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gwilymz · 5 years

Text

D’yer Mak’er

Brian May x Fem!Reader

Summary: You and your roommate Brian are losing sleep because of your neighbors’ loud sexual endeavors. What begins as a payback to annoy the couple ends in the eruption of years of tension, lust, and love. (Prompt idea from @okqueenie ;) )

Word Count: 6,933

Warnings: cuteness, pining, sexual tension, unprotected sex, oral, handjobs--VERY filthy oopsie (btw it’s late and im too lazy to proofread so sorry!) p.s sorry national geographic for defaming your brand :/

Your arm was tingling, your nerves needle-like, shooting through your bicep, then threading towards your elbow, down into your fingers which felt numb, prickly, and in pain. Your head rested upon your desk, your hair fanned out in front of you, covering your book--an awfully boring paperback of Hamlet that Brian, your roommate, so kindly let you borrow. You were groaning when your professor assigned the reading; Shakespeare’s language wasn’t one you spoke. So, Brian, being the sweetheart he is, shuffled to his room, his wool socks staticky against the wooden floors. He traced his elegant fingers along the spines of his books--all of them neatly arranged, from tallest to shortest. His fingers halted at a thin paperback, yellowed and dusty, with a cracked spine. He plucked it from the shelf and ran back into your room next door.

“Found it!” He tossed it to you, catching you off guard. The book fell open on the floor, a sepia dust bunny escaping from between the pages.

You picked it up apprehensively, holding it by the corner so dust wouldn’t latch onto your thick knit sweater. “Thanks?” You shook the book, jumping back as more dust fell from the copy, like a desert storm tumbling from sand pages. “But I already have a copy.” You cocked your head towards your desk, where a pristine, non-dusty copy sat, untouched.

“You don’t have Brian May’s copy though.” He grabbed the book from you, not caring about the particles that danced upon the sleeve of his blue zip-up hoodie. “Be ready to be amazed, Y/N.” He patted the spot next to him on your bed. Your comforter was piled into the corner, your sheets crinkled and cold from the winter air seeping through your window that never seemed to close completely. Instead, you sat on his leg, and he winced, his leg pulling away slightly.

“Your arse is cold as hell.” He looked up at you, his thumb marking the page he was going to show you--it must have been a good one.

“Shut up.” You motioned to the book, scooting yourself into a comfortable position which seemed to fare impossible; his leg was much too bony. “You know my ass is hot.” You wiggled a little, and he grabbed your waist reflexively, quickly turning to the page. He looked flustered, his eyebrows knitted together as he squinted at the text, the book tiny in his hands.

“See?” He ran a finger down the golden yellow page, tracing over countless translations and ideas he had written in the margins, some in smeared pencil, some in deep black ink.

You grabbed the book, squinting at the barely-legible handwriting that bordered the pages. “Too bad I can’t possibly decode what the hell this says.”

Brian rolled his eyes, his jaw tensing, just barely. “Forget about it, then.” He turned his nose up, yanking the book from you and softly pushing you off of him, getting up to return it to its rightful place in his own room.

“No!” You reached out, grabbing his leg and pulling him back to sit on the bed, but he slipped, and fell promptly on the floor, his tailbone smacking against the hardwood.

“Fuck!” He rubbed at his ass, wincing in pain, hissing at the ache that was climbing up his spine, tingly and sharp.

“I’m sorry, Brian!” You ruffled his hair, jumping up to get him an ice-pack, or really, a freezer-burned package of frozen vegetables which you and Brian would forever be too lazy to prepare. But instead, he grabbed your ankle, making you stumble to the ground like he did, catching yourself, your open palms tingling as they hit the floor. “Okay, I’m not sorry anymore.” You sat up, leaning against your bed like Brian was, grabbing the book from him and trying to read the margins. In reality, his handwriting wasn’t too difficult to decipher; you had known Brian for so long, it became second nature to read his chicken scratch. It was almost a test to see who was closest to Brian--it seemed only his bandmates and you could make out his convoluted lettering.

You shook your arm as you recalled the memory, lifting your head from its spot on the desk. Your ankles were crossed under the chair you were sitting at, and you realized Brian shoved a pillow between your back and the chair, which relieved some of the pain. Your neck hurt though, as it hung--almost lifelessly--for the entire night. You wiped some drool from your chin, grimacing at the gross sensation; it was semi-dry and crusted on your face. “Ew,” You sat up straight, your back cracking slightly as you maneuvered it. Brian’s copy of Hamlet was face down on the desk. You had actually been reading it pretty easily--thanks to Brian’s annotations--but you were exhausted from the antics of your neighbors.

For months now, you had been lacking sleep severely, waking up in the wee hours of the morning, your bed shaking from the arrhythmic banging of your neighbors’ headboard against the plastered walls. You always resorted to covering your head with your pillow, groaning and rolling your eyes and suppressing laughter at times--the couple’s moans were so fake and contrived. And every time they had sex--which was often--it seemed to get worse; more pornographic and less passionate--if that were possible, with the lack of chemistry these people seemed to have. There were plenty of times you had surrendered to your curiosity and held a cup against the wall, cringing as you heard screams that sounded more panicked than pleasured. Sometimes you would yelp as a firm, assured slapping noise would ping off of the walls, echoing in your ears even though they remained squished and completely covered by your pillows.

You had noticed Brian becoming more restless too; his eyes had become more sunken, his lips in a perpetual pout. Whenever he shaved, there was an uneven patch or two that he would forget to touch, and you would laugh at him, stroking your fingers over the thick, almost black hair, confused as to how he could have possibly missed it.

