•••••••••••••••••••••••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 Model and Actress Marisa Berenson Musician: American Singer/ Songwriter, Poet, and Lead Vocalist of the Doors, Jim Morrison Time: Late Sixties
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[Features Recreational Drug Usage] [Hard Drugs: Cocaine]
Daphne didn't really know where the hell she was. She knew she was in a mansion, she knew that there was a party happening in the mansion, but what was really going on was far beyond her knowledge. She just stood there, dragon fruit margarita in hand, looking like an abstract painting as she mentally cursed the girl who'd invited her.
They'd met at an art exhibition that she'd contributed to. Funnily enough, she couldn't even remember the girls name — Patty, was it? It didn't matter. All she knew was that they had a lot in common and they'd made plans to work on some fashion pieces together. She gave the girl her number and received a call a few days later; an invite to a party in the Hills.
She was told it'd be the artsy kind of gig, and to dress in something 'groovy', and thank the powers that be, she listened. The girl, who was presumably in the chips, sent a limousine to pick Daphne up and drive her to the location of the shindig. And now, there she was, standing on the wall and stone cold sober, with no clue if that girl was even there.
The drink that she was nursing was kind of forced into her hand. She hadn't taken a sip and wasn't planning on it since she had no clue where it had came from or what all was inside of it. Still, she accepted it to spare the ego of the young man who gave it to her, smiling politely at him and excusing herself for a restroom break that she never took.
Daphne fit right in among the congregation. She was surrounded by people dressed in bizarre imported fabrics with avant-garde hairstyles. As for her, her brown hair was slicked back into a bun, the bun covered by a navy scarf that wrapped around her head and hung down her back like a ponytail. Over her shoulders hung a golden silk kaftan; decorated liberally with champagne sequins and beads sewn in intricate patterns along the hems and v-neckline.
On her fingers: gold and pearl rings. On her feet: bronze kitten heeled sandals. Her makeup consisted of a shimmery cornflower eyeshadow smudged as far out as her eye socket and a third eye that a drunk had, at some point in the agonizing half hour she'd been there, lovingly offered to paint on her forehead. This sure was an interesting crowd.
Abandoning her drink on the kitchen island, she decided to make her away around the sweaty, dancing bodies for the sitting room. There was a muted black and white film playing on the television set, the console littered with empty glasses and discarded cigarettes in an ash tray. She sat and stared at the screen for a while, finding entertainment in attempting to read the character's lips.
She then felt a sudden dip in the sofa, causing her to look to her right. There sat a man she'd met almost as soon as she'd walked through the door. He'd welcomed her before disappearing into the mass of jiving bodies. "Hello, stranger." He purred, his arm leaning against the back of the couch and his hand supporting his head.
