The Constant and the Variable -- Part One -- John Deacon x Reader (*18+ ONLY*)
Thank you all so much for your patience with me as I’ve been writing this! Due to lots of rewrites and lots of writer’s block it took much longer than expected, and I hope it’s worth the wait!
A NOTE ABOUT TAGS: The form that I made where you could put yourself on my tag list somehow became inaccessible to me and I’m not sure how or why, so I can no longer use it to see who wants to be tagged in what. If you want to be tagged in this and are over 18 (I’ll be checking, please have your age in your bio, otherwise I can’t tag you on good conscience!), shoot me a PM or an ask and I will add you to the list for TCATV! Sorry for any inconvenience!
- 16k words (part of why it took so long lol)
- Contains: Smut, language, fluff, band banter, innuendo, alcohol consumption, smoking
- Please bear in mind that this is only part one of a four-part John Deacon series I’m working on!
***THIS FIC CONTAINS SMUT AND IT IS FOR ADULTS ONLY. THAT MEANS 18+. I will block minors who interact with this post!!!***
Now, without further ado, enjoy my first-ever John Deacon fic!
August 1971
Concert hall bathrooms looked different in daylight. Working at Stub’s taught you that on day one–whereas at night the Stub’s bathroom had a grimy yet oddly pleasing look about it, before sunset it was just another place to take a shit. Or to take a mid-shift smoke break, which was what you were doing now.
“Have you heard of Queen?” You fanned your chest with your copy of Record Mirror and glanced at your coworker and flatmate, Ruby. She was leaning over the bathroom sink and staring at her reflection through a haze of bathroom graffiti on the mirror, trying desperately to fix her hair. Lately, she’d been teasing it like all the models were doing these days, but making it look right was a losing battle in the mid-summer humidity.
“Who?” She asked, having only half-heard the question. The word came out a little muffled because of the bobby pin she was holding in her teeth.
“Why don’t you wait until it cools down a bit?” you asked her, watching as she struggled to make a decent bump on top of her head. “We’ve got three hours until doors.”
“Yeah, and it’ll take me three hours to get this right,” she said in frustration, then wagged her finger towards you to get you back on track. “Who’s Queen?”
“That’s exactly what I’m wondering,” you replied, moving towards the tiny bathroom window and blowing the smoke out. You held the magazine up to your face again, squinting at the tiny blurb and photo in the corner of one page. It was a grainy picture of four ragtag-looking boys around your age, all beanpoles and all wearing outfits of varying degrees of chaos. The caption identified them as QUEEN, a new rock band that had been gaining traction playing in small venues around the U.K.
You frowned–you worked at a small venue in the U.K. How was this the first time you were hearing their name?