“Brian, come here.” You wiped your hands on your jeans as you chewed some buttered popcorn, your feet on the green coffee table, which didn’t match the design of the flat at all. You and a few friends were watching a soap opera, curled under Brian’s favorite knit blanket. You could tell he was mad you were using it, because he rose his eyebrows at you, cocking his head to the side as he sat next to you on the couch. There wasn’t much room for him, so he sat awkwardly on the edge, looking like a small child waiting for instructions of what to do next. You traced your fingers along his jaw, scratching at the dark stubble that was juxtaposed by the completely bare, hairless skin on the rest of his face. “You missed a spot.” Brian’s hand slapped yours away. “Just a smidge.” You tilted his head to the other side, seeing that the same spot on his right side was hairy as well.

“Stop!” He rolled his eyes, pinching your leg as he got up, pulling his hoodie over his head, mussing up his hair in the process. “I’m tired from rehearsals. Plus--” He shook his head, opting to leave his thoughts unsaid. He yanked his blanket off of your body, folding it neatly and tucking it under his willowy arm.

“What? Spit it out.” You and your friends looked at Brian inquisitively, all cocking your eyebrows at him, almost synchronized.

“The neighbors.” He mumbled, bending over the coffee table to straighten a book your foot had moved off-kilter. Brian’s body obscured the television, and you lightly pushed him back, your foot pressing against his hard stomach.

“Move,” You ate more popcorn, watching your program. “What about the neighbors?” You obviously knew what he was alluding to, but you wanted to see him flustered; you loved to tease him.

“You haven’t heard them, you know--” His voice faltered, falling a few decibels. “Doing it?”

“Oh God, Brian.” You giggled, a piece of popcorn falling onto your lap. “Grow up, man. ‘Doing it?’” You mocked him, and he tickled your foot, making you yelp, your head falling back as he scratched a nail on the underside of your sock-covered foot, knowing you were ticklish there. He grinned, canines exposed, his cheeks lifted. He took some popcorn from your bowl and walked into his room, giving you and your friends a quick wave before shutting the door softly behind him.

A few hours later, your legs were resting on Brian’s lap, your head laying against the arm of the couch. Brian was flipping through a National Geographic magazine, examining the wildlife pictures, like he always did when a new issue came out. You were reading Hamlet--still--but you were almost done, thanks to Brian, who happily analyzed the scenes for you, even insisting on pointing out some far-fetched allegories that made you second-guess trusting his far-fetched ideas.

“I don’t think that’s true, Brian.” You peered over your book and nudged his leg with your foot. Brian finished reading a particularly riveting line about the anemone in the Great Reef, holding a finger up until he was done reading.

“Hmm?” He bookmarked the magazine with an old receipt, throwing it on the coffee table.

“I don’t think that the costumes represent--” You started, before hearing a crashing noise next door--like metal pans clashing together, then falling twenty seven feet into jagged rocks. It was piercing and utterly startling, so your foot accidentally dug into Brian’s balls sharply.

“JESUS!” Brian tossed your legs off of his lap and held his groin, hissing in pain.

You hushed him, apologizing by stroking his hair a bit as you sat on your knees, leaning towards the noise. “What are they doing?” It sounded like they were in the kitchen; their apartment was a mirror image of yours, so everything was just a bit flipped around.

“I dunno.” Brian crossed his arms and picked his magazine back up, grumpy from lack of sleep and the dull pain stagnant in his balls. He picked a piece of lint from the page he was reading, flicking it onto your stomach, covered by his hoodie.

“I think they’re having sex in the kitchen this time.” You whispered for some reason, as if it were possible they could hear you. You braced your hand on Brian’s shoulder, the knobbed end of his collarbone hard against your touch.

“It’s weird to listen in on them.” Brian announced in monotone, flipping the page of his magazine, his eyes gleaming as he saw an article about space exploration. “Did you hear about thi-” Brian began to ask, before you interrupted him, which he registered as quite rude on your part, with a sharp inhale.

“Listen in on them?” You scoffed. “Bri, we haven’t slept for weeks because they’re fucking each other so loudly. We aren’t spying on them.” You shoved his shoulder a little, watching him as he nibbled at his lips as he attempted to focus on what he was reading. You could tell he was being stubborn, that he was curious like you, but he acted unfazed, shifting in his spot as his eyes scanned the glossy pages in front of him. Plus, he thought it was a little odd, listening to a middle-aged couple have sex with his roommate-slash-best friend.

You scooted your body closer to his, leaning forward to press your ear against the wall that the couch was leant against. Brian gulped and looked away, seeing your pajama shorts ride up a bit, the curve of your ass prominent from under the cotton fabric, lace trimming adorning the hem. He loved when you wore those, and he may have accidentally-on-purpose washed them extra frequently so they would shrink, just a bit. He moved the hair away from his eyes and tapped his fingers along the page he was reading--or attempting to read--before he shoved it in between the cushions and joined you, the peculiarity of the situation next door trumping his interest in space travels for the time being--no matter how pathetic that sounded to him.

The sides of your arms touched as you both listened, the sounds barely subdued by the layers of drywall in between you two--and the blood thumping, rushing towards your hot ears. It sounded like their sink had turned on in the process of their endeavors, and Brian, feeling cheeky, banged on the wall with a closed fist. “Turn off the bloody water! You’re wasting it!” He turned to you for approval, almost. You shoved him playfully and banged on the wall with him, cackling together as you heard the husband’s skin slapping. It was obscene and inappropriate, but you looked at Brian menacingly.

