Classic Rock One Shots

Jim Morrison IV "Red Hot" {Domestic, Smut}

Muse: American Actress Tina Aumont
Musician: American Singer/ Songwriter, Poet, and Lead Vocalist of the Doors, Jim Morrison
Time: Mid to Late Sixties

[Request]

Eleanor watched the kettle on the stove, waiting for the infamous whistle. Jim was supposed to have been home a little while ago, but she was more than used to him being late. She could hear the water start to bubble inside of the stainless steel, deducing that it was probably nearing its boiling point.

The thin strap of her sky blue négligée, about a size or so too big, was beginning to slip off of her smooth left shoulder. The silk felt a little cold against her skin, a tingle shooting up her spine whenever the flowing fabric grazed her skin by the push of the air conditioning unit.

The fingers on her left hand busied themselves by resting firmly against the cream yellow wallpaper that covered the cozy kitchen, a habit that she could hear her mother scolding her about. Her other hand was wrested against the cold tile of the island behind her, her nails, just long enough to surpass her fingertips, faintly tapping against the cool ceramic.

She'd already gotten everything ready to prepare the tea. All she needed was measured out in the mugs exactly to Jim's very specific liking. The brunette's only indication of the time was the analog click that hung high on the wall to her left, but she didn't bother with checking it. She had a feeling that her man would be home rather soon, and those feelings were never wrong.

Besides, the fuzzy and faint sound of the television set let her know that she'd been in the kitchen for almost an entire episode of whatever whodunnit was dragging along on the color screen, so she knew it had to have been at least a half hour.

With a sigh, the brown-eyed girl opted to rest her head against the wall, her brown hair bunching up as it slid down and inch or two. The hand that was previously supporting her slipped down to rest beside her temple, the skirt of her thin little dress reaching down to cover her backside.

It was then that kettle screeched like a banshee with the release of its smoke, pulling Elenor out of the cloudy daze that had consumed her at some point during her mind-numbing wait. The girl wasted no time in stepping over to the hollering spout, soothing its cries with the skillful turn of a knob, snuffing the blue flames. She carefully picked up the kettle, carrying it off of the stove and gingerly placing it onto a kitchen rag on the island.

She knew Jim would be home soon. She had this sort of sixth sense about him — it was almost creepy. She could feel when he was close, and she knew when he was farther away then he said he'd be. When he was approaching, she'd get all warm in fuzzy inside. Then the warmth would turn to a scolding heat, the molten lava of an active volcano bubbling in her belly until she ran to his side.

And of course, when he was far, she'd feel cold. At first a slight chill. Then, the sensation of every ounce of blood in her body draining out of her from the soles of her feet. In her mind, her skin would go sullen and pale, painted in hues of blue and grey. Her teeth would feel the need to chatter and her hands the desire to tremble. She'd bite her nails to sooth the urges, eyes darting and body endlessly shifting.