#silk scarf from women

[virginiablossoms]

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[julietsf1]

Hurricane - Franco Colapinto x Reader

summary: When a hurricane leaves Y/N stranded at Charles’s Monaco apartment with a few of his friends, Y/N has to navigate both the storm outside and the one brewing inside. (5k words)

AN: The absolute confusion I had when I saw a hurricane warning from my government yesterday (I live in south of France); they later changed it to a regular storm warning, as it was a mistake but it did inspire me to write a lil something :) Hope you all have a lovely day cuties <3

__________________________________________

The late afternoon sunlight streamed through the wide-open balcony doors, casting a golden hue over Charles’s perfectly pristine Monaco apartment. I sat cross-legged on the plush rug, sipping wine and admiring the explosion of shopping bags Alexandra and I had managed to accumulate during our day out. Monte Carlo had definitely been kind to us, and the light buzz from the wine wasn’t hurting either.

“I swear, you have this insane ability to sniff out the best deals,” I said, holding up a silk scarf I knew I’d never wear but had bought anyway. “How do you do it?”

Alexandra, always composed, gave me a sly smile from where she lounged on the couch, a glass of wine cradled effortlessly in her hand. “It’s all about instinct. Plus, I had to keep up with you. You were like a woman possessed.”

“Possessed by a very stylish demon,” I quipped, draping the scarf over my shoulder dramatically before laughing. The kind of laughter that happens when you’re a bit tipsy and surrounded by a friend who knows all your quirks.

“I still can’t believe we’ve kept this monthly tradition alive,” Alexandra mused, swirling her wine. “Feels like just yesterday we were running around Paris pretending to understand every art piece in the Louvre.”

I smirked, raising my glass. “Fake it till you make it, right? Look at us now — two very sophisticated, responsible young women.”

Alexandra burst into laughter at that, nearly spilling her drink. “Yes, responsible. Totally why we blew our budgets in today.”

“Hey, this is what reunions are for. Besides, Charles is always dragging you to fancy dinners — we need to keep up appearances.”

“Cheers to that,” Alexandra laughed. These reunions had become a tradition ever since they both left Paris. Shopping, gossiping, and generally pretending they had their lives together for a few days before returning to reality.

“I do wish I could stay longer,” Y/N said, glancing at her watch. “But I’ve got a flight back to tonight.”

Alexandra pouted in a way that could have convinced anyone to cancel their plans. “Come on, just stay for dinner.”

“As tempting as that sounds, I really can’t,” Y/N replied, laughing. “I don’t have a private jet. Air France is not going to wait for me.”

As if on cue, the front door swung open, and there was Charles, as effortlessly polished as ever, with a smile that seemed to say, I’m trying not to stress but also, I’m probably going to stress.

“Bonsoir, ladies,” he greeted, dropping his keys on the counter. “Good day of shopping, I assume?”

“The best,” I grinned, waving a hand over the spread of bags surrounding us. “Your appartment is stunning by the way.”

He smiled, giving a mock bow. “I do what I can You should stay for a bit, a few people are coming over tonight — nothing too crazy. Just some of the guys.”

Y/N’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “The guys?”

“Yeah, nothing too big. Just Lando, George, Max, and Franco. A little pre-birthday thing before we head out later.”

I exchanged a quick glance with Alexandra, who was already giving me her classic stay for dinner look. Before I could protest, the apartment door swung open again, and in walked George, looking as composed and proper as ever. His eyes scanned the apartment critically before zeroing in on Charles.

“I still think hiring a private chef is a bit over the top,” George began, without so much as a greeting. “We could’ve managed something ourselves, you know. Is this private chef going to stick to traditional recipes? I’m just saying, none of that modern fusion nonsense. I don’t want to find some deconstructed tartare on my plate. It should be classic and-”

“Hi, George,” I cut in, giving him a pointed look.

He blinked, suddenly remembering that Alexandra and I were present. “Oh, Y/N, Alexandra. Didn’t see you there. Apologies, m’ladies.” He gave a polite nod before turning back to Charles. “Anyway, as I was saying—”

“George, we’ve got it covered,” Charles sighed, looking like he was already regretting inviting his overly particular friend.