“OH ALLEN!” You moaned dramatically, coming up with an arbitrary name on the spot. It was completely fake-sounding, and Brian giggled, rocking on the couch to bang it against the wall repeatedly. You nodded at him, determined, doing the same thing that he was, rocking your bodies forward then backwards to push it against the wall forcefully. Your pinkies touched as your elbows did too, completely and utterly focused on annoying them just as much as they had you. Brian lifted his arms up and banged them against the wall again, his shirt riding up enough for you to see his stomach, toned and still tanned from a short-run of being a summer gardener--your idea to bring in more rent money. Your own stomach flipped and you turned away.

“PLEASE DON’T STOP AMANDA!” Brian moaned facetiously, pushing his knees into the back of the couch, his hips bucking forward dramatically. You looked at him questioningly, mouthing Amanda? Really?, as he smiled at you, his knuckles raw from beating on the wall.

And as suddenly as they began, the noises stopped. The pans halted their clanging, the grating sound of the metal fizzling, dissipating from your ears. You both sighed in relief, and Brian plopped down on his knees, taking a deep breath that ghosted just barely over your neck. You shivered, the aftershock of the odd situation making your breath hesitate as you also fell to your knees on the couch, the springs creaking as you both moved, unsure of what to say or do next.

Brian was panting, a coy smile on his lips. He was a bit sweaty, his neck was glistening, and his fingers fiddled with his silver necklace, the metal of the ring he was wearing clinking against the thin chain, the small tinkling pleasant in your ear after the horrible noises that had just stopped minutes before.

“Are you hungry?” Brian asked, pulling his legs out from under his butt, slipping his socks off. He saw you grimacing at him and clicked his tongue at you, his jaw twitching. “What? I’m sweaty.”

You feigned a gag as he held the sweaty socks in front of your nose, swinging them like a pendulum, soaked with body odor. “Gross!” You tried to smack them out of his hands, but he held them higher, just out of your reach to tease you. “Get your dirty socks out of my fucking face, or I swear to God--”

“You shouldn’t say that, Y/N!” He bit his lip and gasped dramatically as you tried to knock the socks out from in front of your face again. His voice was deeper than usual, and you grabbed his wrist as you fell forward; the couch cushions were unsteady. Brian fell backwards, his head hitting the arm of the couch opposite of you. His hair bounced, the ambient lighting shining against his brilliant curls. You had convinced him to embrace his natural hair, and it looked good on him, accentuating him, his look. Your thigh brushed against his crotch, and Brian hissed, sitting up quickly, shaking the curls from his eyes. “I’m going to get us some takeout. Chinese?” He rubbed the back of his neck, stretching as he stood up, the buttons of his shirt threatening to pop as he extended his long arms towards the humming ceiling fan.

“Yeah, sounds good.” You curled up on the couch, opening your book again, your eyes skimming the page, but not encoding a thing. You noticed Brian shifting his trousers, wincing as his hand brushed over the front of them. He grabbed his keys from the table, his magazine strategically placed in front of his groin as he said goodbye, waving at you, his keys tucked under three fingers.

“The usual?” He peeked his head through the door, his curls getting caught by a raw splinter of wood sticking out from the door frame. He pulled the strand from the sharp edge, waiting for your response.

“Yeah,” You nodded, tilting your head back to give him a grin. “But get extra white rice. You always forget.”

He began to shut the door, his large hand wrapped around the brass doorknob, shrouded by a dulled stain.

“Wait!” You jumped up, bracing yourself on the coffee table as you slipped. Brian flinched, lunging forward reflexively.

“You ok, sweets?” Brian lifted a brow, pulling fallen strands of his hair from his hoodie. You smiled at the nickname, standing up straight, adjusting your sweater that was becoming increasingly hot and heavy. You revealed a pen from behind your back, pulling Brian towards you by his hands which were warm, and very soft. You wondered if he had been using lotion more often--and then you coughed, registering the innuendo. You clicked the pen, poking your tongue out slightly as you wrote the note on his hand, underlining it twice, the scrape of the pen against his hand making a sharp white line appear, just momentarily.

“Don’t forget.” You looked up at him, noticing a faint droplet of sweat dripping down his neck, pooling into the hollow space where his collarbones protruded.

Your throat was dry when you woke up, and you didn’t know if it was because of your and Brian’s acting the day before, or the spicy kung pao chicken that Brian brought home in a greasy paper bag, beaming as he pulled out a giant takeout carton full of white rice, some of it spilling from the top. You swallowed, feeling a burn perfuse down your esophagus, wincing and coughing as you sat up. Your neck was still achey; your head automatically positioning itself in the position that allowed the least amount of sounds to pass through your ears--perks of having awful neighbors.

You pulled on a sweatshirt--one you stole from Brian’s room. It was red, and had that fresh, clean softness that proved it hadn’t been washed too many times. It was comforting; Brian’s scent pervaded the fabric, and you relished in the earthy, almost sweet smell of him, rubbing your hands together as you pulled your door open. You walked to the kitchen, where Brian’s guitar case was laid on the counter. You sighed, rolling your eyes. He knew you hated when he did that. You didn’t even have a reason for loathing it--you just did. Both you and Brian had little things that made you tic. The first time you ever heard Brian really yell was when you found out one of his--he despised disorganization. He was at a gig the year before, and the venue was a few hours away, so the boys slept in the van, half-drunk and a bit dizzy, weaned off of adrenaline highs. While he was gone, you rearranged all of his books. You flipped some so the pages faced forward, and kept some of the spines facing out. You took all of his pants from one drawer, and then all of his shirts from the other--then you switched them. You could have done more, but you didn’t hate Brian. So you fell asleep, curled into the corner of the couch to let Brian in more easily when he came home--he could never interpret how to work a key and a lock when he was drunk.

