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zweiginator · 6 years ago

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As It Began

Brian May x Fem!Reader

Summary: Brian is twenty-three and working at earning his PhD when he meets you--coy and effortlessly beautiful--in an elective literature course. He��s infatuated by your inattentiveness to him, and he has never wanted anybody or anything more than he wants you.

Word Count: ...12,129.... (i said she was long)

Warnings: Pining, angst, sadness, lust, flirting, (kind of) cheating, filthy sex (unprotected, mutual masturbation, oral) --she has everything

The last bit of summer was dwindling as the days became shorter, the sun seeming to extinguish itself perpetually before nine. Brian looked through his window, down upon the streets of London as yellow raincoats and soggy boots sloshed through glassy rain, the city lights haloed upon grease-slicked streets. He had to focus extra hard to see anything else than his quite bemused-looking reflection, glaring through the cold window as if his sharp nose was pressed against a personal black mirror, and not his bedroom window, where rain was slapping against the glass with such force it made him wince--he got jumpy at night.

But nine was barely night; Brian had made do with the sunken bags which hung under his eyes like a speckled nest where his sleeplessness gathered into shades of pinks and purples, luckily barely visible from his freckled tan, deep from the sunny breezes in Tenerife which kissed his cheeks, cascaded down his languid body.

He’d spent the summer on the humid, lush fields in Tenerife, stammering through Spanish and squinting through poorly-assembled lenses and telescopes borrowed from the university--that the department only let him have after filling his ears with passive threats. They knew Brian would never disrespect their property; he couldn’t disrespect anything if he tried.

And now, his hands were dry from that quintessentially summer sun as he traced the rain droplets that trembled from the slope of the shingled roof, wishing he could feel the water seep into his pores, so he could think about anything else, other than the oppressing anxiety of his next journey that would surely immortalize those sunken eyes of his. He was going to start his studies for his PhD the next day, his father’s urging. And while of course Brian wanted to continue his studies as well, his stomach felt tightly-wound and his fingers trembled like the rain on the window as he thought about the work, the classes, the time he would have to inevitably spend on school. He was lucky enough to have received a full scholarship for his PhD, but left the endeavor feeling more forced upon him than his father’s dreams of him did. His work at his undergraduate studies was impeccable; he received almost perfect marks and he spent the weekends teetering between two very antithetical sides of himself. One weekend Brian would be sat on a rooftop with his college friends, their hair mussed from the mid-summer’s breeze, stringy from the wind pulling the strands apart as they quarreled about angular measurements and accuracy. And the next weekend he’d have eyeshadow firmly packed onto puffy eyelids as he tried to maneuver his bony hands over his guitar, his flowy sleeves like wings which seemed to take him to a more natural state of himself, where the expectations for him weren’t so serious.

His eyes began to flutter shut, the London traffic becoming a sort of lullaby for him as he laid down on his bed, which sat against the window. His sheets were crisp and cold, and his teeth chattered as he pulled a fleece blanket of his over him, up to his shoulders. He leaned over to his bedside table and fiddled with his alarm clock, his white nail polish glowing by the yellow street lights which gleamed through the window beside him. He set the clock for 8:30 AM precisely; his elective literary studies class beginning an hour later.

“Brian, would you turn the fucking alarm off?” Roger rattled the doorknob before turning it swiftly and flipping the light switch on and off, on and off.

Brian groaned, pulling his flattened pillow over his face, his hair sloppy from sleep. “What are you talking about, Roger?”

“Your bloody alarm has been blaring for almost half an hour; you woke us all up, we thought we were going crazy!” Roger yanked the cord of the clock, sighing in relief as the sharp ringing finally stopped echoing through his ears.

“Half an hour?” Brian sat up, rubbing his eyes. He did the math quickly, despite remaining half asleep. “Shit!” He thrust himself out of bed, his comforter promptly falling to the wooden floors as he realized class started in less than thirty minutes.

“My alarm was going off for half an hour and you never bothered to wake me?” Brian glared at Roger, who was laying on Brian’s naked bed, his hands woven together, resting on his chest as he looked at the ceiling.

“Not my job to wake you up, Bri. You’re twenty three. Why was your alarm even set?” He furrowed his eyebrows, interrogating Brian, who struggled to button his flared trousers due to his shaky hands.

“You waited fucking half an hour! Now I’m going to be late and it’s my first day!” Brian stood in front of a mirror which hung by his closet, mussing his hair in an attempt to somehow reverse how messy it looked already, loose curls arranged in awry tufts.

“First day for what?” Deaky walked in, his feet padding against the cold floors. He was wearing his boxers and a baggy t-shirt, his voice groggy from a restless slumber.

“University! I’m still going to school, remember? I’ve only told you on about eight different occasions.” Brian shrugged a white button-up on, not bothering to fasten it all the way; he didn’t have time. He turned his necklace around on his thin neck so the chain was positioned as he wanted it to be.

“Right. Well you definitely told us that while we were pissed off our asses.” Roger had plugged Brian’s alarm clock back into the wall, and was attempting to set it to the correct time again by looking at a watch of Brian’s sitting beside it.

“Whatever. What time is it, Rog?” Brian yawned, pulling a light jacket on as he sat on his bed, scouring the floor for socks to wear. He found a navy blue one an a black one and decided those colors were similar enough to count as matching.

“Quarter past nine.” He pat the clock gently as he finished setting it.

“Fuck.” Brian piled his books into his arms and shoved them into his school bag before grabbing a dull pencil and tucking it behind his ear, the yellow barrel obscured by his thick curls.

“Bri we’re recording a demo at five tonight. Bring your guitar; you always forget it and we’re too fucking poor to wait on you like last time and waste our rental money.”

Brian glared at Roger and slung his guitar case over his shoulder, his school bag hanging heavy on his other one. He was embarrassed to be bringing his bulky instrument on his first day of classes, and was on the verge of anxiety-induced tears by the thought of being late on the first day where school was actually meant to be real and professional and for something.

He strolled through the streets taking wide and sure strides, staring at his watch so often he mumbled ‘sorry’ to quite a few strangers as his guitar case knocked into their sunken shoulders. It was almost half-past, and his shoes were caked in a thin, rain diluted mud, making his presence on the street that much more palpable, a constant reminder that he was late. He was walking against the wind, and his eyes were squinting, his breath caught, frozen in his nostrils and trapped in his throat as the heavy air blocked his lungs.

He ran to the liberal arts building, his guitar hitting against the ridges of his spine as he dodged leisured students who were chatting through the corridors. His watch read nine thirty-four, and he bit his lip as his knuckles rapped against the cherrywood door of the classroom, his metal rings making a clean, tinny sound against it. He had always prided himself on being on time to school. He was always waiting by the door, sitting on a small glossy wooden bench as his foot tapped in tune to the clicking of his watch, waiting for the hour to strike. He hated being late, and he was attempting to rehearse what he was going to say, when the professor opened the door, pursing her thin lips, which she painted red, probably in an attempt to reassure herself that her youth wasn’t completely lost.

She rose her thin, almost semicircular eyebrows, opening the door wider for Brian to come in. When she saw his guitar case, she scoffed, and Brian’s face reddened, feeling her judgement as his professor looked him up and down, noting his disheveled hair, his exposed chest, tight pants, muddy shoes. Brian sauntered through the door, trying his best to look cool and relaxed, channeling his on-stage persona which was admittedly hard to summon when seventy-five colleges students were staring at him as if he were an unworthy specimen.

“This isn’t a music studio, I hope you know that much--,” She paused, looking at her roster, waiting for Brian to fill in the blank. He stood in front of the rows of seats, and he finally understood why students were referred to as pupils; he felt more than one hundred of them watching his every move, amused by his perturbation.

“Brian. May.” He straightened his back, trying to get his guitar to fall more comfortably on his body; it was starting to make his back ache. He continued, trying to redeem himself, but it presented itself as a lost cause. “I know it’s not uh--a music studio. My band has a recording session after my classes today. I wouldn’t normally be so--late. And messy.” He added, shaking his head slightly to move his hair out of his face, even though he wanted nothing more than to hide behind it.

The class snickered, their chairs orchestrating a symphony of screeching against the paneled floors as they stifled laughs at Brian’s embarrassment.

“Well, keep your guitar by the door, so people can actually see the lecture you’ve so kindly interrupted.” Brian quickly pulled the strap over his head, his hair bouncing back into its place--not that it really had a place on his head. Each strand fell on his face--upon his brow, differently every day. “You can sit down next to Y/N Y/L/N. She’s front and center. Can’t hide in the back when you fail to be on time.”

Brian’s eyes followed the professor’s--who he learned was named professor Lee--perks of standing beside her desk for over two minutes; he counted on his watch. You sat exactly where she said, and you were looking at him with concern, your legs crossed over one another as your sneaker-covered feet bobbed up and down. You were wearing a casual dress with black tights, your shoulders covered by a thick coat. You were drawing swirls along the curved corners of your notebook, your fingers tracing over the metal spiral simultaneously. Your eyes were boring into his, your lip sucked between your teeth nervously. Brian’s eyes widened as he took in your features, the easiness of them making him nervous to sit down next to a creature so beautiful, and effortlessly so. Your hair cascaded perfectly, falling in a way that was completely opposite of his own. His shoulders fell as he took his school bag off, setting it on the floor next to yours. You gave him a genuine smile, your eyes crinkling, eyebrows framing the grin flawlessly. He smiled back, canines poking through bitten, wind-chapped lips. Brian stretched his legs as he slyly buttoned his shirt up a bit more, feeling out of place in a room full of pristinely dressed, serious students. He always identified as a serious student, but his confidence was severely off-kilter because of just how much he stood out. HIs hair wasn’t gelled down, he didn’t wear a nice tie, or tailored trousers. His nails were painted, fingers adorned with silver rings, still cold to the touch. He had grown more comfortable with feeling uncomfortable--different--because he had to as a performer. He’d learned to embrace his style, which would forever be more akin to his musical persona than his studious, scientific one. But sitting next to the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, he wished he could have made himself a worthy contender of getting to know you. He wished he wouldn’t have embarrassed himself so much, made himself look uncaring, stupid. He wanted to promise you: yes, I’m smart! I care so much about this; I’m not normally like this!

