#five nights ay freddys x reader

[jerseybuck]

more springy doodles

[ineloqueent]

Starstruck: Part 5

Brian May x Fem!Reader

This is Part 5 of a multi-part fic. Click the links below to read the Masterpost, the previous part, or the next part of the fic :)

Masterpost / Part 4 / Part 6

Summary: When studying at Imperial College in the 1970s, your path is crossed by a beautiful boy as much in love with the stars as you.  

Warnings: swearing

Historical Inaccuracies:

I have no idea whether Deacy and/or anyone else of the Queen entourage ever frequented or even visited The Speakeasy Club (also known as the Speak) in Oxford Circus, but the place was popular amongst the likes of David Bowie and Jimi Hendrix. The history of the place is incredibly fascinating, though, so let me know if you’d like some resources to learn more about it!!

Word Count: 3k

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

Despite the fact that the universe seemed rather intent on having you and Brian repeatedly encounter one another in random places, you didn’t see him again until the arranged Thursday.

You found yourself missing talking of stars and actually having someone understand what it was you were saying, and you missed silly banter.

You were not the only one missing a curly-haired astrophysics major, however, because Freddie, John, and Roger embodied being only three-quarters-full without Brian. There was no one to mother them, no one to shout the loudest in the apparently frequent arguments of the Queen family, no one to tease for an absurd attachment to a red guitar.

The week and four days about to pass would seem to you a very vast expanse of time to be without someone, especially when that someone had been a regular presence in your life for the past three days.

But for now, only a week and two days had passed. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday again; it was now Tuesday night once more.

“He’s gone for a week and the world stops turning,” sighed Roger, tapping a sparkly-shoe adorned foot to the corner of the carpet beneath Deacy and Veronica’s dining table.

“A week and two days,” you corrected Roger.

“Hm, you’re starting to sound rather in love with him, darling,” Freddie clucked his tongue at Roger, who scowled.

“Yes, do be quiet, Roger,” John put in. “I can hardly think here, and writing songs is difficult enough for me as it is.” He scratched at his head with the tip of his pen.

“Yes, if ‘Misfire’ was any indication,” grumbled Roger.

“Roger!” you and Freddie cried in unison. Deacy just looked affronted.

“You know how sensitive he is about his song writing,” Freddie berated Roger.

You were sitting next to Deacy, across from the other two, and wrapped him in a hug. You could see that he’d already gotten over Roger’s remark, because while it had held a grain of truth concerning Deacy’s lack of confidence, it had not held any real malice. You hugged John all the same, and he cuddled you back, pouting in Roger’s direction. Deacy was simply precious by nature, so no one could resist babying him just a little. But Roger was in a bad mood. For the time being, it appeared he had taken up Brian’s torch.

“We could easily have made room for another song on the album if we hadn’t had to have that on there,” Roger said.

Freddie immediately cuffed him on the back of the head. “Roger, really, enough!”

“Hey!” Roger batted at Freddie and a small cat fight ensued.

You patted John’s soft head of hair. “How are you today?” you asked him, as though Roger and Freddie were not tooth and claw before you.

Deacy smiled. “Quite alright, you know, quite alright. How are you, Y/N, dear?”

You sighed. “Forever tired and worrying about things I shouldn’t, but holding up well nonetheless.”

Deacy chuckled. “Worry-wart,” he jabbed your side and you finally jerked away from him.

“Oi!”

“At least you forgot your worries, just then,” he said.

“Fair enough,” you acquiesced.

“NOT MY HAIR!” Roger vaulted up from his chair and it fell to the ground with a clatter. “Not my hair,” he repeated more quietly, and pointing at Freddie warningly, he seemed rather unhinged.

Freddie leaned back in his own chair and folded his arms, languid as one of his cats. “I didn’t touch your peroxide-green hair, dearie.”

“You tried to,” Roger bit out. “And it’s not green.”

“Not today.”

“Freddie, I swear I’m going to maul you—”

“Okay!” Deacy stood up, raising his hands in the pursuit of peace. “Since Brian’s not here, I’m going to have to be the responsible one. Even though you’re both other than me and I should not be parenting you,” he rolled his eyes.