He wasn’t drunk when he returned, though. He opened the door discreetly, slipping through, taking his clogs off as he sat down, hunched over to be as quiet as possible. When he saw his bookshelf, he exploded.

“Y/N!” He slammed his duffle bag on the floor, his pins from all of the different cities he’d visited scratching against a raised floorboard. You jumped up, patting your hair down as you turned the floor lamp on, the warm light ambient and mellow.

“Brian? You’re home already?” You glanced at the clock; it was seven in the morning, so it made sense for him to be back.

“It’s seven.” He confirmed. “Can you explain this?” He crossed his arms over his chest, his forearms were veiny, bulging from his sleeves; one was pulled all of the way down, one was rolled up halfway.

You laughed softly. “The books? I just thought it would annoy you.”

His eyes hardened, and his jaw protruded as he sucked his bottom lip, before releasing it with a pronounced pop. “It worked. Don’t you have better shit to do than mess with my personal fucking belongings?”

You scowled, stepping closer to him. For the first time since you had met him, his tall frame wasn’t languid--it was intimidating. The shadow of a beard was forming on his cheeks, pebbling down his elegant neck, where two necklaces were layered, resting on his collarbones. “It’s not a big fucking deal, Brian.” You turned around to leave, but he grabbed your wrist, holding onto it so hard he could feel your pulse racing.

“Fix it.” He looked at you sternly, his eyes glaring into your own. You expected him to laugh and ruffle your hair a bit, but he didn’t. He just stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door; you heard the shower faucet creak a minute later. Your legs shook as you bent down to fix the books, trying to ignore the warmth pooling at your core.

You were reaching into a cupboard, trying to find a glass for some water, when you heard crashing in the bathroom and the shrieking of the shower curtain rings scraping at the curtain rod.

“Y/N!” Brian yelled, almost hopelessly.

“Hmm!” You scurried to the bathroom door, pressing your ear against it. You could faintly feel the warmth emanating from underneath the door.

“I forgot to bring a towel in with me. Can you get me one?” You could hear him gathering the fallen shampoo bottles and setting them on the ledge.

“What do you say?” You challenged.

“Please, would you so kindly fetch me a towel, Y/N?” He pleaded, half sarcastically.

You got him one, wiggling the doorknob to the bathroom as you held it underneath your arm. “Open up, Bri!”

He quickly unlocked the door, peering through the crack, reaching a soaked hand out. His wrist was dripping with steamy water, his arm a lot more defined than you remembered it being in the summer. He pulled the towel from your hands, quickly turning around so he could wrap it around his waist. You saw his ass for a split second, and you attempted to stifle your laughter, to no avail.

Brian shut the door, re-locking it as he dried his hair and got dressed for class. He had a denim button up on, and black velvet trousers that hugged him nicely. His hair was still sopping wet as he left the bathroom, but he softly dried his locks with the towel; you told him to be gentle with his curls.

You were biting your lip, trying to suppress the laughter which was bubbling up into your throat and quickly threatening to spill over. Brian looked at you, knowing that meant you were about to make fun of him for something.

“What is it? Lay it on me.” He sat down, resuming his reading of his National Geographic, his eyes roaming the pages quickly. He turned the magazine sideways, squinting at a picture of the stars that filled the entire two-page spread.

“Your butt.” You sat down next to him, poking at his ass as he attempted to focus on his reading.

“You saw my arse? Big deal.” He feigned to be uncaring, but you could see his cheeks flushing into a scarlet that seeped down his neck.

“It was small! Your butt is tiny.” You tickled at his hips, and he flinched, his teeth protruding from underneath his pink lips, forming the beginnings of a smile. “Tiny butt.” Brian rolled his eyes, turning his head to face you. He closed his magazine and crossed his arms, resting his legs on the coffee table.

“So what if I have a tiny butt--hey! That rhymed!” He realized, leaning his head on the cushion behind him.

You heard a crashing sound--the unfortunately familiar sound of clashing pans crossing your threshold, even between Brian’s Led Zeppelin vinyl and two--albeit thin--walls. “They’re fucking at it again!”

You both groaned, following the sounds like a labyrinth of awful moans and grunts swirling into one epicenter. “Wait.” Brian halted, holding his arm out, as a signal for you to stay still. “I think they’re in the shower.”

Sure enough, you heard their shower running, then panting, then the sound of someone’s body being slammed against the wall. “Ouch!” You looked at Brian, amazed. “That must’ve fucking hurt.” You leaned against the kitchen counter, Brian’s guitar leant against it; you smiled a bit, realizing he moved it off of the counter, knowing you hated when it was there.

The room was quiet, save for your and Brian’s breathing. The heel of your foot hit the wooden paneled column of the counter every once in awhile. You heard heavy panting, groans and whimpers from next door, and you and Brian just looked at each other, as if saying: Are we really gonna do this again? You both understood each other’s almost subliminal looks, and nodded simultaneously. You raced back to the couch, both of your socks making you slide against the floor, and you both braced your inevitable falls on the arms of the couch, climbing over them.

Brian held up three long fingers, then two, then just one, before giving you a firm nod, eyebrows concentrated, solemn looking. “Oh FUCK! RIGHT THERE!” He knelt on the couch, scooting forwards and backwards to imitate the harsh banging noises they so often made next door.

“THAT FEELS SO GOOD! OH GOD!” You did the same as he was; you two were synchronized, breathing heavily as you began to grunt and whimper, Brian clapping his hands to simulate skin-slapping sounds, and you rose your eyebrows, giving him a thumbs up. Nice touch, you mouthed, and he bowed a little, his hair bouncing, messy from his movements.

