•••••••••••••••••••••••Requests Open!••••••••••••••••••••••••
Will update upon receiving requests. Check chapter cleverly titled "⭐️Requests Open!⭐️" for more details (it's the 10th chapter!)
You can never have too many classic rock one shots, can y...
Muse: French Singer Mireille Mathieu Musician: English Musician and Drummer of the Rolling Stones, Charlie Watts Time: Mid Sixties
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Behind the scenes of the nationally acclaimed daytime talk show, nothing short of pandemonium had arisen. Stage hands and crew members weaved around each other through the narrows halls, shouting out orders and questions to whoever had ears to listen.
In her unembellished white dressing room, a vocalist idled at her vanity in her plain white undergarments, awaiting a seamstress she was promised would arrive 6 minutes ago.
Her slender, manicured fingers raked needlessly through her tidy, brown bob, pearlescent thulian pink fingernails grazing ever so gently against her scalp.
A gust of her breath escaping her painted lips with a sigh, the girl lolled in her creaky wooden chair, head craning to give her ill fitting vestment it's thousandth once-over.
"They must want me to go out there and sing in my knickers." With a huff to herself, hazel eyes caught her reflection yet again in the vanity mirror. "Bring the ratings up even higher, wouldn't it?" She stressed, words bitter on her gifted tongue.
Eyes flicked to the clock. Only seconds had passed. Another restless sigh. Eyes fell back towards her reflection. The singer couldn't help but wonder; if she had a beach ball in the room, would she have filled it by now with all of her huffing, puffing, and sighing?
Fed up and stir crazy, she rose from the battered throne and trudged towards the candy red car coat hanging obediently from a mounted hook. Her visage flashed with amusement at the thought of her griping at the costume crew looking like a teenaged mod girl straight out of a London fashion magazine.
Just as her delicate hand reached out for the raiment, the weightless and flimsy dressing room door whipped open quicker than a strike of lightning.
In the doorway stood a brown haired man with a seemingly perpetual pout. Within an instant, his eyes grew twice their size, his features displaying mortification.
"Oh, dear! Sorry!" The man exclaimed, red in the face with a sizable hand over his eyes. He went to shut the door, but the girl rushed across the minuscule room and caught it by the rattling steel handle.
Her unexpected strength managed to keep the door ajar, about a third of the way, as she peered through the crack at the flustered man who refused to meet her unyielding gaze.
"Wait. I need you." Uttered the brunette, her eyes burning into the avoidant intruder. He dribbled nonsense sounds as she pulled him into the room by his wrist with little force. Despite his barely intelligible vocal objections, he made no efforts to keep her from drawing him into the infinitesimal chamber.
She snatched a jumbled ball of measuring tape off of the vanity and turned back to him with a neutral expression.
"Measure my waist and hips, would you?" Her hand, extended towards the man, formed a claw; yellow tape spilling between her fingers like cooked spaghetti through a spaghetti spoon.