Freddie and Roger remained unmoving.

“I think we’ve all been cooped up in here for too long, too many rounds of Death Scrabble and whatnot, so I suggest we get out. Maybe do something fun.”

You nodded in agreement with Deacy. “What a good idea. What do you suggest?”

Roger whistled through his teeth. “Not a good idea, Y/N. Never ask what he suggests.”

“Says the bloke who’s lost each and every girlfriend because he talked too much about cars,” you said, and Roger made a face in your direction.  

“I was thinking,” Deacy began.

“Here we go,” said Roger.

“Shut up and sit down,” Freddie pulled Roger down to sit on his knee. Roger stuck his tongue out at Freddie, but shared his chair all the same.

“I was thinking disco!”

“Strangle me with my own jacket,” Roger muttered.

Freddie sniffed, “So long as you don’t try to sell my jacket again.”

“Disco,” you said thoughtfully. “What’s so bad about disco?”

“Nothing at all. Excellent pastime,” Deacy responded.

“Everything,” said Roger at the same time. “Have you ever gone to a disco, Y/N?”

“No,” you replied slowly.

Roger threw up his hands. “There’s the sense.”

Deacy looked at you in something like concern. “We’re five years into this decade and you’ve never been to a disco, Y/N?”

“And you shouldn’t go to one either,” said Roger. Deacy raised an eyebrow at him.

You decided to consult Freddie. “What’s your opinion, Fred?”

Freddie shrugged. “Deacy’s a precious darling whom I love and who could do no wrong.”

Roger faced you with his hands on his hips. “Brian doesn’t like disco.”

You felt laughter bubble up in your throat. “We’re not the same person, Rog.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Where the hell is he, anyway?” you asked the three of them. “I can’t believe he’s called just the once, and only to assure you that he wasn’t dead in a ditch somewhere.”

None of them had any answers. The last you’d seen of Bri was over a week ago, and the last you’d heard of him was when he’d called Freddie over the weekend to apologise for his absence from Queen’s most recent rehearsal.

“At least we know as much,” Freddie sighed.

“Would it have killed him to give me a call?” you said, running your fingers through your hair and feeling generally restless.

“Maybe he tried,” Roger hypothesised. “Maybe that’s why he’s not here now.”

“What?”

“It literally killed him to call you,” Roger sniggered, and Freddie cackled.

“Okay, and now I am going to literally kill both of you,” you stood up.

Poor Deacy was looking quite overwhelmed at this point. In John’s eyes, you might as well have covered your face in warpaint and charged at Freddie and Roger.

“Disco time!” he said, putting a hand on your arm.

You turned to Deacy. “Now?”

“Now.”

“But surely she can’t go dressed like this?” Freddie gestured to your well-worn corduroys and button-up shirt.

“No, Cinderella cannot,” said Deacy. “But I’ll give Veronica a call. She should be going home in just a bit, so she can play fairy-godmother to her.”

“Let’s stop talking about me in third-person,” you said, then stood up. “I’m going to get a glass of water. Anyone else want anything?” You knew your friends’ houses as well as you knew your own, so the offer came naturally.

You received ‘no’s and ‘no thank you’s in response, so you went for your glass of water while the other three remained at the table, staring at a full Scrabble board.

“Freddie,” you heard Roger say through gritted teeth, “I thought you said I was Cinderella.”

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

Ronnie came home on time, as her husband had said she would, and was dragging with her a stubborn-looking Heather. The two of them worked part time at the same corner cafe, and so when Deacy had called the cafe’s phone to see if Ronnie would be finished soon, Ronnie had taken initiative and invited Heather with her.

“She didn’t like it when I said disco,” Ronnie whispered the word as though it were taboo. Sure enough, Heather groaned.

“That’s my girl!” cried Roger, happy to have someone to complain to about the night’s turn of events.

Heather waggled her fingers at you in greeting, then flung her arms around Roger. “Hello babe,” she said, and kissed him.

John reached for Veronica, so Freddie grabbed your arm.

“Quick,” he said, “while they’re distracted, let’s raid Ronnie’s wardrobe!”