The couple was relentless though, continuing their desperate, obviously bad, sex. Brian held a finger up, before stepping off of the couch and kneeling in front of it. He gripped the bottom of the furniture, his wrists flexing from the weight, pulling it forward and slamming it back against the wall--with you still sat on top of it. He continued to do this, the grunts coming organically from his lips, from the exertion. You were panting, your chest heaving quickly from the yelling, from the odd exhilaration you were feeling, from the wetness you were feeling in your pajama shorts, which Brian couldn’t help but notice were riding up your thighs; he could see the hem of your lace panties from his position underneath you, looking up.

“Fuck, you look so pretty like this, baby.” Brian moaned loudly, looking up at you. His mouth was hung open, hot breath fanning over your body. You returned the gaze, falling to sit on your feet in front of him, facing him.

“You’re fucking me so good!” You cried, cringing at the words, your mouth agape as you watched Brian’s forehead begin to sweat. Neither of you were laughing anymore. The air was dense, and tension-filled--wet almost. You sat down in front of where he was knelt, his hair matted a bit from the sweat, and still wet from his shower. You spread your legs, and your feet hung off of the couch, resting near either side of his head. He grabbed your ankle, looking at you with wide eyes as your fingers played with the elastic of your shorts, fiddling with the ties, the ends of them tickling at your inner thighs. Brian stared at the soft flesh of them, at a small freckle you had where the hem of your shorts laid. Your cheeks were flushing, your heart thundering in your chest, and Brian’s sweatshirt was becoming an actual sweat shirt. Your ankle was almost glowingly warm from Brian’s firm grip. His other hand grabbed your free ankle, which was noticeably colder, aching for his touch. His fingers began to ghost up your legs, inching up your shins, making you whimper softly from the anticipation of Brian to touch you more and more. His pupils were dilated and you noted how pretty his eyes looked, the yellow light shining into them. Brian was a beacon of allure, lust, love. You untied your shorts, watching as Brian’s eyes widened, his grip on you tightening, almost constricting, but in the best way possible. You pushed your hand down the shorts, slipping through your underwear to rub at your clit. You were soaked for him. Brian’s nails dug into your ankles as he pulled you forward on the couch, so his body was in between your legs, kneeling in front of you, on his knees. He ghosted a finger over your lips as you pushed a finger into your wet hole, gasping as you grazed against your clit. He breathed against your neck as he stroked your hair, kissing at your shoulder, his forehead resting upon it. He moved to kiss up the column of your neck. They were sloppy, open-mouthed kisses; he was desperate, rocking his cock against the couch as he held your waist, your fingers now deep in your pussy. You held his head, threading your fingers in his semi-dried curls, gasping as he sucked hickies on your collarbones, nibbling at the sensitive skin enough to make your hips jerk slightly. You pulled his head back by his hair, thick in your hand, kissing him on his bruised lips. He was fiery and passionate. He was making you dizzy, suffocating you from fresh air with passion-infused sucks to your bottom lip, his tongue massaging yours. Brian whined, his cock rubbing against the textured velvet of his trousers, leaking with precum, just for you. You pulled your fingers out, which were a bit pruned from the slickness which was staining the couch now, deepening the grey of the taut fabric. You held your fingers to his mouth, watching at his tongue swirled around your digits, sucking your juices from them.

“Taste me.” Your eyes were hooded, blown with desire. You felt like you were on the verge of fainting, or that you were experiencing a hypnagogic dream--like this was all altered from reality, not real. But the feelings--the sensations--you were experiencing in that moment, with your best friend’s tongue lapping up your wetness from your soaked fingers now coated with his saliva--were anything but a dream.

“So good.” He moaned, looking at you innocently. His chest was heaving as he grabbed your wrist, pulling your fingers from his mouth. He pulled at your shorts, his fingers shaky as he slid them down your legs, keeping your underwear on. “I love when you wear these fucking shorts, sweets.” He kissed your knee, scratching softly at your inner thighs, as you pulled at his hair. He threw the garment on the floor, scooting forward on his knees, yanking your underwear to the side. You gasped loudly at hearing his usually innocent nickname for you in such a dirty connotation. He ran his fingers up your neck before rubbing them along your soft lips, the calloused pads of his long fingers tickling the pink flesh barely. You sucked on his fingers this time, swirling your tongue around them, whimpering at how dirty this was, at how good it felt to feel Brian.

“Fuck, Y/N,” Brian’s fingers left your mouth, dripping with your spit. He trailed them up your leg, before pulling your legs over his shoulders, kissing at your inner thighs and softly biting the skin.

“Brian, oh my god.” Your hand grasped at his hair, desperate for his mouth to latch onto your clit--anywhere. He looked up at you, his eyes hooded, his nose nudging at your clit. His hand snaked around your waist, holding your hips down, his fingers splayed across your lower stomach. Then he began to lick at your folds, pointing his tongue and licking upwards, directly on your aching bundle of nerves. “Fuck, Bri!” Your heels dug into Brian’s upper back and he hummed in appreciation before sticking his tongue out and delving into your hole. You ground against his tongue, desperate for your orgasm, which proved to be approaching quickly.

“Cum on my tongue, honey.” He poked his tongue out, tilting his head to look at you. He was idle, and you realized quickly he was waiting on you to grind on his tongue. You did, holding his hair with one hand as the other grasped at the couch cushion. Your hips moved up and down repeatedly, his tongue sliding against your clit, the stimulation making your eyes water.

“Oh my god--” You were mewling, completely at his mercy. “Brian--your tongue feels so good.”

“Does it baby?” He batted his eyelashes, his curls tickling against your skin as you ground against his tongue faster.