Before George could launch into another monologue about culinary disasters, the door swung open again, and Lando breezed in with his signature chaotic energy. He didn’t just walk into a room, he practically exploded into it.

“Ladies, gentlemen, I have arrived!” Lando declared, grinning widely as if he’d just been announced at a royal ball. He scanned the room, his eyes landing on me and Alexandra. “Ah, the usual suspects. So, what’s the plan? Dinner, drinks, maybe a little dancing after?”

“That’s the idea,” Alexandra said, raising an eyebrow. “But Y/N is trying to bail for her flight.”

Lando gasped, clutching his chest in exaggerated shock. “What? Absolutely not. We’re not letting you leave before you at least see how this chef performs under George’s expert critique.”

I rolled my eyes, smiling. “You’re all ridiculous. I really do need to catch that flight.”

“You’ll miss the best part of the night!” Lando said, leaning back with a knowing grin. “But fine, if you have to go, you have to go.”

As if on cue, the door opened again, and in walked Max — no dramatic entrance, no greetings. He headed straight for the bar, poured himself a gin and tonic, and turned to the group with a small nod, holding up his glass.

“Evening,” he said, like this was all completely normal.

“Hi, Max,” I replied, grinning at his predictable, casual demeanor.

“Y/N. Alexandra,” Max greeted, raising his glass in acknowledgment before taking a long sip, completely unfazed by Lando’s lingering excitement or George’s quiet simmer of judgment.

It didn’t take long for everyone to fall into their usual rhythms. Charles, now somewhat resigned to the chaos, was behind the counter mixing drinks. George, still hovering like a concerned parent, muttered under his breath about the chef’s qualifications. Meanwhile, Lando was already plotting mischief, and Max was sipping his gin as if nothing in the world could faze him.

I found myself laughing at how these gatherings always followed the same unpredictable-yet-predictable pattern. It was hectic, but in the best way. As much as I hated to admit it, I would probably miss it if I left for Paris tonight. But I already had my ticket, urging me to start packing.

As I sat there, mentally preparing to say my goodbyes, the door opened again. In walked someone I didn’t recognize. He moved with a relaxed, almost casual confidence, and instantly, the energy in the room seemed to shift. He didn’t need to announce himself or make a grand entrance like Lando had — his presence was subtle but noticeable.

His hair was slightly tousled, the kind that looked soft and effortlessly styled in that perfectly imperfect way. The moment he smiled, a warm, very cute grin, I felt a brief flicker of something, my heart beating a little faster in my chest. There was something disarming about him. He had the kind of smile that made you feel like you’d known him forever, even though I’d never seen him before.

He stepped closer, his green eyes flicking to me. “You must be Y/N,” he said, his voice smooth and pleasant as he extended a hand.

I blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the easy charm he exuded. It wasn’t forced or showy, just... natural. Recovering quickly, I shook his hand. “That’s me. Nice to meet you.”

“Franco,” He held onto my gaze for a moment, the playful glint in his eyes unmistakable. “Nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard a lot.”

“All good things, I hope,” I replied, trying not to be too obvious as I shot a quick glance at Alexandra, who was absolutely soaking up this moment.

“Always,” he said with a playful glint in his eyes before releasing my hand.

Alexandra didn’t waste a second before giving me that knowing look, the one that practically screamed I told you you should stay. I elbowed her lightly, trying to suppress my smile and the butterflies that were fluttering in my stomach. 

Before I could continue the conversation or ask Franco who exactly had been talking about me, Charles’s phone buzzed loudly from across the room. As he glanced down, and the expression on his face shifted so fast it was almost comical — the laid-back vibe of the evening vanished instantly.

“Oh no.”

“What is it?” I asked, feeling a knot tighten in my stomach.

Charles stared at his phone, his brow furrowed. “It’s a hurricane alert.”

“A hurricane?” Lando immediately perked up, jumping off the couch as if the word itself had given him a burst of energy. “In Monte Carlo?”

Charles nodded, his expression darkening. “Yeah. Whole south of France. All flights are grounded, transportation is suspended and residents must stay inside.”

My stomach sank. “My flight…”

Alexandra, not missing a beat and clearly enjoying the chaos unfolding, sipped her wine and smirked. “Looks like you’re not going anywhere.”

