#blocking and muting helps u til you hear someone say what they are saying and are reminded of how many people hate you and actually want

[ursoself-satisfying]

Long Away

cus its what he says when he answers a phone!!! get it??

Brian May x F!Reader, NSFW 

A/N: my first Brian fic!!! finally here!!! not my best but ok ::)) ALMOST 6k words rip its one step to being done w my list so thats good!! n ilhsm wow :::”””))) uuhhhhh this is the third in a series oh phone smut!! I did Rog (Calling All Girls) then Deaky (Pain Is So Close To Pleasure) n now Bri n I am DONE!!! YEET took my forever tho I’ve been kinda blocked lately rip ::// also u all should know I listened EXCLUSIVELY to 39 on repeat while writing this,,,,,

Warnings: SMUT, phone sex,, mutual masturbation, language, not the best writing ive ever done lol, the boys being adorable at the end rip except roger the lil shit 

“So, what were you thinking about to get you up so late, or, uh, not so late?” You couldn’t remember. You laughed as you pushed the cooking eggs around the pan, watching them slowly brown. They sizzled and popped in the quiet morning air, the only other noise echoing through the small apartment being those of your conversation. The phone was caught between your ear and your shoulder, cold and hard against your neck but warmed from the several minutes of your standing at the stove, waiting intently for your lover’s response. Your nose filled with the metallic scent of Brian’s scrambling egg substitute ears the same with the subtle buzz of a landline, and eyes squinting in the bright early sun sneaking between the thin blinds. The morning was calm and there was nothing better to wake up to than Brian’s sleepy voice, jet-lagged and soft, affected by the time difference between wherever it was he was touring and your home. A chill pecked at your skin, body shivering, starting at your head and shaking you down. The phone nearly fell from the cramped crux of your neck and shoulder as you felt the cold rush through you then escape, catching the speaker with a small exclamation. The panhandle, to contrast the rest of your apartment, was warm in your hand, and the anticipation of your meal kept you going, even if you could barely keep your eyes open.

“I missed you,” the voice on the phone started, interrupted by a yawn which was followed by one of your own, mouth wide and eyes closed. You raised your brows at your own reaction and covered your mouth instinctively. Giving the pan one more shake, you leaned over the flame, heat hitting your face and you decided your meal was more than ready to eat. On the other end of the line, Brian could hear your breakfast sizzling in the background as you slid the scrambled eggs onto a plate, guiding utensils clinking on the porcelain. Before he’d finished, you’d taken a small bite of egg, picking at it with your fingers, hissing at the temperature and moving it quickly to your mouth, tasting the bland spread before taking the warm plate to a table. “That and I was reminiscing about that Christmas at your Aunt Sally’s-” he finished.

When he spoke, an animalistic noise left your mouth as you choked on your food, the first bite not making it down your throat as you stood at the counter, “BRIAN-” You couldn’t finish your words or your bite as you began to laugh, only grateful no bits of yellow egg substitute shot out your nose. Your shoulder was relieved of duty as you moved the phone to your hand and took your plate to the small table you had set against the wall, regaining your composure as you sat down. You attempted another bite and just laughed, picturing his surely offended face, feeling your own heat up. “Darling, what were you doing thinking about something like that?”

The guitarist repeated himself with more conviction and implication, “I miss you, [Y/N].” He’d called, you realized, with very specific intentions. Between the sounds of your fork scraping your plate and your own chewing, you could barely make out the shifting sounds of a zipper coming undone on the other end of your call. “I really miss you.” You smiled and looked down at your half-finished food, the heavy want in his word dangling around your lobes like a pair of diamond earrings.

Glancing at the clock, you considered how much time you could get away with spending alone inside without your ‘concerned’ neighbors becoming too suspicious. “It’s a bit early for me.” Your voice was amused but muffled through a mouthful of breakfast food. You scooped another bite into your smiling mouth, leaning down to catch it and snorted a bit, thinking about your long bodied boyfriend laying spread out on some small futon in the floor, desperately trying to get some privacy in a temporary home with paper thin walls. “What time is it in Japan again, love?”