“Fuck, it feels so good!” You screamed, your breaths becoming laborious as you came on his tongue, your wetness dripping down his chin. You had barely recovered from your orgasm before you pulled Brian’s mouth to yours, wrapping your legs around his waist, his body now hovering over yours, his knees resting on the edge of the couch. You scratched your nails at the nape of his neck, kissing at his stubble on his jaw. You both were starved--two years of friendship and a blindingly close proximity to each other in your entireties was being released by fervid kisses, frenzied touches. Your hands traveled down his chest, your fingers popping open a few buttons on the way to his cock, which was achingly hard and prominent in his trousers. You unbuttoned them, immediately shoving your hand down the front of his briefs, massaging at his balls.

“Fuuuck.” Brian let out a drawn-out moan, and it echoed across the room, making a tingle sprinkle down your shoulders and to your core. You dragged your nails softly up the shaft of his cock, and he buried his face in your neck, whimpering your name. Your hand held onto his hair as you pumped him, precum leaking onto the junction between your thumb and forefinger. “Jesus christ, more.” He whined, the couch hitting the wall forcefully as he thrusted into your hand.

“You’re so needy, Brian.” You pulled him forward. “Thrusting into my hand.” He nodded, a choked moan breathy against your lips.

“I need to fuck you, sweets.” He pushed his forehead against yours, digging his fingers into your hips. “I’ve needed to fuck you for so long.”

You exhaled, tightening your grip on his cock as he lazily thrust into your hand. “I need you so bad, Brian.” You pulled at his necklace, kissing him deeply. You felt his hips stutter, a low whimper tumbling from parted lips.

You shook your head. “Not yet.” Brian nodded, kissing your neck, just once, before he grabbed you by your waist, turning your body so your body laid across the couch, flat. He grabbed a throw pillow, putting it beneath your back. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him forward by your locked ankles. Your arms grabbed at the arm of the couch as Brian spit in his hand, stroking his cock--which you noticed was a lot larger than you originally thought. The tip was bright red, still leaking, his shaft veiny and impossibly thick. You shifted beneath him, your entire body sheathed in sweat and a scarlet blush.

“Condom?” He asked, his thumb running over his tip, massaging his slit carefully.

“I want you raw, Brian.”

“Jesus Christ.” He hitched your legs up onto his hips, dragging his cock against your folds, the ridges of his veins blissful against your clit. “You’re so fucking wet for me.” He dragged his hands up your torso, touching the fabric of his sweatshirt, damp from your sweat. His thumb and forefinger found the zipper, pulling it down agonizingly slow, groaning when he saw your bare chest revealed from underneath his hoodie. “Dirty girl.” He bit at his lips, and you sat up, shrugging the hoodie off. He pulled the sleeve back up over your shoulder, shaking his head. “No. I want you to keep my jumper on while I fuck you.” He held your chin as he said this, and you slipped his thumb into your mouth, making him twitch against your thigh.

Then he was thrusting into you--deep into you--his thumb stroking at your chin as his pelvic bone was flush against your inner thighs. You screamed, holding onto the arm of the couch as he pulled out, pushing himself back in immediately. “God, Brian it hurts.” He was stretching your walls, and your cheeks were blotched red from the dull pain--but it was a pain so akin to pleasure that you writhed underneath him, moaning.

“ ‘m sorry sweets. I’ll go slower baby.” He held onto your thighs, still wrapped around his waist.

“No. Fuck me.” You sat up, resting on your elbows as he obliged, Fucking into you at a brutal pace, his hand snaking up your torso, squeezing at your breasts. Your moans were breathy, hot, passionate--true. They were the antithesis of the sounds your neighbors were still making next door, opposite of the ones you and him were making seemingly seconds before. Brian was angling his hips up, thrusting deep inside of you as his thumb massaged your clit, savoring your noises, the way you arched into his every touch. Brian’s breaths were interwoven with impassioned moans, and the paradox of them sounding so angelic yet so sinful was making your orgasm near. He began to slow, his thrusts becoming erratic but far-in-between, his eyes rolling back as his voice cracked with a long groan. You began to fuck yourself on his dick, panting, the couch scooting loudly, creaking against the floor. Brian’s other hand trailed its way to your neck, his delicate fingers, wrapping around the hot skin, just touching. But you grabbed his wrist, tightening his grip around your neck, both yours and his moans becoming more primal and raw at the sensation.

“Brian--” You threw your head back, your legs unable to support themselves on Brian’s hips. He thrust harder, snapping his hips as he repeated your name, panting into the muggy air around you. A bead of sweat ran down his neck. His hair was wild from your pulling, his lips a deep pink from bruised kisses. Hickies adorned his collarbones, which his necklaces were bouncing upon with every yearning thrust. His hand was still wrapped tightly around your neck, pushing gently upon your throat, your hand gripping at his wrist.

“Good girl.” he gasped, as you clenched around him, involuntarily. “You’re so fucking tight, I’m gonna cum.” He tilted his head back, somehow pushing deeper inside of you; he was completely sheathed inside of you. “Fu-I’m cumming!” He announced, barely pulling out before he came inside of you, the feeling bringing on your own release as you screamed his name, your walls clenching. He spurt more of his cum inside of you, hissing at the overstimulation as he pulled out, watching his seed spill out of you. He didn’t know what to do; and in a panic, he grabbed his magazine placing it so the cum leaked onto it and not the perfectly good couch you had. You both were panting, but you furrowed your eyebrows. “Now your magazine has your cum all over it.”

“I know, I’m not too happy about it. That was a good issue.” He said from the kitchen, wetting a cloth to clean you up with. He sat down next to you, pulling his National Geographic from under your ass to wipe you clean. “It’s cold, sorry sweets.” You winced at the cool water, but his warm touch on your lower belly acted as a needed equilibrium.