Lando, ever the opportunist, grabbed Charles’s phone from him and squinted at the screen. “Ouragan? That’s the French word for hurricane? That’s got to be a joke.” He wrinkled his nose, making it sound even more absurd than it already did.

Max, sitting comfortably and sipping his gin, raised an eyebrow laughing. “That’s why I live in the Italian speaking part.”

“Lando, right now is not the moment to be critical of the French.” George said, looking concerned. 

Charles let out a frustrated sigh, running his hand through his hair, now visibly stressed. “Everything’s closed down. We’re stuck here for the night.”

Franco, now fully settled into a chair beside me, shrugged casually. “There are worse places to be stuck,” he said, his voice light, as if we weren’t all just stranded.

I glanced over at him, and he smiled again, that same easy warmth that seemed to make everything feel a little less chaotic. The thought of being stuck suddenly didn’t seem so bad.

Lando, on the other hand, looked positively thrilled. “Guess we’re having a proper night in!” He clapped his hands together, already mentally planning the night ahead.

Meanwhile, George, who had been standing to the side, immediately shifted into problem-solving mode. “We need to secure the windows, check supplies, make sure we have—”

“George, mate,” Max cut in, raising his glass without looking up, “it’s a little hurricane, not the end of the world. We’re fine.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, the ridiculousness of the situation beginning to sink in. As subtly as I could, I turned to sneak another glance at the guy next to me. His presence, along with that gentle, easy smile, had a way of making everything else feel a little less chaotic. For a brief moment, the reality of being stuck in here didn’t seem so bad. 

..

It didn’t take long for the mood in the apartment to shift, Lando, of course, was the first to act, bouncing off the couch and making a beeline for the Bluetooth speaker.

“If we’re stuck here, we might as well make it fun!” he declared, pulling out his phone and connecting it to the speaker. Within seconds, upbeat music filled the room as Lando scrolled through his playlist, queuing up tracks to keep the vibe alive. “Max, you in?”

Max, who had been lazily sipping his gin and tonic, grinned and gave a small nod. “Always.”

With the music pumping, it was clear that Lando and Max were determined to turn the situation into a party, despite the looming hurricane. I glanced at Alexandra, who simply shook her head, amused.

Meanwhile, Charles was pacing near the kitchen, still on the phone with the now-stranded private chef. His frustration was evident in the deep sighs he kept letting out. “Yes, I get it. But seriously? Not even a chance? Yeah, okay. Fine. Thanks,” he muttered, hanging up with an exasperated expression. “The chef can’t make it. We’re on our own.”

“That’s our cue,” Alexandra said, standing up and rolling her sleeves. “Y/N, you ready to help me chef it up?”

“Lead the way,” I replied, following her into the kitchen. The ingredients we had weren’t extensive, but Alexandra was already surveying the options with a critical eye, assessing what we could make work. “How about a classic tarte tatin to start and coq au vin for the main course?” she suggested, her eyes gleaming with the challenge.

I raised an eyebrow. “You’re feeling ambitious.”

She smirked. “We’re in Monte Carlo, aren’t we? Let’s do this properly.”

We quickly got to work, but as we gathered ingredients, I could feel someone hovering. Sure enough, George had appeared at the edge of the kitchen, arms crossed, watching us with that critical, calculating look. He looked ready to swoop in at any moment.

“I just want to make sure everything’s going according to plan,” George said, his tone a little too intense for a casual night stuck in a storm. “Are you sure you want to sauté those vegetables at that heat? I mean, it’s important we get the timing just right…”

Alexandra and I exchanged a quick glance, both of us trying not to laugh but also feeling the mounting pressure of George’s constant observations. It wasn’t that he was wrong, but his looming presence was starting to make things awkward.

Before either of us could respond, Franco, who had been leaning against the counter, stepped in with perfect timing. “You know, George, you’re really the only one here who knows how to handle a hurricane situation properly. I mean, I wouldn’t know the first thing about securing an apartment for a storm like this,” Franco said, his voice sincere but with a hint of playful exaggeration.

George, caught off guard, turned to Franco with a raised brow. “Well, thank you for noticing! Finally someone who takes my expertise to heart.”

Franco nodded, widening his eyes slightly as if he were genuinely impressed. “Yes! You’ve got to come up with gameplan, George.”