You giggled together like school girls and snuck up the stairs before Deacy or Ronnie could stop you.

In the upstairs bedroom, Freddie flung open the wardrobe with all the flair and drama of a film noir actor.

“Ah, what’ve we got…” He began rifling through the contents of the wardrobe. You watched over his shoulder.

“Where’s Mary, anyway?” you asked him conversationally, leaning against a bedpost. But at the mention of Mary, Freddie went rigid. “Freddie? Is everything okay?”

Just then, Veronica entered the room.

Freddie glanced at Ronnie, then smiled at you, albeit uneasily. “Everything’s just rosy,” he said. “Now, I’ll let you two ladies decide the outfit, so long as I get to do the make up, yes?”

He slipped out of the room without waiting for an answer, in an unusual hurry.

You and Veronica exchanged a glance.

“Odd,” she said.

“I’ll talk to him later.”

“Or else I’ll get John to. Freddie, like most people, can’t resist my husband’s charms,” Veronica winked at you. “Now, what can we get you, from my admittedly humbly-sized selection…”

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

Half an hour later, having taken the tube to Oxford Circus, the six of you stepped into the bright lights of The Speakeasy Club.

Before you went inside, you glanced up at the sky, because you had remembered that there was a full moon tonight. You spotted the moon easily, dazzlingly bright in her ephemerally whole beauty, round as infinity and promising more.

Heather had to tug you away. You could’ve stood on by the kerbside forever, entranced by the world above you.

John led you all down the stairs of 48 Margaret Street and into its basement, where the club was situated. Despite its modest location, music pounded heavily from the Speak, and everything was awash with light, light in every colour imaginable.

Everyone inside of the club was as colourful as the lights, the hues of skin and hair and lips and eyes dying away to be replaced with rainbows and sparkles.

Deacy turned around, and in spite of his reputation for being often smiley, you’d never seen him beam like this before.

He spread his hands, “Isn’t it wonderful?!”

Roger muttered, “Fucking kill me.”

John frowned at Roger. “I never complain when you talk about cars,” he said.

“Well, obviously, I should talk about them more often,” Roger sniffed.

Deacy ignored Roger and took Ronnie’s hand, spinning her around and making her giggle.

“Oh, but I have to agree with Deac,” you told Roger, looking around at the people who smiled as they danced, dressed in glitz and glamour and everything in between. Every person you regarded was equally as radiant as Deacy in this environment, and the energy of the club was thus made infectious. You wondered honestly why Roger hated this— he himself was rather high energy.

“You can forget about your little friendship with Brian,” Roger told you. “This is not his scene.”

“Well, said Freddie, “he’s not here right now, is he, darling? So speak for yourself,”

You shook your head at Roger. “You are having a bad day, Rog. Lighten up a bit,” you ruffled his fluffy blonde hair before he could stop you.

“Yes, come on, Rog,” said Heather, “one dance can’t hurt, can it?”

Roger sighed. “Suppose not.” He glanced at you. “Sorry, that was a bit mean of me, Y/N.”

You let it go. “I like your shoes,” you winked.

Roger pointed his toes in his sparkly pink shoe. “I do have quite the fashion sense.” He scampered away with Heather who was pulling him onto the dance floor.

Deacy and Ronnie followed after them, and in your platform heels and curled hair and sequined boots, you stood at a bit of a loss, until Freddie nudged your shoulder.

“We’re here to dance, darling!”

You smiled and let Freddie lead you out onto the dance floor.

After about twenty minutes of dancing, you were beginning to have fun, to forget yourself a little while, to forget to miss the presence of Brian May.

Roger and Heather spun wildly, tapping toes and dancing basically attached at the hip.

Deacy and Ronnie were more family-friendly in public company, and had shown you a few moves. Deacy was in his element, and unlike Roger, his dancing was tight and controlled. It was obvious that he danced not to be seen, but for the wealth of his soul. He loved to dance, and his wife did too, and it was clear that their love was made in heaven.

Freddie however, did dance to be seen. Which was peculiar, really, given he was already going out with the classy Miss Mary Austin. But his eyes followed other people entirely. And soon enough, he winked at you and disappeared off to dance with some pretty boy.

