•••••••••••••••••••••••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 Macha Méril Musician: English Musician & Member of the Rolling Stones, Keith Richards Time: Mid Sixties
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[Features Recreational Drug Usage]
Underneath the mossy willows by the water: that's the greatest place in the world. The only thing that could possibly make it greater is a joint, which is something the lucky lovebirds just so happened to have.
Well, the girl had never smoked before — it was criminal in her home country. She'd have the occasional drag of a cigarette if offered at a party, but she hadn't gone out of her way to smoke anything, especially not pot. Birta sat neatly on the fleece blanket, watching curiously as Keith's fingers nimbly twisted the herbs into the thin rolling paper. The evening was lit with pale blue moonlight, and the soundtrack was the song of wildlife long after dark. The somewhat acidic and earthy smell of the Icelandic swamp made her feel at ease.
"This is very illegal." She tittered slightly, the breathy lilt of her strong Nordic accent marking her words. Keith chuckled at her statement, fixing the edges of the paper with a lit match. "It is, darling." He affirmed, face bathed in warmth by the orange luminance of the flame. She smiled in amusement at the memory of her boyfriend of two years informing her just how he'd smuggled the ounce of reefer onto the Northern European island.
Keith would always come to visit Birta when he had the spare time. She lived in Selfoss, a little ways out from Reykjavik, near the Öflusá river. Normally they would just have dinner or watch a film at her home, but Keith was growing tired of doing things of that nature. Birta still lived with her parents, which was quite normal in Iceland, but it meant the couple never really had any alone time. They were either with people in town, or with her folks at home. So, he suggested that they head down near the river to have a smoke.
"Okay, love." Keith said, scooting closer to Birta examine his work. She found the sight of the guitarist in black seated on a fluffy baby blanket to be quite comical. To spare his ego, she hid her laughter behind her hand. "It's done."
Birta examined the joint: it didn't look like much. It was white and cylindrical, not seeming much different than a cigarette — at least visually. Keith took his place snugly beside her, their covered arms brushing against each other as he struck another match to light the herbs.
"I'll have a few hits first, let your lungs get used to breathing in the smoke." He instructed, flicking his wrist to kill the flame on the end of the matchstick. He discarded it on the blanket, brining the joint up to his lips and pulling in a generous drag. Birta rested her head on his shoulder, watching the white smoke pour from his parted lips and dissolve into the night air.
This continued for a while, Keith causally hitting the joint while Birta breathed in his exhales through her nose. She had gotten used to the unfamiliar smell, and was starting to feel confident that she was ready to take a hint. "Keith." She started, lifting her head off of him and looking into his dark eyes as he blew yet another rush of vapor intentionally near her face. He smirked at the sound of her gentle voice.