He kissed your collarbone, and you pulled him in, locking your lips with him as he zipped your--his--hoodie up, pulling the hood over your hair and yanking at the strings. He pulled your panties up your legs, and then your shorts, before he slipped his briefs back on, laying on his stomach, in between your legs, which were still shaky. You pet at his hair and noticed how normal this felt--you and him together like this. Brian, reading your mind, lifted his head and kissed your nose, pulling the hood down.

“I’m in love with you.” He confessed, hugging you tighter, anticipating your response.

“Hi, I’m in love with you, nice to meet you.” You picked his hand up, shaking it firmly. “Funny, because I’m in love with you too!” Brian laughed, muffled into your stomach as he kissed the fabric, his eyes fluttering shut.

taglist: @silencedleviathan @alexfayer @ledger-kaos @ma-ntequilla @discodeakky @richiethotzierz @thisloveisreal1 @heartsarecompatible @thelondondreamer5 @brian-may-brian-may @okqueenie @gailymlee @trickster-may @bubblypenguin123 @queensdarlingg @soloosunflower @dvndermifflinassociate @fredthelegend @miez-lakatz @arrowswithwifi @mouse507 @mespetitestortues @yourstateofdreaming @pamoreno @helenathe3rd @allie-of-asgard @deacytits @hystericallyqueen @missqueeniewrites @bulsarahutton @paper-queer-plane @xilann (message me if i forgot you/you want to be added!)

#brian may #brian may fanfic #brian may smut #brian may x reader #gwilym lee #rami malek #borhap #bohemian rhapsody #queen #fanfiction #smut #au #freddie mercury #roger taylor #john deacon #ben hardy #joe mazzello

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delicrieux · 7 years

Text

an attic romance [jugxreader] 1/2

a/n; i had an epiphany. decided to write. for anyone who knows of good jughead fics/writes them, please send them my way. tag me. kidnap me and make me look at them. i think im in love

words; 1894

warnings; just teens being teens

summary; you and jug had been biffles for LIFE. only except all this time he has been madly in love with you. only when he’s homeless and you decide to help out he has the courage to confess

part two.

MASTERLIST. KO-FI.

“Where will you stay now?” He looked up at you from his laptop with a tired look before he returned to stare at the blank monitor and the open notepad in it. At Pop’s it was slow today. The occasional bright laugh from a few booths back seemed ill fitting in the situation you found yourself in at this very moment. The plastic table was cold on your palms, your brows burrowed together in worry as you tried to catch his gaze again but to no avail. You leaned in ever so slightly, the bright yellow uniform shifting just so that it let your bra strap slip into view, “I mean…” you trailed off, trying to find the correct words. Biting your lower lip you glanced at Ronnie’s mom – she was very obviously following this conversation with a knowing look, standing all the way behind the counter and wiping a few glasses – and you actively missed Jughead throwing a look at your exposed shoulder. “Since Twilight Drive-In is…” His jaw tensed. You halted, “I’m sorry, Juggie, I know it’s a touchy subject, but you gotta give me an answer.”

“I’ll figure something out.” He said dryly. Anger flared in your chest and you inhaled though your nose, your lips lining thin. Glaring at Ronnie’s mom, who shuffled away as the booth third down from you called her, you looked back at him, again failing to notice him sneaking glances at your pink strap.

“Well figure it out now.” You declared, “here. With me.” He rolled his eyes. Your anger wilted and you reached for his hand across the table, “Juggie,” you said his name tenderly, wrapping your fingers around his. He refused to look at you, “we’ve been best friends for what now…two years? Three? Ages?” A somber smile pulled on the corner of your lips, “I have every right there is to worry about you, you know I do. I care for you.”

His jaw locked in place and he cleared his throat. Jughead finally lifted his eyes up from the screen, the dimmed down white light reflecting in his irises and masking whatever painful emotion was displayed in. “I know.” He said, “I—“ his voice cracked, “I care for you too, (Name).” Your lovely smile was the only answer he received. A pause. You let your ears capture the soft tune coming from the stereo, an end of a joke from the table behind you, and even the order Ronnie’s mom said aloud to double check – all the while absentminded your thumb caressed the surface of hand. When you caught what you were doing you jerked away and tried to normalize such a reaction by fixing your hair. Your eyes wandered away from his and you blushed. Just as someone called for an order, your table you realized, you thanked whoever was up above and quickly stood up.

“My cue to leave…” You mumbled, turning on your heel and about to bolt down the aisle when an idea popped into your head and you stopped. Back tracking you turned back to him, looking somewhere above over his head, “You know…I have an attic. If you really have nowhere to go, you can…” Your eyes met his, “stay there.” Jughead nearly choked on his saliva, “Until you get it together, that is.” You added.

“Uhm, ah, yeah, I’ll…I’ll think about it.” He nodded stiffly.

“Great…well…call me if you want some more coffee. Or a milkshake.” With that, you hurriedly scurried away.

/////////////////////////////

Of course he agreed to stay over. He had been crushing on you for years, there was no way in hell he’d miss such an opportunity. Granted, a part of him, the rational one, insisted on staying away - it was simply convinced that he would hurt himself even more if he didn’t keep his distance. Seeing you every day in school smiling was enough. Seeing you at Pop’s in that cute uniform bringing him coffee like clockwork was enough. Being your friend was enough.

Except it wasn’t.