Brian grunted, obviously struggling with his tight jeans, “S’bout 7, I suppose.” There then came a loud clatter and you ripped the speaker from your ear with an uncomfortable expression. The man on the other end cursed and came back to the phone quickly, “Sorry, love, fucking floor is slippery as all hell-” He huffed and you let out a pained laugh at his fumble.

You smiled sympathetically. “Aren’t you staying with a family tonight? Are you sure you can do this right now, Bri?” Leaning back from your empty plate, you helped one leg up on your on the seat of your chair. This was to spread your thighs for easy access, but you refrained from touching yourself just yet, allowing your wetness to grow. You were becoming aware of your physical self, the softness of the t-shirt fabric tight on your shoulders and the elastic of the underwear you wore sitting fit at your belly. Neither articles of clothing actually belonged to you, which only made your core grow even hotter.

The man on the phone was breathing heavily now as he answered, “Yeah, but it doesn’t matter much, love, ‘cus I’m doing it anyway.” He panted and sighed with a muted thud following.

You stifled a concerned laugh, “And what if someone walks in? It’s not like they’d be asleep or something.” One hand held the phone to your face still and the other sat anxiously between your teeth, “I mean, I don’t know if you want another repeat of Aunt Sally’s-”

“I quite enjoyed Christmas.” No doubt, a shit-eating grin stretched across his face. “In fact, I quite enjoy every trip we take to Aunt Sally’s.” Yes, you could see it, absolutely smug and toothy.

You practically spit at the phone, “Oh, shut it, May, you aren’t the one living with the constant comments about how we nearly gave her a heart attack. My poor nan didn’t need to know I was,” you mimicked your grandmother’s deep and accusatory tone and your fingers were bent in air quotes, “sexually active.”

Brian laughed, deep and round, more like a hum that you could practically feel vibrating in your ear. God, you wished he was here. “Speaking of being sexually active-” ‘Smooth transition’, you thought. “I’ve got a bit of a predicament here, to be perfectly blunt, and perhaps,” syllables at the end of his sentence dragged long, “you could help me out?”

You leaned your head back in the wooden chair and finally let your bent leg fall to the side and open up your crotch to contact. The cotton of your boyfriend’s briefs were soaked through and hot to the touch as you let the pads of your fingers prod at the dampness. A long exhale carried through the call to your lover and he shuddered in response. “Alright,” you chuckled softly, “give you something to think about- Better than Aunt Sally’s.” You raised your brows and though you couldn’t see him, you were sure he raised his as well, judging by the provocative laugh he let slip. “I suppose you want me to tell you what I’m wearing, huh?” You began, biting your lip and letting a mischevious smile connect your cheeks.

The scent of him stayed on his clothes and you were carrying it with you. His shirt almost fit you almost as well as it fits him, God knows how tight he wore them. His briefs, which were no longer clean and now instead were dark with your leaking arousal, fit you perfectly, actually, waistband stretching around the pouch of your stomach and crotch. When pulled up, they hugged your hips and mound beautifully. Of course, had Brian not been so thin and so fond of the fashionable skin tight clothing, your frequent adorning of his tees and unmentionables would have literally been less fitting. While your boyfriend was a stick of a man he still somehow still managed to completely envelop you in his embrace.

Brian’s heavy breathing clouded your hearing. “Please- Please do,” he said softly, “What’re you wearing, love?” Not realizing you’d paused so long, so enraptured in his sounds and the pictures you’d logged of him, you guessed he was becoming impatient. From the small pants, little bursts of hot breaths, you could hear his actions. He must have had his long talons wrapped firmly around his length and you doubted he’d undressed at all, judging by the rustle of clothes that came with every movement.

Your teeth held your lip tight considering your answer to his question. “Yours,” you said breathlessly, a soft laugh slipping out. Cold digits pushed your lover’s underwear to the side and slowly slid up and down your slit, collecting the warmth of your discharge on your middle finger. Your nipples, already hard from the morning air, only grew more sensitive and strained against the thin fabric covering them, not able to shield any silhouette of your arousal. You gasped at the chill that hit your clit when you made contact. “Your, uh,” you shivered, “your shirt and your briefs, Bri-”

“My briefs?” He asked, incredulous and amused. You were sure he was smiling, cheeky stretched with pride.