George’s posture shifted, the critical kitchen gaze giving way to the more pressing issue of hurricane preparedness. “Well, I suppose someone should check the windows… and the doors. And make sure we have everything we need in case it gets worse.”

Franco smiled, giving him a reassuring nod. “Exactly, and you’re the best person for that. Don’t worry about us in here. I’ll make sure everything’s under control while you handle the important stuff.”

George stood a little taller, clearly feeling validated. “Right. I’ll get to it, then.” With that, he turned on his heel and started making his way toward the windows, leaving the kitchen — and us — in peace.

I let out a quiet breath of relief as Franco turned back toward us with a mischievous grin. 

Alexandra chuckled, tossing him a knife. “Not bad. We owe you for that one.”

Franco caught the knife easily, giving a mock bow. “Happy to be of service. Need any help? Shall I chop something? Stir?”

I exchanged a glance with Franco, who had already rolled up his sleeves and was looking at the ingredients with a playful grin. “You any good at this?” I asked, 

“I’ve got some skills,” he said, flashing that same warm smile from earlier. “Just tell me what you need, and I’ll take care of it.”

I blushed a little, which Franco seemed to notice. He let out a soft chuckle, brushing his hand over my lower back as he walked to the other side of the kitchen to grab a cutting board. 

As we got deeper into the cooking, Franco’s talkative side started to show. He moved smoothly through the kitchen, cutting vegetables, making jokes, and occasionally breaking into exaggerated commentary about our process.

“You know, this tarte tatin is already looking better than any I’ve ever seen. Michelin-star level for sure,” he said with a grin, watching as I arranged the caramelized apples in the pan.

“Oh, absolutely,” Alexandra chimed in with a teasing tone. “I’m sure we’ll have food critics knocking down the door any minute now.”

Franco raised his hands in surrender, still smiling. “Hey, I’m just saying, if this racing thing doesn’t work out, I now got a backup plan.”

The smell of the coq au vin simmering away filled the apartment, a comforting aroma that seemed to blend perfectly with the upbeat music still playing from Lando’s speaker. Max, now fully entertained by Lando’s ridiculous dance moves, was swaying along with him, both of them taking occasional breaks to sip their drinks and laugh at each other.

I glanced back at Franco as he finished chopping, handing the neatly diced vegetables to Alex. “You’re a natural,” I said, impressed by how quickly he picked up the rhythm of the kitchen.

“Guess you bring out the best in me,” he replied with a wink, and I felt a warmth rise to my cheeks despite myself.

I couldn’t help but smile at that, the stress of the hurricane melting away little by little as we worked. Franco was good at keeping things light, his constant chatter and easygoing attitude making the cooking feel more like fun than an obligation.

After placing the tarte tatin in the oven, I wiped my hands and glanced out toward the rest of the apartment. George was now in full storm-prep mode, diligently checking windows, making sure everything was locked tight, and muttering under his breath about emergency plans. Charles, though still somewhat stressed, had at least stopped pacing and was leaning against the counter, sipping a drink as he watched Lando and Max’s antics.

“Not bad for a last-minute Plan B, huh?” Franco said, standing beside me as he washed his hands at the sink.

“Not bad at all,” I replied, feeling a warm sense of accomplishment as the scents filled the apartment. 

..

Dinner was a success, much to the delight of everyone in the apartment. The tarte tatin had been perfect, golden and crisp, and the coq au vin rich and flavorful, enough to win over even George, who begrudgingly admitted that “for a last-minute dinner, it wasn’t bad at all.” 

The energy in the apartment was buzzing, and the storm outside seemed like a distant hum. With Lando’s playlist still thumping in the background, we settled in the living room, everyone lounging comfortably after the meal. But George, predictably, couldn’t handle the idea of sitting idle for too long.

“Right,” George announced, standing up and clapping his hands together. “Now that we’ve eaten, how about some games? We could do something like charades or—”

Max, already sprawled out with his drink in hand, rolled his eyes. “Boring,” he drawled. “Let’s play something fun, like a drinking game.”

Lando’s face lit up immediately. “Now that’s more like it!”

George looked appalled. “A drinking game? We just had dinner!”

“That’s exactly why,” Max said, raising his glass. “Got to flush it down for dessert.”