He fixed a smile as you looked up at him. Your attic was small and scruffy, dust particles dancing in the air and lingering on old boxes. You had just finished making him a bed - you carried and old mattress from the garage (with his help, of course), picked the fluffiest pillows and gave him clean covers. Even threw in a few stuffed animals you had laying around in your room so that he ‘wouldn’t get scared or lonely’. He was grateful, beyond words grateful, but having you be so close yet so far had never been so painful. He inhaled, the back of his throat tickling from the polluted air, and he made a mental note to pry the small window open to let the room breathe.

“Thanks.” He said, shifting from the floor to the mattress and lightly bouncing on it, “Really, I…Am apparently not a man of many words.” He finished on a lighter, less emotional, note, making you grin.

“No one uses this attic anymore, so I doubt anyone will come up here…And if they try you can be sure I’ll stop them.” You said, “I’ll let the ladder down when you can come out.” You glanced out the window – dark. Downstairs the main door opened and shut. The jingling of keys reached all the way here. It was soon followed by your dads ‘Honey! Baby sweet cornflake (Name)! We’re home and we got pizza!’ and your moms quiet and displeased ‘Again…’. As if on cue you looked at Jughead – in the dim lighting of several phone flashlights he appeared almost ghostly and was wistfully staring somewhere behind your shoulder. You faltered. You needed to go, but leaving him here, alone, depressed and an asthma den seemed impossible.

“Honey! Come down while it’s still hot…!”

You snapped your head back “Save some for me! I’m in the attic!” Pregnant silence followed by Jughead’s eyes widening in alarm. The shuffling downstairs stopped.

“Attic? The hell you doing there?”

“Just looking at some old pictures! I’ll be down later!” You called, pacing to the ladder and bringing it up. The opening closed and all fell quiet. Jughead, still on edge, pointed at the entrance, about to open his mouth but you beat him to it, “They won’t come up here.” You said, coming to sit next to him, “I sort of…Used to come up here when I was …singing.”

“You never mentioned you can sing.”

“That’s because I can’t.” You replied with a smile, “Some secrets are meant to be taken to the grave.” You finished coyly, “Besides,” You tilted your head to the side, letting your eyes wander over the eerie shadows, “I’m pretty sure if I was ever to mention my…love for music you would’ve bullied me into showing you.”

“I’d never.” He faked offense with a grin, “But honestly? The information of your parents refusing to go up here because of your singing is enough for me to stop questioning it all together.”

“A wise man, you are.”

“I just know when I’m venturing into dangerous territory.”

The two of you shared a laugh, which lastly died down into pleasant silence. The soft buzz from the working engines of your mobiles bounced off the wooden walls, shuffling from downs stairs droning for a while before some tune from the radio started playing in the kitchen. The room was fairly cold, but sitting this close, shoulder to shoulder, sent a spike of heat down your skin, it tingling and you blushed again. Out of the corner of your eye you saw his face turned to you, trying to catch your gaze but you didn’t dare to look at him. It was getting hot.

“You know…” He started quietly, startling you slightly as you found his voice much closer to your ear than you though he’d be, “You didn’t have to stay, Capulet. Trusting your family to leave you a bite is not only foolish, but also should be considered a crime.” A cheeky smile made its way on your lips and you tilted your head to him.

“What art thou saying, Romeo? Do I suspect an ulterior motive of hunger steering thou decision?” He scoffed, playfully rolling his eyes.

“Thou are brainy-er than I thought-th-“ He nearly bit off his tongue, making you slap your hand over your mouth to hide your giggles. Jughead elbowed you playfully, “To be fair, I read ‘Romeo & Juliet’ in eighth grade. Refrain from mocking me too much.”

“You aren’t exactly the ‘Romeo & Juliet’ type, so I’ll let it pass.”

“And why is that?”

“I don’t know, actually.” You said after a moment, “I think you’re more of a Hamlet. Brooding and—“

“-Irrational?”

You cracked a smile, “No, I was going to say emotional, even though you hide it well.” The air stiffened and so did he. Your smile fell, “Listen, Jughead, I know it’s tough. You just lost something special to you, and not having a home is…I have no idea what it feels like. And I hope I never have to, but…” Your hand found his again, squeezing it reassuringly, “I’m here for you. Whenever you need me.”

A pause. “Do you remember…” He stared, “the day we first met? Me and Archie had just pulled up in the Drive-In and were setting up the pillows. Betty was…almost drooling over him, even back then,” His voice was low and rasp. You gulped. “And then…I saw you-Well, we saw you. Standing by Sheryl’s car and looking lost. And I swear to you, right there and then I knew that I—“ he suddenly looked at you, his voice cracking. His eyes briefly wandered around your face – from the worry lines in between your brows to your parted glossy lips on which he lingered for much much longer, “I…” the proximity between the two of you was slowly dissipating and whether it was his doing or yours you had no clue. His breath fanned your lips in a slight moment of hesitation. The blurry image of him faded into nothing as you shut your eyes in an instant. You felt the burning touch of his rough palm cup the side of your jaw and pull you close as he captured you in a passionate lip lock.

The kiss set you ablaze. The taste of his lips and his musky scent made your head spin and you didn’t dare to open your eyes, instead savouring the sensation and pushing closer. His thumb caressed your cheek making a quiver shoot up your spine. The need for oxygen made the two of you part. Prying your eyes open you took in soft gushes of cold air, through the dark crown of your lashes seeing him close made your heart swell and jump. Excitement pooled and dropped to your abdomen. Jughead leaned in again, softly the tip of his nose brushed against yours as he aimed for your lips again, but stopped. He was hesitant, you realized, perhaps he was wondering whether you wanted this just as much as he did. As a way to rid him of all doubt, your fingers curled on his shirt, a frail breath leaving your lips before you kissed him.

tbc

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