You continued playing with yourself, not yet penetrating your core but tracing small circles around ur bud, slowly to not excite yourself too much. You wanted to wait and really enjoy the call, but the longer you waited, exposed and just absorbing your lover’s voice, the harder it got. “Yes, your briefs, the little pink ones,” you smiled, “but you’re gonna have to wait ‘til I wash them to get them back.”

“How wet are you?” His voice is laced with expectancy and strain as he interrupted.

Two fingers spread your lower lips apart, opening yourself up to the cold dampness of his indeed soaked underwear. “Absolutely soaked,” your voice was lowered now, just slightly, “and it’s all thanks to you.”

The musician hummed again and his voice seemed to drop an octave, “I bet you are, just for me,” he trailed off, the words lost in his heavy breaths. “You always look so fucking beautiful in my clothes. You look so,” you heard a sharp inhale and he sighed, finishing his statement with more conviction, “mine.”

The ball in your throat went down hard, swallowing his words with a struggle. Mine. You loved it. You adored him and being his and him being yours. It wasn’t possession between you two, and if it was, it was mutual, but it felt more like belonging than anything else. Brian had a light around you that only seemed to shine through your presence, and you were sure it was mutual. He felt like no one else ever had and you loved him for it.

The more aroused you got at the thought of him stretched out in some small, inappropriate place, the more your senses tunneled. This focus spread from your outsides in, your head to your heart, your ears, your mouth, your eyes, your heart. Though it wasn’t usually loud at this hour, any noises from the outdoors drained. The backs of your eyes were pasted with images of Brian like a wave overcoming you, his magnificent hair the foam crashing against the sand of your thighs and the curves of his back rolling like the current on a stormy day. He was the high tide and you were the rocks on the beach waiting to be smoothed over and washed away. You were taken with him and he was all you wanted. It was almost enough to imagine him, practically able to feel him, around you, hands on your stomach and sliding upwards. It was almost enough.

The lanky, 6’2” guitarist was cold and cramped on the floor of the small bathroom. The telephone he held to his ear tethered him to reality, but your voice pushed him further into fantasy. You were in his clothes, ass tight and shapely in his own briefs, tits barely held back by his shirt. He could see you in the morning chill, nipples unintentionally hardening in reaction to the temperature. He wanted to be there so badly to push that shirt up or just rip it off you, he didn’t care. He just wanted to keep you warm with his body on yours.

Every time his calloused palm slid down his length he closed his eyes and pictured you, in the kitchen of all places, legs wide open with the dampness of the borrowed undergarments staring him down. Growing uncomfortable spending so long leaning up against the wall, he shifted, his extended leg hitting the door in his small confines. It echoed more than he would have liked to, the hardness of his clog against the thin door causing a worrisome amount of noise, but he hoped not enough to draw any attention to him. With his other knee folded sideways under him, it wasn’t the most comfortable pose, but it stopped the door from opening, protecting what shred of privacy n dignity he had left, though he supposed that left the second he moaned at the sight of you in his clothes.

Brian’s long, practiced fingers wrapped fully around himself as he slouched on the floor beside the tub, using the edge of it as support so he didn’t slip onto his back. His pace was slow and teasing, to the rhythm of your light breaths, wafting through the small speaker at his ear. Up and down, every inch of his cock not covered by his large hand was cold and damp and any contact to it made him bite back a moan. “Where are you?” A softer voice came to him, cutting through his pleasurable haze.

He took in a breath and raised his brows, “The bathroom,” he started, “small bathroom, besides the tub-”

“Do you think anyone knows you’re there?” He bit his lip at your question, “Do they know you’re there, dick out and hot, all hot, for me? Do they know it’s because of me?” Before the man could reply in your pause, you continued, “Can they hear you as I can?”

Brian chuckled softly, letting his pillowy bottom lip slip from between the cage of his teeth. “I think they’ve figured it out, and if not yet then they will.” He closed his eyes and listened to you.