But he pulled his own journal out, fresh and leather bound, a gift from his father for enrolling into university once again, almost as soon as the accomplished glow of graduation wore from his face, the happiness immortalized by hundreds of photos his mother insisted on taking. He reached behind his ear, in search of the pencil he had tucked there earlier. He couldn’t find it, and he desperately patted his pockets, rolling his eyes as he failed to find one in his bag as well. His heartbeat was warped, uneven as he leaned towards you, your perfume wafting into him, making him even more nervous, somehow. You felt his eyes on you, and saw him leaning in through your peripheral vision, so you turned your head to face him, taken aback by his big, hazel-but-leaning-towards-brown eyes, his eyelashes delicate, but heavy looking nonetheless. His nose was aquiline, curved and prominent, a centerpiece that accented the rest of him well. His bottom lip protruded as he asked you if you would so kindly spare him a pencil. Or pen; he specified he would be okay with any utensil.

You rummaged through your bag, handing him a purple pen, the plastic cap barely bitten, but you were a bit tentative on giving it to him. His fingers brushed against yours, and you noticed the size of his hands, the white nail polish, chipping along the edge of his nails as he took the pen from your loosening grasp.

“Thank you, Y/N.” He whispered, looking up at you through his impossibly long lashes, as he scribbled on the corner of the first page of his journal. The pen was dry, and Brian poked his tongue out, poking the tip of the ben with it, the sting of metal coursing through his mouth, making him wince a bit.

“No problem, Brian.” you uttered, watching as the ink began to flow upon the page, purple ink bleeding into illegible scribble as he focused on the lecture. You turned away and did the same, until the professor dismissed class, the students intuitively and synchronously gathering their things to leave. Brian was slower, not wanting to leave before you did. He mirrored your actions, filing his papers in a folder, closing his journal gently, pretending to be fascinated by a blank, speckled piece of paper inside of it. He only stood up to leave as you did. He halted by the door, where his guitar case sat, leaned against the edge of the chalkboard. He bent down, picking it up slowly, trying not to be too conspicuous with his side-eyed glances to you, as you smiled at a couple, letting them leave in front of you. You hung your head, messing with the hem of your dress, pulling a frayed string from the seam. Brian stood at the door, looking at the plethora of novels shoved into professor Lee’s wooden bookshelf that, uncoincidentally, matched the wood on the classroom door perfectly. Your pen was between his lips, protruding out like a long skinny and purple cigarette, as he feigned interest in whatever book cover caught his eye.

As you neared him, Brian’s stature improved, his back straightening although his lower back was tender from the weight of his many bags and cases. He quickly took the pen from out of his mouth, wiping the spit that gathered on the end on his sleeve.

“Sorry.” he handed the dried pen to you.

“Don’t worry about it.” Your fingers lingered on top of his as you took the pen back, sending a jolt up the back of your neck, and you shivered a bit.

As soon as you and Brian left the classroom, your friend’s arm was draped around your shoulder, leading you away from the bewildered face of Brian, standing in the hallway, looking like a sea of words were jumbled in his mouth, unable to get out.

“How was it?” Freddie took a sip from a half-drunk beer bottle, passed to him by Deaky. Brian was the last to arrive at the recording studio--his astronomy class was long and strenuous, but he felt a lot better, because that’s where he really fit in, where he knew what he was doing.

“Besides being late because you guys are assholes, it was fine.” He took his guitar out of its case and pulled the leather strap over his head, tracing the swirling designs which reminded him of the designs you drew in your tattered notebook.

“Darling, you’re getting your PhD. You’re smarter than all of us, so you can figure out how to wake your skinny ass up.” Freddie took another swig of beer, tilting his head back. His jaw was prominent, and his eyes were a bit puffy, like the rest of the band’s.

Brian sat down on the couch next to Roger, strumming, pulling each string, pronounced and harmonic as the melody thumped through the cigarette-smoke tainted air around them. It was impromptu; Brian came up with it on the spot, his mouth hung open as his coin plucked the strings, vibrations coursing through knobby fingers.

“That’s a nice sound, Bri.” Deaky scooted near him, and watched intently as Brian repeated it, his lip pulled taut between his teeth.

“Got lyrics for that? A composition?” Freddie set his bottle of beer down, standing up as the producers came in on time, for once.

“Uh--no. Just came up with it on the spot.”

“It would be a shame to waste that; it was gorgeous!” Fred pinched Brian’s cheek and pointed a finger at their two producers--short, burly men that contrasted from the band’s look. They looked tired, and annoyed by their liveliness, by their perpetual feelings of having nothing to lose--except for money.

They began recording a short EP, and it was a good day at the studio. Their voices meshed together, silk that was carefully threaded, impossible to pull apart, cohesive, but somehow still fragile and elegant. They never missed a beat, and their long nights of playing until their fingers were blistered and their voices shaky paid off.

The producer pulled his headphones off, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He was smiling though, which was rare for his usually quite cold and harsh demeanor. “This is really strong, guys.” He said, his smile growing so his crooked teeth poked from under chapped lips. “I have a good feeling about this demo. Radio stations have a good chance of actually playing this.”

Brian nudged Roger, and they all began to celebrate, taking swigs from a flat bottle of beer sitting on the edge of a coffee table, scattered with playboys and time magazines--requests from both sides of the spectrum.

“But,” He finished, pointing a finger at them. “I think it would be better received if there were a slower song. Keep Yourself Alive and Liar are fantastic. And I love how My Fairy King slows it down a notch. But I think it needs one more strong song, just to show them you can do it, you know?”

They all nodded, understanding his point, and willing to follow whoever or whatever to the end of the earth if it meant they could gain a speck of recognition for over a year of musical differences, failed bookings, unimpressed record companies.

“Brian, maybe something with that guitar thing you did?” Roger suggested, pointing his almost-empty beer bottle at him, sitting on the arm of the couch, watching as the producers prodded with the controls, playing with the sounds.

“Yeah, I’ll try to come up with something.” He picked the chipping nail polish from his cuticles, trying to think about possible lyrics. But the thing about songwriting--writing in general--for Brian, was that it couldn’t be a forced act. It was like that for everybody, he thought. It had to come deep from the subconscious, the chambers of the heart, submerged in blood and vulnerability.

It was the third week of classes before he saw you again. You had been sick for a week--he didn’t ask you, or know for sure, but he could see it within the rawness on your nose, how your lips were chapped just slightly, your skin a tad paler. He shuffled in his seat as you sauntered towards yours. Brian’s smile faltered as he saw a hand resting on your lower back, against the suede of your coat, probably soft against his fingers. It was a guy he recognized; he sat a couple rows back. He was the complete opposite of Brian physically: more than a head shorter, neat, straight blond hair. He wore expensive suits to class, and wire rim glasses that looked outdated, but he also pulled them off nicely. He was more forward, his hand was tracing down your body, inching lower on your back, almost pulling at the top of your skirt. His name was Thomas, he believed--or maybe he went by Tommy. Brian’s gaze followed Tommy’s fingers, as they crawled towards your hips, digging into the soft skin before he kissed you softly. Brian quickly turned his way as his eyes met Tommy’s, instead looking at the door, watching the students trudge in, finding their seats as they shrugged off soaked coats, rubbing their hands together to create any kind of friction. He raised his eyebrows at Brian, hanging your coat on the back of your seat. Your lips pressed a firm kiss on his jaw as he stood up again, your dark lipstick staining his skin.

The lecture began, seemingly as soon as Brian tore his eyes from your profile. You could feel his stare, his jaw tensed. And then he looked away as professor Lee came in, setting her bag down before getting to her lecture, her dainty fingers holding a fresh piece of chalk, dry in her hands.

“We’re beginning our section on ballads today.” She scrawled the word in white, her handwriting lopsided, uppercase, angry. Brian covered his journal with his arm, writing your name on the top of the paper, so small he had to squint to make it out. He scribbled it out just as fast, realizing how stupid he was--a post-graduate student, a few years away from being Doctor May, pining over a girl who was dating his obverse, a guy he could never be--never wanted to be.

“I want you all to write a ballad or an ode. I want it to be abstract and complicated. It needs to be professional and serious--this isn’t just some entry level course. It should be done by the 2nd of October. I’m giving you almost a month, so be thorough, creative.” Professor Lee rubbed her hands together, a puff of powdered chalk billowing through the air as she dismissed the class. Brian slammed his journal shut, pushing his pen behind his ear as he quickly packed his belongings; he had to go as soon as possible. He grabbed his bag quickly, shoving the journal inside along with his textbook, not caring that his paperback ripped a bit as the tough corner of his textbook nudged against it. Tommy was between your desk and Brian’s, his hands in his pocket as he waited for you to pack up your things. He adjusted his glasses as he made eye contact with Brian, Brian rolling his eyes the almost imperceptibly at his smug face, his expensively tailored shirt and silk tie.

“How did your recording session go?” Tommy asked, condescendingly, handing Brian a small paper he had dropped--a draft of a song he was writing. He snatched it from the shorter man’s hand and shoved it in his pocket.

“We recorded a demo. We’ll see if it gets anywhere; we just have to make some finishing touches.” Brian pursed his lips, his curls flopping as he picked his bag up. You and this Tommy--Brian still didn’t know if that was even his name--followed him as he left, almost mockingly. As if he were saying look, I have what you want. I’ll never let you forget it. Brian stood up taller, slowing down so he was walking next to you, your boyfriend on the other side, his arm around your waist, holding you tightly. You looked up at Brian as he spoke, more relaxed now, mellow and sultry.

“I’m hoping the demo is well-received. We worked really hard on it.”

What he said was innocent enough, but as you watched his face, his curls falling over his dilated eyes, his lip bitten, his shirt unbuttoned like always, you wondered what he was doing. His jaw clenched, and your face grew hot as his sleeve just barely brushed against yours; two whole layers in between making you imagine how touching his bare skin would feel--but you couldn’t do that. Brian opened the heavy door, leading outside where a persistent rain was cascading through the streets. The clouds were almost yellow, hazy, like the leaves which crunched beneath the feet of perturbed Londoners, shuffling past each other, shoulder-to-shoulder. He ushered you out, making sure that Tommy went first. Brian pressed a hand down on your shoulder, and the touch was firm, you felt it everywhere.

“Do you--” you began, pulling your hood up to cover your head, looking at Brian, angelic yet almost sinful to look at.

But he interrupted you, patting both your and Tommy’s shoulders as he raised a hand to greet a blond guy across the street, who was holding a cigarette between his lips, shielding it with jittery hands as he attempted to light it by the covered entrance of a restaurant.

“I’ve gotta go,” He grinned at you two, pointing a thumb across the puddled street. “See you guys next week?”

