•••••••••••••••••••••••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: American Actress, Filmmaker and Humanitarian Angelina Jolie Musician: English Musician, Co-Vocalist and Bassist of Pink Floyd, Roger Waters Time: Early Eighties
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Many people would say that Alina was addicted to trouble. She was reckless with booze, an unabashed drink-driver and a shameless kleptomaniac. All of her nights were spent wreaking havoc in what would otherwise be a friendly pub with a cig burning in one hand bottle in the other.
The night that she met Roger was no different. She was on her fourth pint of brew, the mostly empty glass dangling from her fingertips as she held it by the mouth. She was huddled by a windowless brick wall inside of the alehouse, arguing into the pay phone with her sister back home.
"Oi, feck off, would you?" She spat over her shoulder, glaring at the man hugging her waist tightly. She'd given him eyes for a free pint nearly an hour ago, but the sorry bugger was still holding onto hope that he'd get laid. He hummed into her neck, the buckle hanging from his leather moto jacket clanking as he waddled in place with her in his arms. Her sister complained at the sudden rude remark on the other end of the line, causing Alina to roll her eyes in annoyance.
"No, not you, Erin." The girl sighed while shutting her baby blues, her still cold pint hiding her face as her wrist massaged her forehead. The unwanted suitor had now begun stamping (thankfully) dry kisses onto her bare neck, the blonde subconsciously tilting her head to better expose the flesh as her sister rambled on.
"No, I won't come home fecking pregnant. I won't come home at all!" With her outburst, Alina slammed the receiver back onto the hook, huffing as she broke out of the desperate chap's grasp. Her 16-eye Docs thundered as she stomped back to the bar, leaving him in the dust. After crashing into her seat, Alina ignored the disapproving stares she'd received, chugging the remainder of her drink in mere seconds.
"Gimme another pint of the black stuff, Marlin." She commanded the barkeep: a man with whom she'd become very well aquatinted. His pub was her favorite, after all. The man slid her another tall glass of Guinness, filled to the brim, and she got to swilling it immediately. Like the incident on the phone never happened, her buzz quickly returned, now stronger than ever. Her boisterous personality livened up the already bright and warm bar, charming smile blazing in the orange lighting that seduced dipsomaniacs in the dead of night like moths to a flame.
She was the designated disk jockey whenever she was there, making sure that the jukebox played nothing but Motörhead and Venom all night long. No Class blared through the atmosphere, bouncing off of the walls and sabotaging the attempts of any would-be earwiggers. Alina was still rowdy as ever, dancing on a table in her skin tight denim shorts and working on a glass of Heineken after draining the Guinness keg dry.
The music put her in something akin to a trance; her waist twisting, hips rocking and arms swaying without her even having to try. Her icy eyes were closed as she purred out the lyrics liked she'd done so many times before, her rich voice silky and smooth. Many of the people in the bar were enjoying the show, until, of course, it was cut short by nature's call.