Every time you spoke he thought of your lips, everything they did so well. They pressed against him, his lips, his eyelids, all along his jaw and neck then down his chest. You always looked up at him with those shiny eyes, eyelashes like curtains and your mouth suctioning to his hip bones. Old bruises suddenly became apparent through his open shirt and he could feel you, wet and swirling your teasing tongue across his skin. Worse, he imagined his hand, damp from his pre-cum spread down his shaft, was those same lips responsible for the fading but still pink spots that littered his torso. Wrapped around him, smooth and slick with your tongue putting pressure on his head, sliding over him and sucking- He audibly gasped.

“Tell me what you would do,” he spoke with strangulation from his want, “if you were here and they could hear you.” With his head leaned back, he eagerly awaited your response ut his mind was already running a hundred miles an hour with memories of you in tight spaces with him much like this. He was thin enough the square footage was no issue for him when it came to being with you. He already imagined you there, low between his legs and trapping him in your mouth, nails digging into his thighs, moans vibrating through his veins and bringing him to another level- But he wanted to hear it from you, all the ways you would use him first.

Floating around you like a mist was the scent of him that you’d shaken off his clothes in your movements, positioning and repositioning your self against the small wooden table in front of you to get the best angle to pleasure yourself. The sides of your fingers rubbed roughly against the hem of Brian’s briefs as you pushed one finger at a time past your soaking lips and into the cavern of your sex. Your back ached from the arch you held to support yourself on the surface before you. Two fingers deep in you couldn’t compare to his feeling, his length pleasantly stretching you. Scissoring your digits inside you, knuckles hitting and fingerprints pruning, you did your best to imitate exactly what you wanted.

Your answer was breathy and low, “I would want you under me, inside me.” You pictured him again, seeing his breath floating above his head and him pumping his cock in preparation for you, beads of arousal hitting your pussy as you knelt above him. “My hands on your chest,” you said slowly, lowly, “and I would sink down on your dick and I’m nice and tight and warm for you.” You pulled your fingers in and out of yourself with the soft sounds of your wetness echoing through the empty apartment. “God, I want you in me.” Thumb pressing against your clit, you so desperately wanted the assistance of your other hand but you didn’t dare lose your lover’s voice. It was an awkward angle at which you dug inside yourself and held your arm to stimulate your bud as well as scrape at your walls for some relief.

“Are your tits out?” You heard his voice and it pulled you back. He didn’t give you a chance to answer. “Take ‘em out. I love it when,” he took a breath and swallowed dryly, “when your tits are out when we fuck but don’t take my shirt off, alright?” You smiled and chuckled, moving with some difficulty to pull up your shirt, phone on your shoulder and hand now on your breast. Your head was back and your neck looked longer as it curved like the smooth silhouette of a seashell. The pointed bud of your breasts was rolling between your fingers and you moaned happily.

You slid in another finger and went down another knuckle. You could hear it, smell it, feel it all emanating from the tunnel between your thighs. You felt your face heat up the more involuntary sounds erupted from your the back of your throat. “Brian,” you would weakly call out for him every few minutes, “Brian, how close are you?”

Brian had stopped speaking except for the occasional muttering of your name, “Fuckin’ close-” Guttural groans you could tell were being choked back. “I wish you were here,” he whispered. You hummed in response, the building heat at your core overwhelming you. Like a wire slithering around a pump inside you, you felt the pressure would make you pop any second. Trying to beat your orgasm, your fingers sped up and your hands moved down to care for your clit as you had your breasts seconds before. You shook the pads of your fingers rapidly and desperately over the bundle of nerves and your other hand was knuckles deep in your cave, coaxing and curling to get you to that high.

One leg was extended and tense, stretched long in front of you, your toes just barely reaching the wall in front of you and the other bent at your side began caving in on you as your insides coiled up and your breath hitched. The ends of your nails reached that curve and you jolted forward with a loud, high pitched moan, “Brian, I’m-!” You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth and your eyes had trouble staying open as this tingling wave rushed through you and you came, grunting softly. The phone nearly fell from its place at your neck but you caught with a wet palm and held it, white-knuckled, to your ear, not depriving Brian of any part of your release. His name rolled off your tongue like a song stuck in your head, you couldn’t help it. He was the song constantly in your head and as your pleasure seeped through the cotton you sat on, past your fingers and onto the chair, he was all you could think about.

