measure and proof that Flash doesn’t have taste buds) as the bartender shouts out a band name that he doesn’t recognize and can barely hear over the roar of the crowd. He watches, silent and tucked away in his little nook, as a microphone is set out and a girl with coily hair drags a drumset out of the wings. The blond man from earlier follows, climbing up onto the stage and flashing a Colgate-white smile out at the crowd before strapping a guitar over his shoulders.

Acoustic, Harry thinks. He doesn’t really know, though- when he had asked his father if he could learn to play something or take voice lessons, Norman had given him a concrete no and that had been that.

Dream down the drain.

Just like that.

Harry looks back to the stage, eyes half-lidded. The warm air of the room has him yawning and leaning up against the wall- honestly, he could probably fall asleep right here, right now, and not have any trouble.

That problem dissolves when the lead singer steps out from behind the curtain and into the spotlight. Harry spits his mouthful of lukewarm beer into his cup, eyes wide, suddenly very much awake, because he knows this man.

Dark curls, honey-and-coffee eyes, an ear-to-ear, genuine smile that puts a little dimple into his left cheek- yeah, they’ve both grown, but Harry would recognize Peter Parker no matter how much time passed.

His smile hasn’t changed a bit.

The rest of him has, a traitorous little voice in the back of his mind whispers. He pushes it down with a little squeak (nobody hears). Tries to ignore the buzzing heat in the basin of his stomach.

It’s kind of difficult to ignore the voice when it’s right, though. Even if he probably shouldn’t be checking out a guy he hasn’t seen since high school.

Peter is taller, now, probably about Harry’s height- he had always been three or four inches shorter, when they were younger. The black tank top he’s wearing doesn’t leave anything to the imagination, either- the amount of muscle cording his arms and shoulders is a far cry from the thin, wiry ones that he had wrapped around Harry’s waist before he’d been sent off to France in eleventh grade.

Peter secures the strap of a bass guitar (he plays bass, God, that’s so hot) around his neck before leaning into the microphone, wrapping his hands around the stand. He tilts it towards full, pink lips, smiles at the crowd, winks at the bartender.

Harry thinks he might actually faint.

“Evening, New York,” Peter croons, lips so close to the mic that he’s practically kissing it.

His Queens accent has thickened considerably in the past four or five years, and normally Harry doesn’t think of Queens accents as attractive, but on Peter? Whoa.

Maybe he wants Peter to be kissing him instead of that microphone.

Whoa, okay, little voice. Calm the fuck down.

The crowd shouts back a greeting, voices commingled to the point where it can’t be made out, and Harry finds himself shouting out a half-hearted “Hey” that gets lost in the roar.

Peter smiles again, this time bigger, like he’s feeding off of the enthusiasm of his audience. He strums a single chord on his guitar, mellow and soft, and that sets everyone off again. Harry claps. Tells himself it’s because everyone else is clapping.

There isn’t any more fanfare- no speeches, introductions, nothing. Peter steps back, bracing his fingers against the frets at the top of the neck of his guitar, and plucks out a few short notes; Harry nearly falls over with his surpise.

Seven Nation Army. He and Peter had loved that song. Played it on Harry’s car radio when he first learned how to drive, flying through backroads in the New York countryside, Peter whooping away in the passenger seat, Harry pulling hairpin turns with all the flair of a professional racecar driver.

The blond man joins in a few measures later, and Harry’s never thought of acoustic guitar as an instrument that you could play rock on, but he seems to make it work- with Peter’s bass guitar and the girl in the back on the drums, his gentle strumming seems to work perfectly. He starts humming out the tune into his own mic, and Harry watches, dumbfounded, as Peter (he can sing, he can sing) belts out the first line with that soft, careful voice.

It’s perfect. Buttery and mellow, blending together with the guitars and drums in a way that Harry finds unnecessarily attractive. Peter’s voice is beautiful, perfectly in tune, like sunshine and fields of daisies and wow, he’s so gone.

He finds himself pushing through the crowd from his spot in the corner, making his way to the front so that he’s just in front of the stage- in front of him- staring up, up, up at gently-closed eyes and frizzy curls. Elbows hit his sides, people sway against him, but for the first time in a long time, Harry doesn’t care.

He sees the minute Peter notices him, staring up at him from the crowd. It’s a quick realization- his friend’s eyes flicker down, widen, and suddenly he’s smiling, missing a beat, just a little bit behind.

Peter gets back on top of it pretty quickly.

His eyes never leave Harry, though. They stare straight into his soul, accompanied with that toothy little grin of his. Peter’s voice seems different, now, invigorated. Brighter and louder.

Harry leans forward, elbows propped up on the stage, and stares.

And Peter stares back.

And it feels like he’s singing for him.

Harry listens, enraptured, as Peter and his little band play their way through a little discography of their own, then Hozier, then some songs he doesn’t recognize. He doesn’t once take his eyes off of the boy at the microphone. The boy at the microphone doesn’t once take his eyes off of him.

The concert ends too quickly, and Peter, the blond man, and the drummer all bid the crowd a good night before slipping off of the stage and into the wings. Harry waits, dejected, as nobody re-enters the stage. He knows Peter saw him- does he not want to come out an say hi?

Does he not want to be Harry’s friend any more?

You want to be more than friends.

Harry turns and pushes his way through the throng of people, trying to ignore the tears stinging in his eyes. That rush of happiness from earlier has long since faded into some kind of bitter sadness- is he not good enough for Peter Parker? Well, apparently so.

He’s halfway to the door when a heavy hand lands on his shoulder and stops him in his tracks. Expecting to see Flash or Betty, Harry whirls around, ready to chew his captors out for dragging him somewhere he regrets having ever agreed to.

But it’s not Flash, and it’s not Betty.

Peter grins at him, eyes sparkling in the low light of the bar, and lifts the hand not on Harry’s shoulder to wiggle his fingers in a little wave.

“Hey, Har,” he murmurs, winking his left eye like the absolute dork that he’s always been.

Harry wordlessly raises his own hand and nods. He can feel his jaw working, a fish out of water, making an idiot out of himself in front of this insanely attractive boy.

“Wanna go get a drink?” Peter asks. He’s smiling- doesn’t look weirded out by Harry’s lack of a response at all.

Harry nods, smiling a bit as Peter reaches down to take his hand and leads him over to the bar, offering to pay for both of their drinks.

Maybe this wasn’t so much of a mistake after all.

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