You nodded, a shiver rising up your back, not because of the cold, but because of Brian’s voice; you’d never noticed how nice it really was. You grabbed his wrist, and Tommy glared at you confused.

“Brian.” You said, assured. He quirked an eyebrow. “You’ve got an eyelash on your cheek.” You stood on your toes and plucked it off, the dark hair prominent against your fingertip. You held it in front of his lips. “Make a wish.” You nudged your finger forward, bumped by a stranger’s shoulder against your own. Your finger grazed against his bottom lip, just barely, as he blew his eyelash, watching as it was whisked away.

Brian waved a goodbye at you, his ring shining under a particularly bright street light as he strode across the street, his hands now shoved deep in his pockets, his hands playing with the perforated edges of a song, hidden away.

___

That night left him sitting at his desk, his fingers gripping his pencil, which he forgot was behind his ear until Deaky teased him for it.

“You’re such a geek, with your pencil behind your ear. How studious you are.” He reached up and grabbed it, and Brian took it back, facetiously rolling his eyes.

Now, he used that pencil, tapping on the crumpled paper in front of him, the same piece that was tucked away in his pocket all day. It was a little soggy, but it would work well enough. The boys were bugging him to write a song, and he knew he had a ballad to write for class anyway. The rubber eraser was dull, completely flat and black, from all of the erasing, and it had grown shorter from how much he had used it. He leaned back on the legs of his desk chair, a mahogany wooden one his father made for him as a housewarming gift. He squinted his eyes, trying to make out the time on his alarm. His eyes focused, and he sighed deeply. It was nearing four AM, and he didn’t have a single, cohesive line written down. He turned off his desk lamp, the only light in his room from the stars, which seemed to be unusually bright, and unshrouded by heavy clouds, like they always were in London. Brian hugged his legs to his chest, looking out the window, his eyes glossed over, tired but unable to sleep. He picked the fuzz from his socks, taking a deep breath before dozing off, curled up tightly. The flat was empty; Deaky was at his girlfriends, Roger and Freddie out at the bars. But he sat alone, like always, cold.

The week elapsed quickly, and Brian hadn’t looked at the song--well the lack thereof--since shoving it in the depths of his school bag seven days before. That next Monday was sunnier than usual, and the flat was eclectic, even at ten AM--which was much earlier than the other three men would ever choose to wake up. They had a gig that night, only because a desperate pub owner’s former booking backed out after they all developed awful strep.

“What a blessing!” Freddie clapped his hands together, alluding to the other band’s sickness.

“Watch it, Fred. Karma’ll get you if you keep saying that shit.” Deaky rubbed his eyes, pulling socks on his feet, which looked numb.

“Oh, shut the hell up. We needed this.” Freddie poked Roger’s sides, sitting on his stomach, making the blond wince in pain. He groaned, pushing Freddie off of him, holding his stomach as he curled into himself. He was hungover from the night before; he and Freddie had stolen sips of uncountable martinis, whiskeys and gins at the bars the night before, and the concoction of it all seemed to be chemically reacting inside of him.

“Fuck, Fred. I won’t be able to play if you kill me.” He rolled over, shoving a throw pillow over his head. “Let me be.” His voice was muffled, his lips against the couch. “How are you even functioning, Freddie? You drank more than me.” His voice was barely intelligible, but Freddie understood perfectly well.

“It’s the adrenaline, sweets. Where’s Brian?” Freddie left Roger alone, walking over to his room. The door was shut, and Freddie, opened it, Deaky following behind him.

“He’s at uni to finish some astronomy thing so he can take the day off for the gig.” Deaky took a bite out of an apple.

“Chew it right in my ear, Deaky.” He rolled his eyes, and Deaky chewed more dramatically, directly into his ear as he ran away.

“You’re fucking deplorable, Deaks. Who raised you?” He giggled, taking another apple from their counter, biting into it just as pronounced, the juice dribbling down his chin. They heard keys jingling outside of the door, and Freddie looked through the tiny peephole, shoving Deaky aside so he could see first. But Deaky swung the door open.

“Bri!” He ruffled the taller man’s hair, and Brian pulled his bag off of his shoulder, dropping it on the ground by their coat rack, the hard books inside clunking against each other. “You ready for tonight?”

“I suppose. I’m a bit nervous; we haven’t really played in awhile.” He shut the door behind him, pulling his jacket off.

“DON’T FUCKING SLAM YOUR SHIT ON THE GROUND, BRIAN!” Roger screamed, groaning into the crevice of the couch.

“He’s hungover.” Freddie nodded, throwing the core of his apple into the trash, along with Deaky’s. “But he has to suck it up and get up! Because we have a show to put on at seven!” Freddie screamed towards the living area, and Roger’s feet twitched, startled by his voice.

“Get me about four painkillers and a cold glass of water and I’ll think about it.” Roger sat up, his eyes sunken and bloodshot, making the blues of his irises that much more pronounced. Brian reached into the cupboard and got him three painkillers.

“All we have left.” He confirmed shaking two other empty bottles of pills, tossing them away. Freddie handed him a glass of water, the ice clinking against the spotted glass.

Twenty minutes later, they were in the band van, Brian driving since he was the most level-headed. Roger would usually insist, but he was in the back, leaning his head against the side of the van, groaning as he hugged Brian’s blanket around his body.

“Turn the heat up, maybe?” Roger scolded, projecting so Brian could hear him over the rattling of their instruments.

“The heat is on, love. You can’t feel it when you’re as far away from the front as possible.” Freddie turned to face Roger, who was flipping him off as he crawled to the front so he could warm up a bit.

“Turn right at this light, Bri.” Freddie pointed to the traffic light a ways away, the yellow light hazy and fuzzy around the edges.

“I know how to get there.” Brian stopped at the light, the windshield splashing with a thick coat of muddy rain as other cars drove away. Brian gripped the wheel as he turned, the windshield wipers ridding the window of the acidic rain.

He parked the van at the back entrance of the pub, where, thankfully, there was a small awning so they wouldn’t be completely soaked. They lugged the drum kit out first, and Roger refused to help, widening his eyes and holding his stomach, feigning and over exaggerating his hangover.

“I’m sure this mysterious illness will suddenly cure itself when you find a groupie tonight.” Deaky slung Brian’s guitar over his back, grabbing extra drumsticks, thrusting them into Roger’s hand. “Can you handle these, Rog?” He patted his back gently, giving him a faux-sympathetic look. Roger faked a cough and wobbled inside as Brian locked the van, their wardrobe bags tucked under his arm.

It was nearing seven, and the band’s persistent advertising paid off; they were almost at capacity. Brian peeked out from behind the curtains, seeing everyone packed together tightly, the sound of Roger’s cymbals only accentuating the loudness of the crowd.

“It’s packed.” Brian smiled, giving his bandmates a thumbs up as he slung his guitar over his body. All of their outfits were a lot more flamboyant than usual, the patterns more daring, pleats more defined. Their eyes were caked in makeup, and eyeliner threatened to smear from the sweat that was already forming from nerves and body heat in excess.

The show began almost promptly at seven; they had begun to set up too early, but they couldn’t help the excitement of having their own gig--no openers, no distractions--even if it were entirely coincidental. They played with complete precision, their voices flowing through each other, harmonies flawless. Roger’s beat never faltered, Deaky’s fingers never skipped a chord. Freddie’s voice was clear, resonating loud, his projection making a microphone almost unnecessary. Brian felt in his element, talented. He was zoned out, not thinking about university for the first time since classes began weeks ago. His fingers slid across the strings, almost automatically, even though he hadn’t seriously practiced or played in what felt like months. The recording studio was different; they had the ability to fuck up. But there, on stage, was the real deal. It was showing the world their capabilities when there was no room for mistakes, and a quite sufficient amount of room for ridicule and criticism. But the crowd wasn’t critical, Brian thought, as he watched them sway, entranced by Freddie’s performance, his mike stand almost conducting them to move in sync with each other. His eyes squinted, blinded by the red lights, the stage smoke which Freddie insisted was a critical part of the experience. And as the lights were cut, Brian, along with the rest of the band hated to feel the beginnings of the end already. They wanted more, wanted to be the center of attention for more than a two hour set every few weeks, whenever they could get lucky enough to book something semi-substantial.

As Brian ducked backstage, he already heard the unmistakable sound of a champagne bottle being popped, then the protests as the foam bubbled over. Deaky sucked it from the side of the bottle, Roger opening his mouth to catch the drops which were dripping down the side of the green glass bottle. A bartender handed Brian some champagne flutes, and he fumbled with them holding each one between a bony finger as he set them down on the table, which was really an empty beer crate. Freddie poured them all a glass, and then another one. And they popped open more bottles of champagne before they ventured to the bar, where crowd members bought them shot after shot, which they downed, out of respect, of course.

So Brian wasn’t all that surprised when he woke up, drool dried on the side of his cheek, his arm hung off the side of a booth, his body halfway obscured under a table which was cluttered with dirty glasses, limes with the juice sucked out. His arm was severely asleep, and his head was pounding, his legs curled up since the booth was much too short to fit his entire body. He tried to sit up, but he hit his head on the bottom of a gum-plastered table.

“Ow!” He rubbed his head, and Deaky jostled on the booth across from him, groaning. His shirt was all the way unbuttoned, and one of his shoes was nowhere to be found, the other one still snug on his foot.

“Fuck.” Brian ran behind the bar, throwing up in a trashcan as he held onto the edge of the marble tabletop for support. He stood up, wiping his mouth with a napkin he found under a diluted martini. He was getting himself a glass of water when he saw the time on a neon clock hung near a shelf of vodkas. It was 8:55 AM. It could be worse he thought, quickly filling three more glasses with cold water, setting them by Deaky, Freddie, and Roger who were all knocked out, snoring in different corners of the bar, stinking of booze and sweat, just like Brian probably did. He grabbed his guitar and the keys to the van, changing into his old clothes which sat, pooled in the back. Except he accidentally put on Deaky’s shirt which was way too tight. But he didn’t have time to change; he just put on a velvet blazer and some trousers that could have been Freddie’s (they seemed a bit short), and grabbed his school bag, patting himself on the back for underestimating himself the night before. He left the keys back with Deaky, knowing he’d be the most apt to drive them home, judging by Roger and Freddie’s sleeping positions--Freddie was almost upside down, and Roger was on the floor, half naked, still holding on tightly to a half-drunk bottle of gin.

