•••••••••••••••••••••••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 Actress and Writer Mijanou Bardot Musician: English Musician, Co-Vocalist and Bassist of Pink Floyd, Roger Waters Time: Early Seventies
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The desert sun was unlike any other. Patricia tentatively brought two soft hands up to pat the flesh of her petite face, which was already visibly flushed and hot to the touch. After nearly two grueling hours of driving in the unrelenting heat, she had completely accepted that a blistering pink sunburn was sure to make its way onto her nose and cheeks before the day was done.
She braved the steep drop from the colorful rug that adorned the floor of the van onto the wheat-colored blanket of the wilds.
"Did it have to be a bloody desert of all places?" The girl muttered under her breath, high-kneed strides carrying her towards the group with whom she'd traveled. Her footsteps looked more like the marching of a military man, combat boots shielding her feet from the searing sand. With each thump of those black, protective soles into the sizzling tan grains, her heavy camera swung 'round her neck like the pendulum of a grandfather clock.
The band, Pink Floyd, had already begun mingling amongst themselves as the photographist neared them with her talented hands buried anxiously into the shallow pockets of her barely-there jean shorts.
They'd briefly introduced themselves on the van ride, the fair-headed bloke insisting on calling the girl "Trishy". Although she wasn't fond of the nickname, it wasn't likely she'd be working with these chaps again, so she smiled sweetly and proffered a fake laugh as an offering of peace. It was eagerly accepted.
By all but one, that is.
"Oi! Trishy! Your bloody pockets are longer than your shorts!" Shouted the longest-haired one — David, she recalled. Aka the dirty-blond mastermind behind her unfavorable sobriquet. His smile enveloped his features as his eyes shut in laughter.
She subconsciously looked down at the shorts sitting high on her faintly tanned legs and immediately noticed the white cotton pockets sticking out mockingly from the hem of the denim garment.
Of course, the shorts were designed so that the pockets would show. She'd bought them overseas in California, but she hadn't intended to wear them today. She was admittedly in quite a rush that morning and grabbed the first things she saw.
Upholding the honor of their entirely assumed peace treaty, she volunteered another fake laugh, worrying at the sand with clothed feet. The breathable fabric of her boots creased as she drilled the toe cap of her buskins into the dunes, a bit unsure of herself surrounded by this group of intimidating strangers.
"It's 'cause they've actually got something they need to be able to hold." Snickered a strapping, brown-haired gent, glowing with amusement.
Roger.
Her lips pressed together as she dropped her shoulders — which she hadn't realized were tense — but despite her aggravation, she chose to ignore the crude comment.