You’d never pegged Freddie for completely heterosexual, but then again, this was the seventies, and it was hard to tell. Not that you cared who he chose to partner with for romantic encounters, but you were worried. From Brian comforting a crying Freddie on a bathroom floor the other night, to the brawl, to Freddie freezing at the mention of Mary, it was clear that something wasn’t right. And you’d be damned if you let one of your best friends suffer in silence.

You continued to dance alongside the others, but throughout the night, you kept a watchful eye out for Freddie. Thankfully, he never disappeared for more than a couple of minutes at a time, so your nerves relaxed a little.

You’d corner him someday soon and find out what it was that was bothering him. For now, though, you were dancing on your own, wondering if a certain curly-haired guitarist might have wanted to dance with you.

Wondering if he’d gazed up at the full moon in the same way that you had.

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

The phone rang Wednesday evening, and you hoped it wasn’t your mother calling.

She worried even more than you did, and though it didn’t greatly show, you could see it, in the twitch of her mouth, in her fingers that tapped an armrest or tabletop, hear it in the way her pauses became more frequent between sentences, hesitations hovering like bumblebees.

You couldn’t face her right now, because she’d ask if you were okay, if you were managing your stress, and presently, you were growing increasingly concerned about the whereabouts and well-being of Brian Harold May.

You really hoped it wasn’t your mother calling.

“Hello, Y/N Andrews speaking.”

“Brian May,” said a tired voice on the other end of the line.

You hurtled forward, gripping the phone with both hands.

“Bri!”

You could almost see his soft smile. “Hi, Y/N.”

You sputtered, “But where have you been? Where are you? Is everything okay?”

There was a sigh and another noise that sounded like Brian shifting the phone from one ear to the other. “How many times must you ask before you realise that I can’t give you the answer you want?”

There was no bite to his tone, just a rawness that suggested he didn’t want to worry you by not telling you what was going on, but also thought that details would weigh you down with problems that shouldn’t be yours. You understood the nature of his tone so well because it was one you were guilty of on a regular basis.

“I’m just worried about my friend,” you responded quietly. You didn’t want to pressure him, but nor did you want him to feel that he was alone in the world with his troubles.

Another sigh. “Yes, I know. I’m sorry.”

“What’ve I said about apologising, Brimi,” you muttered. “Why are you calling me?” You meant why was he calling you now specifically, though you also wondered why he was calling you. As far as you were aware, he hadn’t contacted Freddie again, and he hadn’t spoken to Roger or John at all.

“To tell you that I’ll be there tomorrow night.”

Tomorrow night, Thursday. For guitar lessons and derivation help.

“Brian, surely, if things are so bad that you disappear for a week, you know I’d understand if you didn’t turn up tomorrow.”

“No questions asked?” he said.

You didn’t hesitate. You didn’t have to, for there was no doubt in your mind. “No questions asked.”

He laughed that gentle half-laugh of his, the one that expressed a resignation, a sadness, rather than mirth. It shattered you a little bit.

“I did say you were a wonderful friend. But I’ll be there tomorrow. Eight in the evening, if that’s alright?”

“Yeah,” you said, feeling a little dazed. “I live on Camden High Street. The rickety green house behind the Plaza Cinema.”

“I’ll try not to get lost,” he replied, a touch of his usual humour resurfacing. But good god did he sound tired, worn down and worn out. “Tell the others not to worry. I’ll be home soon.” He had the air of a man who had travelled the cosmos in their entirety, walked the sky and the path of the stars for eons, lonely but unafraid.

He breathed quietly, “Good night, Y/N.”

It was odd, you thought, how you were always saying good night to each other. Perhaps some kind of magic existed in the night that brought you together.

Oh, but it did exist— the magic was the stars.

“Good night, Bri. Safe travels.”

You put down the phone, and only then did it occur to you: he had not called the others.

He had called you.

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

A/N: bit of a short one today, m’dears. sorry about that. maybe i’ll have to do a cheeky mid-week update... 🥰

taglist: @melting-obelisks @hgmercury39 @stardust-killer-queen

Masterpost / Part 4 / Part 6