Brian jogged to class this time, the streets a bit quieter, as most of the weekend crowd had dwindled. Everyone seemed to know where they were going, and Brian strode through the outskirts of campus, cutting through a small trail lined with foliage. He held his guitar this time, his knuckles numbed and white from gripping the handle so hard. He lifted his watch--it was 9:26. He ran into the liberal arts building, like every Tuesday, sliding through the heavy wooden door, etched with swirled designs that reminded him so much of home, although he didn’t know why.

He was in his seat by 9:28, sweating profusely, and extremely self-aware of how weird he must have looked. Last night’s makeup was smeared around his eyes, glittery eyeshadow now highlighting his cheeks. His mouth was dry, his shirt two sizes too small. His pants were a bit short; he had definitely grabbed Freddie’s on accident. And he probably smelled awful, with booze on his breath to top it off. He leaned on his elbows, covering his mouth as he tapped his pen on his desk, trying to distract himself from your gaze, which he felt boring into him, and he just wanted to crawl into himself and never be seen again. He felt many eyes on him, judgemental and glaring; he stood out even more than usual, and he didn’t even know why he bothered coming. He rested his head on his desk, hoping he would forget about the stares if he couldn’t blatantly see them. His curls laid splayed on the desk, his hands in fists, his ankles cold from his much-too-short-pants.

The door slammed, and everyone sat up a little straighter, subconsciously fixing their hair that didn’t need to be fixed, straightening an already straightened tie. Brian lifted his head, the brighter lights that the professor turned on as she arrived making a dull pain ache between his eyes and run down the bridge of his nose. If he had to guess, he was still a bit tipsy from the night before.

“Long night, Mr. May?” Professor Lee looked inquisitively at Brian, who squinted at the mere brightness of her pale skin. He was glad she only said it loud enough so Brian could hear, and maybe you.

“Concert last night.” He answered, blinking slowly to savor his dwindling energy, already low from a severe lack of sleep--even for him.

“Smeared makeup,” She wiped a line of eyeliner from his cheekbone. “Is quite the look.”

You smirked in your seat next to him, crossing your arms. As class began, you could feel Brian’s gaze deepening on you, staring at your hands resting on your cheek, your legs clad in a skirt. The remaining alcohol in his system minimized his usually very heightened inhibitions, and he stared at you shamelessly but sadly, knowing his pining was nothing but a lost cause. You shifted in your seat, glancing at Brian whenever he wasn’t looking at you--which wasn’t often. But he looked good. His pupils were dilated, the aftershock from being drunk, you were sure. His chest was visible, and his shirt was a bit too small; makeup accentuated his sharp features yet softened them a bit. His hands rested under the desk, in his lap, where he spun his ring around his pinky finger, waiting for the lecture to end.

And seemingly hours and hours later, it did, cued by professor Lee slamming her book of ballads shut, dust fuming from in between yellowed pages.

“Don’t forget, your ballads are due next time I see you. I hope none of you have procrastinated.” She pointed an accusatory finger at the class, and they all lied through their teeth with enthusiastic head shakes.

“And Brian?” She called out, looking directly at him, the tallest one in the room by far. “I will be expecting an invite to your next concert; I’m quite curious about you. I think we all are.” She sat down at her desk, straightening a stack of books, as she looked at a very confused and embarrassed Brian, standing up, his guitar slung over his back like always.

“Um,” He stammered, trying to recall the booking schedule while it seemed like the whole class was frozen, waiting for Brian to humiliate himself, probably. “There’s one tonight. It’s at Imperial College, in the auditorium.” He nodded.

“Could I come? I’m sure some of your peers would love to see it too.” Professor Lee’s overly nice demeanor was confusing Brian, and his eyebrows furrowed together as he scratched his head.

“Uh--if you want. I mean yes, you’re all welcome. It’s 2 pounds to get in.” He didn’t want to invite everybody, but if their crowd was lacking and Freddie found out Brian’s modesty cost them a good show--he’d never hear the end of it.

You watched Brian pick at his jacket, absentmindedly stroking the velvet to distract himself from this embarrassment. He truly hoped nobody from class came to see him--not because he doubted his talents, or those of the rest of the boys--but because he knew these rich city kids wouldn’t appreciate the music, much less the performance. But you saw Brian straighten his back as he looked at you, his lip tugged by his teeth, as he decided he didn’t really care what these people thought. Why should he? He watched as your boyfriend hooked an arm around your waist, kissing the top of your head as he began to walk to Imperial College.

Brian was already late for rehearsals and setting up, so he didn’t have time to go home and shower. He locked himself in the bathroom at the college instead, awkwardly ducking his head in the sink, just to make him feel a bit cleaner. He found a bit of cologne in the bottom of his school bag, and he silently thanked whatever circumstances left it there. He snuck backstage, shaking his hair dry, a misty rain spraying down his shoulders as he did.

Freddie perked up as he saw him, and grabbed his shoulders, sitting him down on a broken amp. “You scared us half to death, Brian!” He slapped his shoulder, holding his hand out. “Roger hand me that cloth.”

Roger mocked him, rolling his doe-eyes. “A please wouldn’t hurt ya.”

Freddie just closed his fingers over his palm a few times, a gesture for him to get on with it. “No time for manners, Rog. We have a lot to rehearse.” Freddie hummed in delight as he felt a wet cloth being placed in his hand. Freddie bent forward, wiping the excess makeup from Brian’s face; it was smeared under his eyes, around them, on them. When he was satisfied, Freddie handed him an eyeliner pencil. “Also,” Freddie continued, gesturing to Brian’s outfit. “Give Deaky and I our clothes back when you change. Cropped and flared pants are not a look, not even for you sweetheart.”

Brian sat in front of a mirror backstage, his legs crossed as he lined his eyes carefully, like Freddie taught him. He pulled his eyelid taut, his mouth hung open as he smudged a black line on the puffy skin by his eyelashes. He changed into his own pants, which Freddie so kindly returned to him, and unbuttoned Deaky’s much-too-small silk button-up, breathing with relief when he finally had his full range of motion again. The concert was hours away, but Freddie insisted that the band fully immersed themselves into rehearsals--and that meant the makeup, the outfits, the nail polish.

At six forty-five, the crowd began to shuffle in, and Brian could feel his stomach tightening with anxiety--or was it pure fear? He found himself searching for you, but he couldn’t see; the contrast of the brilliant stage lights with the pitch-black pit was too large.

Brian was startled, as Roger slapped a hand on Brian’s shoulder, covered by ridiculous pleats and ruffles. “Are you alright?” He raised an eyebrow, and Brian turned to face him, shrugging his shoulders, his hands wrapped protectively around the neck of his guitar. He flipped his sixpence between his fingers.

“I’m fine.” Brian sighed. “I think some classmates are coming here, and I don’t really want them to be.”

“Why’d you invite them then?” He questioned, sipping some water to swallow a pain-killer.

He didn’t know, really. He told himself it was for Freddie--for the rest of the band. To make them feel like they were accomplishing something, like people were receiving their music well, because in all honesty it felt like they were screaming into deaf ears when it came to their music. But the pit in his stomach that he felt his heartbeat in told him he just wanted you to come. He wanted to show off to you. He wanted to show off to your boyfriend, truthfully.

“We deserve bigger crowds. More publicity.” Brian shrugged, and took Roger’s water of out of his hand, sipping some before handing it back. It was nearing seven and he felt the adrenaline coursing through his veins, on a highway to his quickening heart. The stage lights dimmed, and Brian could see Professor Lee, sitting cross-legged in the front row. A few other peers of his stood next to her, whispering as they side-eyed the stage. And you were right next to them, Tommy’s arm thrown over your shoulder, you nodding solemnly about something he whispered--or probably yelled--in your ear.

The crowd was lively and charged, jolted by the unorthodox performance they gave. Freddie glanced at Brian, giving him a small thumbs up, nodding his head towards where you stood, watching intently. You recognized the blond from a few weeks earlier, even though he was shrouded in a veil of sweat, glistening from the green lighting. The bassist was wearing the same shirt as Brian was earlier, but it fit the smaller man much better; he was able to move his arms swiftly, his shoulders bobbing as he fingered the frets. The singer was a powerhouse, a puppeteer, commandeering the crowd with the curl of a finger, an inflection of his voice. He kept swaying towards Brian, leading the taller man to in front of where you stood, neck craned to watch them--well, to watch Brian. He made eye contact with you plenty of times, his mouth agape, and he had to tear his gaze from your flushed face to focus on his playing. But it seemed his only flaw onstage was the utter perfection of his playing, which was almost maddening to you, and especially to Tommy, who saw you watching him quite intently. Brian tilted his neck back, a familiar sheen of sweat covering the expanse of its elegance, his fingers intuitively strumming as he watched you, followed your every gaze with a more intense one of his own. You found your eyes tracing the expanse of his legs, and then watching his fingers move, his forearms tensing from underneath an angelic shirt. You grabbed your boyfriend’s hand and squeezed, and he looked at you, almost relieved by the action. Brian was coy, biting his lip and raising his eyebrows, challenging you. He moved to the other side of the stage swiftly, bouncing over cords elegantly as he knelt down, holding his guitar flat as he strummed, eyeing some girls in the crowd that he would admittedly, never take home. But he wanted to test the waters, to see if you really were that blind. Couldn’t you see he was infatuated?

And sure enough, your gaze was fixed just on him, your ears ringing from the delay in Brian’s guitar, the piercing sound of his talent perfusing the room. Then, the concert ended, and you felt an emptiness pool in your stomach, pervade your thoughts. Brian gave you one last side-eyed glance, his lips pursed in something more akin to anger--not concentration. You tightened your grip on your boyfriend’s hand, convincing yourself this was his performance, a show he put on to keep people wanting more. But you couldn’t help but want so much more yourself. Whatever he was doing, it was working.

Brian hopped offstage a few minutes later, his face clean from the sweat, but his chest still heaving from the high. He talked to the professor, whose hand found his shoulder, giving it a solid pat as she congratulated him. The rest of the peers, Brian noticed, were suddenly changed; now they adored Brian, and a few girls from class hung onto his arm and fluttered their eyelashes, asking him about arbitrary musical things which they definitely had no desire in learning--they just watched his lips, beads of sweat falling over them. And you watched them too, admittedly. You tried to be conspicuous in your glances, but Brian caught your eye and smiled sweetly and innocently as Tommy pulled your arm for you two to leave.