Brian was over the edge, trying so hard to wait for you. It was torture, every sound you made, and all he had was his imagination to accompany them. God, he would remember how beautiful you looked, first thing in the morning, waking him up with a hot, wet ‘good morning’. He squeezed the appendage in his hand, sucking in a sharp breath and shutting his eyes tightly. He could imagine your scent so vividly he swore you were there with him, that it was your hand getting him off and now his own. His knuckles hit the zipper of his pants with a soft click every time he pulled his hand down and he tucked the phone by his ear to use his other hand to frantically unbutton the rest of his shirt, which previously had been hiked halfway up his stomach.

His breathing was heavy and uneven, not steadying as he flung open his shirt in preparation for his finale. The newly exposed skin of his was glistening with a thin layer of sweat, the small bathroom carefully containing all the body heat he generated. The man went to hold the phone again with a grunt, going to push his lower back against the wall and sit straight up. “Brian,” he heard his name coherently drift to him from the lips of his unseen angel, “how close are you?”

He panted, “Fuckin’ close-” He was close, and he honed in on the images in the back of his mind, the rest of the room fading away for a moment. How he wished he could be sheathed in you right now, hilted and filling you, rather than depending on his own abilities to find his high. It was harder, but knowing you were there with him in spirit, wishing the same thing, made it easier. “I wish you were here,” to fuck me, to let me cum inside you, to kiss me, to let me kiss you, let me hold you, just to see you, any part of you- He couldn’t say anything more and put his energy into holding back his growls, boiling up from his stomach as the heat built up like a forgotten kettle whistling on a stove.

That when she moaned, in that small voice, the one she hated that only came out when she lost control. “Brian, I’m-!” He finished for her, or rather with her. His tongue stuck to the top of his throat and he choked back all the lewd noises fighting for escape and he came, begging and wildly jerking himself off with quick shakes of his fist. He pulled back, aiming his tip towards his upper body. He thought about you, about you spasming around him and your tight pussy walls rolling his head, pushing in and out of you. Your face, though, was responsible for his release, the shape of your mouth when you came with him, the way you bit your lip and pushed your jaw forward- It clearly drove him crazy.

His own face contorted to that ecstasy, hair sweaty and stuck to his cheeks, curling like a cupid’s and framing him beautifully. He smiled, all open-mouthed and toothy, and his eyes closed. His brows were raised, springing up as all the tension left his body, relaxation raining down on him as spurts of hot jizz landed on his chest. With his cock twitching in his hand, he grunted breathlessly, fully relieved of his physical need for you, for now at least.

The light fluid dripped down the veins on his dick and pooled in two places just above his belly button and at his pelvis. It lasted a few seconds and every breath he took quivered in his lungs as he was lowered from his orgasm. His seed leaked from his head and the fresh drips were hot on his skin as the dampness quickly got cold. Brian inhaled deeply and blinked quickly, the room coming back to him and his visions of you fading. You were silent on the on the other line, all that was coming from the phone being soft little pants that nearly got Brian back up again. With his limp extension lying on stomach and his mess seeping slowly down his body to the fabric at his waist, it suddenly occurred to him the dirtiness of the situation.

The guitarist cursed as he reached for a wad of toilet paper and began sopping up all the ejaculate before it could leave any stains on his clothes, especially considering how dark each piece he wore was. The phone was weakly balanced between his nimble fingers again and he listened to you do the same as him.

“That was fun,” you said, slouching on the chair, still covered in your own juices, hands and thighs slick with them. Your face still felt hot and you were sure you were, in the very least, pink if not red from the activity. “Quick, too, but no complaints.” You smiled and breathed slowly, filling with warm, tired air at every intake. You could hear your boyfriend rumble out a small laugh at your reply.

He hummed lowly and asked, voice slightly rough, “Have you gotten up yet?” As you had prepared to stand, you paused.