As he got home, Brian’s thoughts were consistent. He was thinking about you--your hair, the way you laughed and intertwined your fingers with ones that weren’t his. How you stared at him--or maybe Roger?--so intently, so focused. The rest of the boys were at the bars still, probably pissed out of their minds like every night. But he sat at his desk, tapping a pen on the paper. The pen, to him, made it harder to start. He couldn’t make a mistake, and he needed to write about something unguarded, something completely true to his feelings, and the only thing he thought of that fit the bill was you. How you didn’t really see him. How you looked at him more like a subject than a person, how you turned your nose up and looked away when Brian stared. But also how reticent and ambiguous you were, teasing him with stolen glances--just a few. So his pen ran across the paper, sketching his thoughts distinctly.

He didn’t want to lose his chance with you--no matter how slim it was. He wrote until the sides of his hands were black from ink, and his fingers cramped, unable to form a legible letter no matter how hard he tried to. The morning sun crept through white curtains as he wrote the last line, scribbled and underlined and faded by a lack of ink.

So sad it ends

As it began

He folded the paper on his desk, and laid down, getting a few measly hours of rest.

Freddie burst through the door at nine AM, shaking Brian’s foot, which hung off the end of his bed. He was laying on his stomach, hugging his pillow, in his trousers, his hair awry.

“The studio awaits us!” Freddie clapped his hands together, poking Brian’s nose which barely poked out from the hair obscuring his face.

“Right now?” Brian whimpered, sitting up and rubbing his tired eyes.

“I don’t get up this early on purpose, sweetie. Now, did you write that song you promised us?” Freddie spun a globe which sat on Brian’s table, tracing his finger along the equator.

“Oh,” He thought for a second, still groggy. “I did, actually. Last night.”

“May I read it?” Freddie’s fingers plucked the folded paper on Brian’s desk, he assumed that was it.

“Go for it.” Brian put an old hoodie on, shoving his hands in his pocket.

Freddie’s face contorted in a multitude of emotions as he read the lyrics, and he sighed heavily as he finished. “Sad,” he nodded. “But, I love it. Quite honestly it’s nice.”

Brian smiled; it wasn’t too often that Freddie actually approved of a Brian May original.

The producer replayed the track, flipping a different switch, per Roger’s request.

“More drums at the end.”

Freddie scoffed, rolling his eyes, puffing a cigarette slowly. He pointed it at Roger, who yanked it from Fred’s grasp and puffed it himself.

“This isn’t a drummy song.” Freddie took the cigarette back, taking a deep drag.

“At some parts it should be!”

“It’s Brian’s song.” Deaky lit his own cigarette, leaning over the control panels to watch the producers work. “What do you think?”

Brian shrugged. “I think it could be a bit heavier with the drums at some part. Rog played really well today.”

Roger blew a kiss to Freddie, batting his eyelashes dramatically. “What did I say?”

The producer added stronger drums, a pen between his lips as he nodded at the enhanced sound, the beat dramatic. “I like it, guys. It’s a strong demo, and White Queen is only adding to the strength here.” He sent the band home with a few copies, almost translucent from overdubs and countless alterations.

The deadline had approached--Brian could tell by the nervous, forced banter between his peers, Their papers crinkling as they surreptitiously attempted to hide the content from the class--although they would all be presenting it soon. Brian flipped the demo in his hands, tracing his fingers over the sleeve, where Queen was written in deep blue marker, underlined with a tracklist underneath. The tension in the room was palpable as professor Lee strolled in, her usually straight hair barely curled, the gray strands glistening under the lights.

“The dreaded day.” She announced, sitting at her desk as she read over her roster, looking up at her class, awaiting, terrified. For the entire lecture, she called names randomly, summoning them to the front of the room, where they read bland poems in hushed, monotone voices. A few were good, but Brian wasn’t paying attention; he was shifting in his seat uncomfortably, feeling nauseous from his anxiety. She was torturing him, he was sure of it. They were running out of time, when she glanced up at him raising her palm up, a command for him to get up. He grabbed his record player from under his chair; it was wooden, a gift from his mother a long time ago.

“What is this setup?” She questioned, gesturing to him.

“My ballad is a song I wrote.” Brian set up the record player, his face flushing as he heard disapproving groans. You sat up in your chair, watching him as he took a small vinyl from its paper sleeve, setting it gently on the player. He placed the needle in the middle, and the bridge to Liar began to play, booming through the tiny speakers. “That’s not it.” Brian laughed nervously, looking up at Professor Lee; he was kneeling on the floor, trying to find the right place. When he did find it, soft, almost harp-like guitars flooded the room, and Brian stood up, leaning against a desk at the front, his arms crossed as he looked at his feet, not knowing what to do. He looked intently at you, hoping you’d understand it was all for you. The drums were enhanced, matching with Brian’s heartbeat, thumping, hard, and assuredly audible. Freddie’s voice was magnetic, and so were you. He was so drawn to you, and he didn’t know the first thing about you--what your major was, where you were from. He just had to have you, and he tugged his lip between his teeth as he shook the hair away from his eyes.

You watched him too, the way he was so obviously nervous, yet assured of his talent by the way he smirked almost inconspicuously as a particularly good lyric was sung, a guitar riff heard. His chest was red from a blush that crept up his entire body, his forearms looked strong under his sleeves which remained rolled up, despite his constant pulling at them. He was doe-eyed, his lips bitten and his skin tanned, his curls and waves extra defined. You couldn’t deny how attractive he was, and although it wasn’t him singing--he wasn’t even speaking-- it felt like he was singing to you, for you. You felt a shiver run up your spine, like when Brian’ touched you for the first time on that street corner, fleeting but so there. The song ended, and the class erupted into applause, whistling as Brian took the vinyl from the turntable, giving them a tight smile. He felt so vulnerable, but also like nobody got it.

“That was beautiful, Brian. Do you mind telling what it’s about?”

Brian faltered, but then stood up straight, sighing as he watched you scribbling in your notebook, feigning inattention at him. “I’m infatuated with a girl who doesn’t give me the time of day. The song is about our love that ended as it began, because she can’t see how much I want her.” Brian took his vinyl and record player from its position on a chair and gathered his things, embarrassed by his confession, although it was quite indirect. He left before she ended class officially, forgetting his bag completely.

You were confused; was he angry with you? Was he speaking to you? Picking up his heavy bag, you followed him out, as the rest of the class left along with you. You couldn’t find him among the crowd of students filing outside, mixed with the influx of students going to their noon classes. You pushed your way outside, trying to peer around the midday crowd of Londoners, when you saw Brian leaning against a van parked crookedly across the street. You walked to the other side, avoiding traffic and mumbling an apologetic excuse me to a middle-aged couple you bumped shoulders with. Brian’s face was in his hands, and he was now sitting in the driver’s seat of the van, looking distraught. You knocked on the window, pointing to his bag in your hands as he lifted his head up. His mouth pulled itself into a barely perceptible smile, his lips red from nervous biting. He reached over and unlocked the door, and you got in, without thinking, setting the bag between the driver’s and passenger’s seat. The tension was thick, even though the air was truly cold and thin and hard to breathe in.

“Thank you, Y/N.” He sniffled, clearing his throat a bit.

“You should really tell that girl how you feel. I’m sure she wants you just as much.” You looked at Brian’s profile, his tensed jaw peppered with day-old stubble, his lip protruding slightly.

He turned his head, looking at you almost sinfully. “I don’t think it’s possible for her to want me that much.” Brian had leaned forward again, and he looked at your lips blotted with a deep red lipstick. He wanted it all over him, he thought, tracing his gaze up your nose to look into your eyes. You could hear your hearts beating, and you felt unable to form a syllable, too focused on his eyelashes, which beat against his cheeks, almost innocent-looking.

“Maybe she does.” You retorted, and Brian tucked some of your hair behind your ear. His lips were millimeters away from your own now, and you could feel the edge of his bottom lip tickling yours, his breath ghosting over your mouth, down your chin.

“She has a boyfriend; I know that much.” Brian’s voice was deeper than you had ever heard it before; it was sultry and commanding you, like he did on stage, like he had been since the first day you met him.

“Not anymore.”

Brian held your chin, tracing your lips with his thumb as he sighed, his necklace hanging forward as he leaned closer--impossibly closer. You kissed the pad of his thumb, looking at him keenly as he kissed your jaw, biting your earlobe gently, teasingly, as he whispered in your ear.

“The back?” His fingers swept over the hem of your skirt, and your own brushed through his hair; it was softer than it looked, silky to the touch. You obliged, following him to the backseat, which was quite roomy and comfortable, a blanket thrown over the cushioned seats. Brian sat you on his lap, caressing the ends of your hair as he kissed at the junction of your collarbones, his hands resting on your hips, dragging down over your ass--just like your boyfriend did, just like he dreamt of doing. He squeezed and massaged at the exposed skin--he had bunched your dress around your waist as soon as he had you on his lap. Your fingers pulled at the extra-curly strands of hair at the nape of his neck, and he groaned deeply, sending a jolt to your core, which was lazily grinding against his cock, still restrained by dark velvet trousers. You tilted your head back, moaning as he left open-mouthed kisses at the base of your neck.

But you wanted his mouth on yours so bad your lips were quivering as they connected with Brian’s, which were anything but tentative as they sucked your bottom lip. Your nose was squished against his as you slipped your tongue into his mouth, now grinding yourself firmly against Brian’s cock, which was hardening. You could feel his thickness sliding against you, and your panties were beginning to soak at the feeling of him, the sounds of him groaning into your mouth. Your lipstick--like he had dreamt of so many night before--was all over his mouth, stained into his stubble, trailed down his neck. His hips bucked as your fingers fumbled with the button on his pants, you were almost unable to maneuver the metal button through the hole. But you got it, eventually, as he pulled your dress all the way over your head, rubbing at your clit through your wet underwear, his hips lifting so you could slide his pants down. They fell against the floor, and Brian lifted his foot out of one leg, using it to peel it from the other. You palmed his dick through his briefs and pulled his blazer off, rubbing your hands down the expanse of his chest, ridged and bony, as his nails dug into your hips, grabbing you desperately.

Now, you kissed his neck, sucking at a sensitive spot by his pulse point. He whimpered and threw his head back, rolling his hips faster, you kissing lower and lower on his neck before you reached his collarbones which jutted out from hot, barely freckled skin. He moaned loudly, begging you for more with his eyes, which were widened and dilated with desire.

“I’m so hard for you.” He whined, pushing your panties aside, sucking a finger into his mouth and prodding it inside of you, rubbing your clit with his calloused thumb. Your hips jerked as he added another finger--his middle one--which was so long and dexterous, massaging the front wall, deep inside of you as his thumb did the same languid motions to your clit.

You pulled at the elastic of his underwear, scratching your nails at his hips as you peeled them down his legs. He continued to finger you gently but quickly and skillfully, making you cry out at how good it felt to be full, to be lusted after like this. You spit in your hand, stroking his bare cock slowly, teasing him as your palm ghosted over his tip. You twisted your hand around the shaft, tracing your nails against the prominent vein which ran along it. It was pulsing under your touch, and Brian moaned in shallow breaths, bucking himself into your hand. You rubbed your thumb along the head and gathered a substantial amount of precum, sucking it off of your finger as your other hand squeezed at his balls.

That made him scream, and you shushed him, cupping his balls in one hand as you continued to jerk him off in the other. His hand squeezed at your ass, and you loosened your grip, reveling in the way he whined from the lack of friction on his aching member.

He took advantage of the lack of grip you had on him, curling his fingers deep inside of you, nudging at your g-spot, his mouth mirroring your own pleasure, before he leaned in to kiss you messily, your hands pulling at his hair in an attempt to get him closer. The touches were aching and so needy, your mouths interlocking, your breaths shared with one another.

“I need you,” He moaned against your neck, your hand lazily pumping him as he curled his fingers and rubbed at your clit loosely, the relaxed motion of it all making you grab at his wrist. His eyebrows were furrowed, eyelashes beating against the tops of his blushed cheeks. Then, Brian was pulling his fingers out, pushing them in between your lips. He flipped you over so he was hovering on top, resting on his knees as he sucked on the same fingers you had, making your back arch at the sight of his bitten lips savoring your taste.

You writhed underneath him as his cock slid against your entrance, his velvety tip rubbing against your clit softly. You ran your foot down his back, pushing at his ass with it, a silent bid for him to do what he wanted the most. “I don’t have a condom,” He rested his head against your neck, almost defeated.

“Just pull out, Brian.” You ground your hips upward, watching as his cock slid against your folds.

“Fuuck,” His eyes rolled back. “That’s so good. Feels so good.” He slid against you for a bit longer before he thrust into you, balls-deep. He stopped for a minute, his pelvic bone flush against your inner thighs. You gasped, and he did too, reveling in the feeling of being so deep inside of you.

“You’re so tight.” He mumbled, looking down at you through lashes barely covered with last-night’s mascara.

You just rolled your hips against him, yanking his face down to meet yours by his cold necklace, the chain tickling your sternum as his face hovered over your own. Your lips touched each other’s, your foreheads pressed together, soaked in a sheen of sweat. He pulled out, until his tip was barely inside of you before pushing all the way back in, making you gasp against his mouth that tasted like mint, and only faintly of gin. He thrusted slowly at first, pulling all the way out just to push right back in, making you feel every inch of him, every vein against your walls as his middle finger rubbed at your clit in tight, assured circles.

“Deeper.” You nod your head, urging him, before hooking your leg around his hip and pushing him into you, forcing him as deep as he could get. His breath hitched in his throat, and he lifted your hips up a bit, fucking into you at a new angle which is making you and him dizzy, your ears ringing from feeling all of him--all at once. Brian was unable to keep his eyes open as a strangled groan fell from his lips. He lifted your back, holding you to him as his thrusts became sloppier, his hips rolling unevenly. You pushed his hair back from his face, pressing a kiss to his mouth, his eyes unable to stay open for too long; his eyelids were so heavy.

He opened them enough to watch you fucking yourself against him, your hips rolling in tune with his own, his fingers digging into your hips; there were already purple bruises dotted along them. Brian opened his mouth, nodding as he gasped, his head buried in your neck as you pulled at his hair gently.

“I’m-” He groaned, now holding you by your waist, his lips idle against your collarbone.

“I know--me too.” You nodded, and he pulled out quickly, jerking himself off until his cum painted your stomach, oozing down your hips a bit. He caught it with his fingertips before it could ruin the seat, and you grabbed his hand, licking his seed off of his lengthy digits as he kissed down your torso, his nose resting against your clit as his tongue angled upwards to lick and suck at the nerves.

“Brian,” You whined, pulling his hair as he looked up at you innocently, his hips rocking against the velvety seat. He nibbled just barely at your clit, and you came, chanting his name, your back arching, your hands fisting at his hair. His chin was soaked and he sat up, looking down at his cock which was achingly hard, yet again.

His back was against the seat and you knelt in front of him, sucking him into your mouth, looking up at him through tear-soaked lashes. You licked a firm stripe from the base of him to the tip, and then he was groaning, cumming on his tensed stomach just from the look in your eyes that showed you wanted him too.

You helped him get dressed again, wordlessly pulling his briefs up, and then buttoning his pants while he did the same to his shirt. He handed you your dress, which was lodged between the seat cushions, wrinkled and cold. He pulled it down over your head and kissed your nose, zipping you up, pecking your shoulders while he did so.

You were tired, yawning against your hand as Brian climbed in the front seat, starting the engine after fishing his keys from his pocket, lifting his shaky hips for more leverage. He stroked your hair and gave you a cheeky, bashful smile--only funny because of his drastic duality which always surprised you.

“I hope this isn’t over.” He rubbed a circle on your bare knee, looking at the rearview window before pulling out of the parking spot with ease.

“It’s only just begun.” You held your hand over his and leaned your head against the window, the cold glass cooling your red-hot cheeks, still burning with arousal--but not even close to the scarlet that donned Brian’s cheeks, lifted by a huge, toothy smile.

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taniasinel · 7 years ago

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Mickey, Babs, Annette and others on North Boulevard

If you are from Houston, you have most likely seen a few splashy articles about an historic house recently put up for sale. The house is a Houston classic in a town where there are very few such classics.

It was built in 1926 for Bryan Brewster Gilmer, a drug company executive. Located on North Boulevard, the house sits on what is arguably the prettiest street in Houston and certainly one of its most photographed.

Hundreds of live oak trees drape over a true boulevard with a center brick walkway that acts as a magnet for brides, posing in their pristine white dresses.

The houses that line North Boulevard, and its sister street South Boulevard, are the type of houses you dream of: two storied mansions with classic lines that follow strict architectural rules. There are very few contemporary houses here.

The neighborhood, Broadacres, was developed in the early 1920s by Captain James A. Baker and his son James A. Baker, Jr. That name would later become nationally prominent when James A. Baker III acted as the White House Chief of Staff and Secretary of the Treasury for President Ronald Reagan and later as the Secretary of State for President George H. W. Bush.

William Ward Watkin

Baker Sr. owned the 34 acre parcel that made up Broadacres, and he later subdivided it into 26 lots that were sold mostly to his personal and professional friends. The original architects who worked in Broadacres are a Who’s Who of legendary designers who helped shape Houston’s most beautiful neighborhoods: William Ward Watkin, Birdsall P. Briscoe and John Staub. Watkin actually designed the master plan for Broadacres.

Although Baker Jr. was a developer of the neighborhood, he never moved in – he claimed he couldn’t afford the then $20,000 down payment for a lot. With great forethought, the original 17 homeowners pooled their money to develop the roads in Broadacres and they had the utility wires installed underground which greatly adds to the beauty of the neighborhood.

Strict deed restrictions help keep a consistent look to Broadacres. All houses must be set back 60 ft. from the street and originally they had to cost over $20,000! Watkin was responsible for the most important factor – the double rows of live oak trees that lined the boulevards and created the canopy that makes the neighborhood so beautiful today.

Broadacres is now a designated historic district. While Watkin, founder of the architecture school at Rice University and known for designing Houston’s Museum of Fine Arts, platted Broadacres, he only designed one house there – the one located at 1318 North Boulevard, and the house that recently was put up for sale.

Watkins is known for designing the Houston Museum of Fine Arts – here is how it originally looked, a strictly classically designed building!

Watkin received the commission for the house at 1318 North Boulevard, his only one in Broadacres, from Bryan Bristow Gilmer. Before construction began, Watkin wrote a letter to his client, Mr. Gilmer, asking him to wait on beginning construction on the house until Watkin had returned from his four month European trip. Watkin was going to Spain to study the way plaster was treated there and he wanted to learn more about Spanish design. Since the Gilmer house was a Spanish design and would have a plaster exterior, the delay made sense.

1925, Granada Spain, Watkin at Alahambra, seated in back. That summer, Watkin did go to Europe with his wife, who unfortunately took ill. He left her in the hospital in Paris (!) to recuperate while he went on to Spain. Watkin’s wife later recovered and met up with him there.

Bryan Bristow Gilmer

Gilmer owned a drug company and obviously was very successful. He and his wife were benefactors of a traveling scholarship awarded to students at the then Rice Institute’s Dept. of Architecture, due to their involvement with Watkin. Before building the house on North, Gilmer and his wife lived on Chenevert. From there, they custom built a stately house on Westmoreland, which still stands today:

The original Gilmer house on Westmoreland as it looks today.

After the Gilmers moved to the house on North in 1926, they remained there for some time, but by the 1940s, they had moved over to South Boulevard, to this house, located at 1611:

1611 South Blvd.

The Gilmers moved to this house on South from their Watkin-designed classic on North.

I had to smile when I learned this.

Understand the ironies.

The Gilmers lived on 1318 North where years later antiquarian Annette Schatte also lived. The Gilmers then moved to 1611 South where years later Margaret Naeve’s father would live. Margaret’s first shop “M. Naeve” occupied the former antique shop that Annette Schatte owned. And of course, designer Pamela Pierce completely redid the house on South for Margaret’s father and then decorated Annette’s new house on Montrose. Six Degrees of Separation!! Houston may be a large city, but sometimes it seems like it’s still a small town.

It’s only because these specific houses are so architecturally important that we know of all their previous residents. And now, with much fanfare, this house at 1318 North Boulevard is for sale. Despite the rarity of such a classic house available on the market, it’s also notable for its celebrated owner – the Tootsie clothier Mickey Rosmarin. Rosmarin passed away suddenly last year and the status of his house has remained a mystery, until now.

Rosmarin was a life long bachelor who lived in the North Blvd. house with his goddaughter, now in her 20s. He had landed there in 2005 when his goddaughter moved in with him. At the time Mikey had lived in the Regency House highrise for over 10 years, cramped in a one bedroom apartment which was not exactly the right atmosphere to raise a young child. Rosmarin had long admired the house on North Boulevard (who didn’t?) and after learning it was for rent, he moved in without so much as a glance back at his former home and jet-set life. He said: "I've always loved this house and when I saw that it was for rent, I just grabbed it."