He stopped you in your tracks and you considered what had occurred to him so suddenly. “If you mean cleaning myself up,” you said with a sly smile and eyes squinted in anticipation, “then no, I guess.” You paused for a moment, “Guess I wanted you to linger a bit longer.”

Brian huffed at the thought of you still wet, soaking wet, and in his clothes, so hot and tight on you, waiting for his command. “Do something for me,” he started, the rasp in his voice still apparent, not bothering to clear his throat, “suck yourself off, your fingers-” He could hear you humming in response and it drove him to shudder, “Taste yourself and think of me.” He was now standing at the sink, leaning against the counter, back to the mirror, and hurriedly buttoning up his shirt, missing every other snap. He had to push the picture of you, fingers in your mouth and eyes low, cheeks flushed and lips soft and wet, he pushed them from his mind.

This was his final request tho he had no time to enjoy it as reality came rushing back to him and was suddenly aware of the sounds beyond the bathroom he’d commandeered. Dinner must have started and his time for privacy in the lull between the band’s return and their next meal was over.

A grin spread across your face as you took your middle finger and slid it up your dripping slit, doing as you were told. Without a word, you moaned and scooped the leakage from between your legs, the clear liquid slipping off your pruned pads. It dangled above your mouth and slipped in the digits slowly, letting every sound soak through your skin. You could feel your own pleasured little noises vibrating down your bones, lips clamped at your knuckles. You sucked, tongue scraping your leftover love off your fingertips and swallowing slowly. The sticky sounds, lewd and loud, echoed in the emptiness of your mouth and you pulled your hand away slowly, smacking your lips when you were finished.

The taste of your own pussy hung on your taste buds, salty and sweet, and you did think of him, of Brian, and how often he must have had such a flavor lingering on his lips after helping you out, all those times before practice when he would hoist you against a shelf and force his face so deep between your thighs you worried he’d never emerge. You thought about him plucking at the strings of his acoustic after lazily wiping his sticky fingers on his pants and his mouth on the back of his hand, or when he would kiss you, tongue first, immediately after your orgasm and the two of you melded together to create something wholly unique. You only wished you tasted him now in addition to or instead of yourself alone.

Brian was prepping himself to face the inevitable teasing of his mates, but then came a sound from your end of the call. Soft moans filled his ear, tracing their way past his curls and making him shiver. There was the quiet sound of suction, like a pop and a squish, those wonderful wet sounds only your mouth could make, that indicated to him you were indeed following his orders. “Fuck,” he whispered, pushing at arousal growing again in his trousers. He wasn’t strong enough to not fall victim to his own temptation. “I- I love you so fucking much,” he said quietly, “you’re such a good girl for me.”

A light smile graced his face and he sniffed, clearing his throat as you responded, “I love you, Brian.” Your voice was like a plush pillow and all the worries of confronting the boys that hung over his head evaporated and he wanted to see you. “You better go, right?”

The musician sighed, tucking the front of his shirt into his pants with some difficulty. He stared at the door and what he assumed on the other wide was a huddle of suspicious ears. “I suppose I should, shouldn’t I?” His fingers went to pinch at the bridge of his nose and his eyes shut tightly then slick his sticky, sweaty hair back with his palm, “Time to face the music, then.” He pushed himself off the sink and turned away from his exit for a moment, to send one more word to you, “I love you, [Y/N]. I miss you- I miss you so much,” he choked out.

“No sappy shit, Brian Harold May!” This time he really did choke. He let out a guffaw and shook his head. Your voice came barrelling out and he just laughed.

“Alright, darling, no ‘sappy shit’. Love you.” His tone was still soft and as your grace-filled ‘I miss you, too, love you’ came to him, he couldn’t help but grin as he finally hung up. Turning back to the door, he puffed out his chest, filling it with all his confidence, and he opened himself to the ready ridicule and questions that awaited him, leaving behind the sweat and sex-scented bathroom, phone still awkwardly sat beside the soap dispenser. “Way better than Aunt Sally’s,” he muttered.