Living in the Spanish styled house was surprisingly life changing for Rosmarin. He enjoyed it so much, he often conducted business there instead of heading off to Tootsies. He found he was reluctant to go out, saying "I hate to leave it, actually. I'm very happy here. Instead of going out, I just have people come here to see me."

Describing the house, he said "It's almost like being in the country. It's quiet, peaceful and relaxing." When his rental was put up for sale, Rosmarin quickly bought it. Still, he had to adjust to the quirks of living in a decades old house. One such quirk was discovered in the kitchen. It was only months after moving in that he realized the switch to turn on the gas range was located in the pantry. Rosmarin noted "Old houses are funny. Every week it seems like a new trick has shown up." When antiquarian Annette Schatte heard that story, she laughed. She knew all too well about that hidden gas switch. After all, she had lived with that quirk for years herself when she lived in the North Boulevard house.

When Rosmarin, just 63, passed away last year, it was a shock to the very community that had watched him grow from a teenager selling t-shirts to an internationally known retailer. He was a philanthropist admired for the numerous charity events that he held in his beautiful store on Westheimer, and later off Kirby. Mickey was an icon in the city and his wide, friendly smile is sorely missed. The announcement this week that his beloved house is for sale seems like the end of a era.

To me, there was another reason I was acutely interested in the sale. Back in 1995, it was featured on the cover of Veranda and I think it was this house that marked the true beginning of the Houston Look - the white slipcover, seagrass, antique filled aesthetic whose origins I attribute to designer Babs Cooper Watkins.

In 1995, the Watkin house on North Boulevard, decorated by Babs, was featured in Veranda and it launched Watkins into prominence. Her work was later seen on other Veranda covers but this was the one that introduced a new look. Babs’ clients were Andrew and Annette Schatte who became close friends. The Veranda photoshoot not only created a new aesthetic, it also created a new partnership and the Watkins Schatte antique shop on Bissonnet was born. Later Bill Gardner joined the group. The shop was an instant hit and during those days, lines would form when a new shipment was unveiled. Everyone wanted to see what Babs and Bill and Annette had bought in Europe. It was such an exciting time in Houston.

Old Venetian walls at Watkins Schatte Culver Gardner, et al. painted by Jay Iarussi

I have always felt that this North Boulevard house was the one that changed the way Houston looked at decor and antiques. Babs used antiques in a casual way, her interiors were never about a hands-off approach. She mixed in religious relics and priceless antiques with vintage chairs slipcovered in inexpensive plain linen. She repurposed outside garden elements to be used inside the house. And Babs was one of the first ones who favored dramatic paint treatments that turned ordinary sheetrock into centuries old grottos.

Now that the Watkin/Gilmer House on North Blvd is for sale, we have the photographs of it to examine and compare how it looks today with how it looked in 1995 in Veranda.

Enjoy!

TODAY: the house as seen from North Boulevard, through the double rows of old Live Oaks.

A very rare early view of the house BEFORE the shutters were added. AND notice that originally there were normal sized windows on the second floor. I think the new French doors on the second floor are such a fabulous addition – and I’m surprised they were not in the original Watkin design. These windows are in the original master bedroom, which is today, an upstairs study.

1995: The house, as it looked in Veranda in 1995.

The story notes the design is by Babs Cooper Watkins. The architectural restoration by Patton Brooks, AIA, photography by Mick Hales, the author was Carol Sama Sheehan (!) and the story was produced by the late Chris King.

What a list of names!! You know it’s going to be great when Sheehan writes the story and King produces it. Ahhh. Those were the days….

Then and now – not much has changed on the exterior except the bushes are more overgrown. In fact, the landscape is a bit out of control today.

Today: An aerial view of the house, with the swimming pool seen off to the side. Thank goodness it wasn’t built in the U of the courtyard!

The house was added on to by the Schattes with the architect Patton Brooks. An entire wing was added on to the back left side of the house, elongating that side.

From this view you can really see the addition. You can see the actual addition by the difference in the roof tiles and color. The master bedroom/bedroom is located in the new wing. I assume the addition was needed to make the house more functional but it seems a shame such an important house was added on to. No? Yes?

Today: while the louvered shutters seem so perfect, it’s hard to believe they aren’t original. Neither are the arched windows above them. All newly added.

TODAY: The gravel drive leads back to the side of the house.

The house is 8,500 square feet with four bedrooms and five bathrooms.

Today: The back door entrance to the house. Straight ahead is the newly built garage with the new master bedroom/bathroom above it that the Schattes added.

TODAY: A view of the side entrance. Notice the windows at the side of the small room and the carved wood corbels. Darling door, too! The powder room is located where that tiny window is. The arched window is where the library is.

TODAY: The front door with the carvings that surround it. The “G” stsands for Brian Brewster Gilmer the first owner who commissioned the house from William Ward Watkin.

1995:

The entrance hall decorated by Babs. This room set the tone for the entire house – with the French settee and Italian candelabra and religious styled art work. Seagrass runner up the stairs. Notice the paintings on the door.

TODAY: There is a French bench. Original sconces. The seagrass runner is long gone. The living room is to the left. It looks like Mickey had painted all the walls a fresh coat of white paint, which is really nice.

TODAY: From the living room looking into the foyer with the original ceiling and beams.

TODAY: A view of the beamed, painted ceiling. Beautiful! Through the door to the left, is the coat closet. I wonder if that was originally a telephone room?

The Living Room:

1995: The fabulous living room!!! Babs used matching slipcovered sofas in front of the fireplace. A center table was flanked by twin antique chinoiserie chairs. Two antique French chairs, slipped in linen with long skirts. A concrete garden angel! Seagrass – deliciously large custom cut. The best.

I recently talked to Annette Schatte about this house and she told me that the way Babs designed was – everything was hand picked, hand chosen. There was no ordering out of a catalogue and six months later it all magically was delivered and installed. No.

Instead it was all searched for and found in European antique booths and shows. And that takes time. It could take forever!! So, when Veranda appeared for the photoshoot – Babs and Annette were throwing textiles over tables to make the house look finished – Babs was no where near finishing decorating the house!

Could have fooled me. To me, this house looks perfect from the front door to the back.

THEN: A cropped view shows two chinoiserie lamps on pedestals that flank the fireplace. Love those chairs. A plant stand doubles as a candelabra. I loved all the black and white, with the yellow seagrass.

THEN: The cropped front cover shows the center table with another concrete angel and antique books. And notice the slipcovered bench.

THEN: The twin white slipcovered Knole sofas. A view of the corner table with the large statute on it. Here you can see the view to the front yard and North Boulevard.

THEN: So pretty. I just love this living room, still – over 20 years later!! And I would be quite happy moving in with just my toothbrush, as I say.

2005: Right after Mickey moved in in 2005, he gave a tour of the house. Here in the living room, he shows off his rug and wonderful zebra benches. The twin blackamoors at the doors had been owned by Mickey for over 20 years. The carpet came from the old Tootsies store. It looks so different with Mickey living here, than Annette. Sweet Mickey.

TODAY: The view from the foyer into the living room. Mickey’s black velvet sofas were still here for this photograph. The zebra stools are gone, though.

TODAY: And even less furniture remains now. I think they should have staged the house for the sale, but apparently, it’s an as-is sale.

The new buyer will redo the floors (dark or light?) and paint the walls and fill it with wonderful decor – I hope! I would love to see this house redone for today but not contemporary!! To the left is the dining room and on the right is what Mickey called the Safari Room.

TODAY: The view from the front into the living room and out to the courtyard. What a beautiful room – one room deep with doors on both sides. A see-through room.

TODAY: The view towards the courtyard. The stone desperately needs cleaning and resealing which will make it look new.

1995: Veranda – the courtyard. Look how tiny the trees planted against the house were back then. Those shutters were just perfect!

And strangely – at this time there were rows of cypress trees on each side of the courtyard, but they are no longer here?

TODAY: The courtyard. Today, those tiny trees have outgrown the space. I think I would take up the grass and put in a gravel courtyard. The estate needs new landscaping by a first rate designer which I’m sure the new owners will do. And sadly – the back shutters are gone!!!! All that remains are the hinges.

TODAY: The newly added wing is seen here, on the right. The master bedroom and bathroom are on the second floor above the new wing. The gate leads to the driveway and garages.

TODAY: The view from the living room to the sculpture and pond. The swimming pool is off to the right. One of the kitchen’s windows is at the right where the green shutters are.

TODAY: The sculpture and the small pond is charming.

2005: When the Schattes moved out, the house was rented to Mickey. From the 2005 rental real estate views: To the left through the gate is the swimming pool and box garden and pergola. Notice the cypress trees were already gone by then. I wonder what happened to them?

2005: The swimming pool area was very manicured back then. Notice the neatly clipped box.

2005: Between the courtyard and the swimming pool was this pergola and clipped box garden. The kitchen’s sink window overlooks this pretty view.

TODAY: The right side of the house if you are facing the front of the house. The Safari Room is on the left and the Dining Room is where the arched doors are. Through the stone wall is the swimming pool.

TODAY: The hidden swimming pool. The breakfast room and family room overlook this area. To the right is the pergola where the kitchen window is.

TODAY: Another view of the pergola and pool.

TODAY: Looking towards the back of the estate. The once tightly clipped box hedges are now a bit untamed since Mickey has passed away.

TODAY: The area between the pool and the courtyard. The pergola needs updating and the box garden is no longer tended to anymore and has overgrown.

Let’s go back inside!

The Dining Room:

1995: The Dining Room, in Veranda. OMG. I LOVED this room!!!! The Louisiana French table! The black bread rack!!! The urn. The candles. The Hitchcock chairs – unmatched. The tray!! OMG. This was so gorgeous.

By the way – remember this bread rack – you will see it again, soon! And notice the white bread box – that makes another appearance later too!!

TODAY: With Mickey’s beloved Art Deco furniture and light fixture. The bar/breakfast room is through the door at the left. At some point, Mickey painted the house – you can see how much more white the walls are now as compared to when the Schattes lived here. On the other side of this room is the “Safari Room” as Mickey called it or the “Morning Room” as Babs called it.

1995: Veranda. The Morning Room with its brick floors. I adored the hotel coffee service. This was a new thing at the time – repurposing hotel wares. This was just gorgeous. Irish sideboard. And 17th century very rare wallpaper panels. Again, Babs threw this cloth over the table probably to hide that a perfect table had not yet been found. Who knew? I thought the skirts were fabulous!

Remember the coffee urn – you will see it again!

Today: The morning room is now the Safari Room named for the elephants that Mickey found in the house’s basement. Basement? Houston!! These chairs really are quite fabulous! The views are out to the front of North Blvd. and the side of the house.

1995: The kitchen was newly built by Patton Brooks. Again, I thought this was so beautiful. The corner cabinet – a 16th century chinoiserie antique hangs there instead of new cabinetry! I LOVED that and still do today. Look how Babs balanced it (there was only one cabinet) – with a round antique painting and wood carving. The area above the window was arched. A bas relief above the sink. Just so pretty!!!

For some reason, I have always loved this kitchen and it has stuck with me forever. Every time I would see a corner chinoiserie cabinet, I would think of this room. I love how simple it is. Today – kitchens have gotten so overdone, so fancy and such enormous rooms. This room just really made an impression on me and I love revisiting it today.

Babs deliberately left many of the oil paintings unframed.

Religious art.

Babs didn’t use much modern art.

2005: Here is the new kitchen as left by the Schattes. Here, you can see the limestone floor that was installed. The gas switch was hidden in that pantry and for months Mickey thought the range didn’t work.

TODAY: The kitchen with white walls.

1995: In Veranda, between the dining room and the kitchen is the breakfast room that overlooks the side gardens through an original gated window. 19th century French table with 1930s wicker chairs upholstered in Bennison fabric. So pretty! I remember loving this vignette at the time – the Bennison fabric was a big selling point, as was the romantic gate.

Today: The breakfast room was used as a bar by Mickey, with an art deco counter and leather sofa and chairs. Past this room is the family room and kitchen.

Today: Between the kitchen and the breakfast room is the family room that overlooks the swimming pool. I think this room and the kitchen must have been added on to the back of the wing on the right side of the house. There is limestone flooring through these two rooms instead of wood and the doors look different.

Today: The butler’s pantry is obviously newer with marble counters and updated cabinetry.

2005: After the Schattes left, the library that overlooks the courtyard. It had silk curtains and seagrass, of course. Even empty, it looks attractive. This room was not shown in the Veranda pictorial.

Today: And here is that same room, today. The library is located on the left side of the house past the foyer. There is a hidden storage room behind the shelving on the right of the fireplace! Most interesting, it looks like Mickey chose to keep Babs’ silk curtains! This is so sad. It’s obvious that this is where Mickey spent a lot of time. He was so young, just 63 when he passed.

The side entrance to the house. Inside the door is the powder room. This door leads to the library.

TODAY: The powder room with the serpentine hanging countertop – an early version of the hanging counters seen in powder rooms today. The small charming window is original to the house.

TODAY: The stairs lead up to the large landing.

Today: The landing on the second floor.

TODAY: The large landing which Mickey decorated with a set of antique Spanish looking furniture.

1995: VERANDA. The same view of the landing as above! What a difference!!! The new master bedroom suite was built over the library and is in the wing that was added on. The master opens off the large landing. Babs decorated the landing with a series of seagrass rugs. A French settee faced the windows. The door to the master bedroom is planked and looks like the original ones found throughout the house. The opened French door at the end of the landing overlooks the front yard.

This is another photograph that I always loved. I used to try to figure out where the bedroom was located in the house but never could. Until now.

I wish I had original photos and not just the scans. But this is all I have and I’m thrilled that the scanned photos of this house will finally be on Pinterest and the internet for everyone to now enjoy.

1995: Veranda. In the newly built section of the wing – the master bedroom has French doors with Juliet balconies on both sides of the room – overlooking the side driveway and the inner courtyard.

Notice the headboard – you will see this again, later!!

1995: Veranda. Babs chose an unfinished painting for over the fireplace in the master. Oh, I LOVED this at the time!!!! Such a beautiful mantel.

2005: When the Schattes left the house – it was seen that silk curtains had been added to the master bedroom at some point after the Veranda photoshoot.

1995: Veranda. The new master bathroom – with beautiful cut seagrass. I remember loving the way Babs cut the seagrass around the room’s curves instead of just making it smaller. The French doors overlook the gardens.

Today: The former master bedroom was over the central living room. Here is the hall behind that bedroom that overlooks the courtyard. I assume that during the Schattes stay, there was seagrass down this beautiful hall.

1995: Veranda. The former master bedroom, over the central living room, was used as a study by the Schattes. Here, as seen in Veranda, you can see how Babs decorated it with slipcovered furniture. An antique table was used in front as a coffee table. Behind is a desk and antique French chair.

Again, here the new windows with the custom designed shutters add much architectural interest to the facade and to the interior, too. The arched shutters are such a beautiful detail.

The final Veranda photograph is typical of the styling of the 1990s. A cup of tea waits to be sipped. The roses are as gorgeous as the house and the story was.

The North Blvd. house is a classic and when it is bought, the new owners will be the lucky ones. It’s nice to know that the house will be restored and one day, they too will sell it to another young couple, and so on!

Over the years, I’ve written about Babs Cooper Watkins, most notably HERE and HERE. Sadly, Babs was ill and passed away last year. Seeing this house for sale made me think of Babs and of how talented she was and of course, that led me to think about how this house brought her and Annette Schatte together which led to them forming a partnership - and the rest is history.

After the Schattes moved out the house on North, they eventually ended up in a fabulous house on Montrose that faces the Museum of Fine Arts – you know, the building that William Ward Watkin designed. How is that for a small town?

Imagine living in a house that was designed by the man who designed the neighborhood and then moving to another house which faces that architect’s most famous building?!?!

The Schattes had their new house designed by the team Reagan Andre Architecture and Pamela Pierce did the interiors. Pierce is now the founding editor of the decor magazine Milieu. The choice of Pam makes sense – Babs was now unable to work and Pam once said that while she admires international star designers such as John Saladino and Axel Vervoordt, she was most influenced by Babs Watkins. Plus, who is more talented that Pamela Pierce?

The Schattes house has never been published but photographs of it are on the internet via various web sites. It’s such a shame there hasn’t been an official photoshoot! It’s an incredible house and I have never driven down Main Street/Montrose without slowing down the car and looking at it.

On one side of the white stucco house is a rose garden.

At the other side is a porte cochere.

From the side of the porte cochere looking out towards Montrose and the William Wart Watkin designed Museum of Fine Arts.

At the back, where the swimming pool is reached through a steel pergola.

The pool is in front of the guest house that is more Provencal than Moderne.

The front side of the guest house. Um. Can I move here?

The front door. Recognize those shutters?!?! The second floor opens onto the balcony that overlooks the front of the house.

The house opens up to the large family room which is meant to be a once open-air atrium that was closed off with a large skylight. You can see the family room from the front door. When you enter the house, the living room is at the left and the dining room is at the right.

An early version of the decor before it was completed. That Duchesse brisée is to die for! And notice how gorgeous the boiserie and the wood floors are.

And, the final Pamela Pierce decor.

The dining room with a beautiful chinoiserie armoire and a French mantel.

Stone stairs lead to the second level.

The house was used for a photoshoot featuring an incredible hyacinth covered dress.

The most gorgeous sconce ever. Maybe the most gorgeous vignette ever?

The powder room. Love.

Here, the family room is off the stairhall.

Two story with a mix of antique Swedish chairs and armoires. This room is at the center of the mostly square house. At the rear is a bump-out with a door that leads to the hidden swimming pool. Upstairs, rooms overlook the family room through windows. Pam’s signature rectangular lamp shades are used on the four floor lamps.

Wish this was a better photograph!

The bump out in the family room – with a French table and two gorgeous pots and an antique lantern.

Maybe one day, please! Milieu will do this house and we will have photos without tags and writing all over them!!! Please!!!!!!!!

The morning room. Recognize the bread cart?!?!? That’s the same one that Annette had in the 1318 North house!! Notice how Pam styled it – beautiful! And those slipcovers in lilac are gorgeous. I always say that no one really does slips like Pamela Pierce. She defined them. These doors open to the rose garden on the left side.

The photoshoot with the flower dress – with the model posing in the morning room.

The kitchen with the stove and second, stone sink at its left. Antique doors.

The kitchen windows overlook the porte cochere. Notice the white bread box seen in the Veranda photoshoot? And also, do you see the silver hotel coffee urn? Love that so much. In the years since 1995 – colorful, ethnic styled dishware went out of favor while all white dishware took its place. I can’t say I miss the more colorful ware. I have always loved all white plates.

1995 – from the Veranda North Blvd. House – here is the hotel coffee urn, one item that remains today. It does look like the white coffee cups are still around too.

1995. Veranda – and here, the dining room for the photoshoot – with the white bread box. As you can see, the colorful ethnic styled dishes are no longer as desired as they were back then. Now just watch them come back in style this year!!!

In the hall, Pierce used one of the two French sofas that were once in the living room. It sits under a collection of what are probably the prettiest botanicals! I love how this artist created them!!

Upstairs. The wood floor is so pretty upstairs – hand scraped, with differing widths. Just beautiful.

In the guest room, Pierce used tufted beds in pink toile and blush silk curtains.

In the master bedroom, Pam used the same wonderful blush silk curtains (why mess with perfection?) And I love the simple white bedding and white & gilt French chairs. But, it’s the gorgeous headboard that caught my eye. Look familiar?

The headboard that Babs Watkins found for her client is still being used today. Created from an old garden gate, it is romantic and timeless. While Babs’ bedding was plain white too, it was a bit dressier than what Pierce sourced – lacy antique textiles. The too rooms are so similar, with large windows overlooking green gardens. I’m sure there are many more decorative pieces still being used all these years later.

The most obvious lesson here is that classic design never goes out of style. Beautiful French and English and Italian antiques will always look wonderful in any interior, no matter what decade. Babs Watkins designed the house on North Blvd. over 20 years ago and honestly, I would gladly move in today (I’d just change the colorful dishes for white!)

It will be interesting to see if a younger couple buys the North Blvd. house and if they will furnish it with modern decor. The strong Spanish design of the house calls for a classic approach, but I will be anxious to see who gets the job and which direction they take this Houston gem in.

Be sure to view the 1318 North Blvd. house – HERE.

AND…..

IF YOU HAVE HAD YOUR EYE ON SOMETHING AT ONE KINGS LANE -

NOW IS THE TIME TO GO VISIT.

EVERYTHING, EVERYTHING IS ON SALE – UP TO 75% OFF!

GO HERE

from COTE DE TEXAS http://cotedetexas.blogspot.com/2017/07/mickey-babs-annette-and-others-on-north.html

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