The click ended the call and suddenly you were cold. Perhaps it was the absence of your lover’s voice, or more likely it was the mid-morning air on your damp skin that you finally felt since your arousal had cooled off. Your knees popped as you stretched them out in front of you, arching your back as well and whining like one of Freddie’s cats with the same elongated body. A heavy sigh left your lips and you stood, finding your balance, before taking your dishes from what seemed like so long ago to the kitchen sink. The clattered as they fell in and you leaned tiredly on the counter, unsure of what to do next. Actually, you did know what to do, but you didn’t want to do it. Stripping where you were, and shivering after, you tossed the dirtied garments on the soiled chair, their fabrics soaking up the wetness you left behind, and you headed to the shower.

One finger drifted to your mouth as you made your way into the steaming bathroom, certain words encircling your head still. ‘Taste yourself and think of me.’ You planned on doing a bit more of that before the day was done.

BONUS (w the boys):

Roger leaned against the granite top of the small kitchen’s island and carefully sipped his tea from a petite bowl while the other boys, John and Fred, chatted animatedly at the dark wooden dining table. On the other side of the table sat a small, elderly man smoking a pipe and reading a newspaper, seeming completely immersed in his reading. This was the husband of the older woman in the kitchen, small and frail looking, but carrying a large tray full of steamed vegetables with ease. She scurried past the drummer, who lifted his bowl and straightened up, allowing her to get through. She continued prodding at the platter as she set it on the table, swatting John’s hand away. Fred snickered until he did the same without getting caught, burning his finger on a steaming cauliflower.

Brian stepped into the entryway of the dining room and the bustle of dinner preparations suddenly went quiet as all eyes turned on him. The tall man swallowed dryly, losing his train of thought and any will he had to stay in the awkward situation he faced, “I was just going to, uh,” he pointed to the stairs behind him with his thumb, “scrub up for dinner, yeah?” He nodded quickly with pursed lips and attempted to smooth out his improperly buttoned shirt all while a heavy blush spread over his face. He gave a pained smile and a thumbs up as he stepped back before turning to race to the upstairs bathroom, clogs thudding loudly on each step.

Roger turned to look at the two seated musicians in a moment of silence as they heard a shower start. Then they all started laughing. Deaky snorted. The man behind the paper briefly glanced over his news to eye the boys before raising his brow and shaking his head, returning to his article.

“He had some fun, didn’t he?” Fred laughed, holding their bassist’s arm.

“Oh, I’m sure he did, by the sounds of it.” John bit back.

The blonde rolled his eyes and took another sip of his cooling drink, “I’d like to see the carnage he left behind, to be honest, I’m sure it’s a sight.” Over his bowl, his brows rose.

Fred smiled slyly, “Now do you mean the girl or the room?” Deaky laughed again, wiping at his wrinkling nose and turning to the third member behind them.

Rog hummed, “Mm, both of them.” He winked in the direction of the boys and they ‘ooed’ delightfully. A minute passed of them giggling at the thought of Brian huddled in a tub or sink, weakly moaning at the sound of [Y/N] telling him off.

The woman in the kitchen had finished prepping the table, filling the table with plates of meats and vegetables, arrays of sauces accompanying it all. Bowls of rice were placed at each place setting and it was a mouthwatering sight.

“Dinner is ready!” She announced proudly, clasping her hands together, accent laying like a sheet over every syllable. The men seated turned to attention at her words and looked to her for permission to begin. “Go on! Yes, eat!” She waved her veiny hands, urging them to dig in. John smiled brightly and began serving himself neatly while Fred started by picking at his foods before deciding if he wanted any. The man of the house served himself neatly with a still stoic expression and kept his paper close.

Roger growled as he set down his empty bowl and strut to his seat, coming behind the hostess overlooking the feast. He lightly pinched her side and she squeaked. With a wink, the drummed plopped down beside her, “You didn’t say anything about dessert, Mrs. Hayashi.”

#queen #bohemian rhapsody #borhap #she has a voice!!! #bohrhap #new blog #john deacon #roger taylor #joe mazzello #brian may #film #deaky #freddie mercury #ben hardy #fanfic #gwilym lee #reader insert #freddy mercury #nut #rami malek #queen x reader #smut #brian may x reader