Lando, grinning ear to ear, was already hopping off the couch. “Alright, but it has to be something chaotic. Max, what’s that one game we talked about? The one from New Girl?”

“True American,” Max replied, slouching further into his chair with a smirk. “That’s the one.”

George frowned. “What in the world is True American?”

I laughed, shaking my head. “It’s a drinking game, but with no clear rules, lots of chaos, and a touch of American history thrown in for fun.”

“And the floor is lava,” Lando added, already rearranging the room, pushing chairs and cushions into strategic positions.

“The floor is… lava?” George echoed, still looking deeply confused.

“Yep! So you have to move from piece of furniture to piece of furniture without touching the ground,” I explained, grinning as I grabbed some throw pillows to use as extra stepping stones.

Franco chuckled beside me, shaking his head. “Sounds like absolute madness.”

“Exactly,” I said, laughing. “You’ll love it.”

Max, now fully invested, sat up slightly. “Also, there are random trivia questions, mostly American history. And whenever someone shouts, ‘JFK!’ you have to drink.”

George raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. “None of us are American. Can’t we do a British variant instead?”

“That wouldn’t be fair, mate,” Lando chuckled, stretching out his arms as if preparing for the chaos that was about to unfold. “You’re practically the lovechild of David Attenborough and the Encyclopaedia Britannica.”

“Yeah, at least let’s pick something where we all have an equal chance of winning,” Alexandra added, already on her feet and moving chairs around with an excited bounce. “Let’s call it True F1.”

Charles, who had been quietly observing the conversation from the couch, finally chimed in with a grin. “I’d actually love to see how you guys twist F1 trivia into a drinking game.”

Lando, never one to waste a good opportunity, was already hopping between the coffee table and the armrest of the nearest chair. “Alright! Here’s how it works: the floor is still lava, obviously. But instead of random American history facts, you shout out random F1 facts — the weirder, the better. If someone calls out a track name, you have to switch ‘circuits’, aka furniture, without touching the floor. Got it?”

Max smirked, finishing off his drink. “Sounds ridiculous. I’m in.”

Within minutes, the living room had been transformed into a messy obstacle course of chairs, pillows, and random objects. Lando, the unofficial captain of chaos, had already hopped onto the coffee table, gesturing for everyone to join him.

The game quickly descended into the same kind of chaos that Lando had promised. Max and Charles were the first to yell out random facts.

“Did you know Toto’s real first name is Totoro?” Max announced confidently, clearly just making things up for the fun of it, earning a glare from George.

“Very funny, mate,” Lando called back, leaping onto a chair. “But did you know Michael Schumacher once raced a kangaroo in Australia?”

Charles, balancing on the armrest of the couch, raised an eyebrow, amused but skeptical. “I’m pretty sure that didn’t happen.”

George, meanwhile, looked completely bewildered. “Wait, what? Is any of this true?”

“Doesn’t matter!” Lando shot back, moving to a footstool.

I found myself laughing uncontrollably, trying to maintain my balance as I stood on the armrest of a chair. Franco, standing nearby on the coffee table, reached out a hand to help me jump to the next ‘circuit’ — in this case, a cushion on the floor.

“Careful,” he teased, his hand steadying me. “You don’t want to fall into ‘Turn 13 at Monaco.’ It’s a tricky one.”

“Monaco? I thought we were in Silverstone,” I replied with a grin as I took his hand.

Franco chuckled, his green eyes sparkling with amusement. “It’s a complicated circuit.”

As I jumped, I almost lost my balance, wobbling slightly. Franco, quick to react, caught me, his arm wrapping around my waist to steady me. His touch was warm, and as our eyes met, the playful atmosphere between us shifted, feeling suddenlya bit more charged.

“You good?” he asked softly, his smile still warm but with a little more weight behind it.

“Yeah,” I breathed, trying to ignore the blush creeping up on my cheeks. “Thanks.”

I honestly didn’t mind standing like this. For a second, it felt like the rest of the game had faded into the background, the noise dimming around us. But then, just as quickly, Charles shouted from across the room, “Spa-Francorchamps!”

The spell broke. Franco let go, and I hopped onto the next chair, trying to suppress the grin that was forming on my face.

The game continued with more nonsensical facts. Max tried to convince George that Fernando Alonso once moonlit as a matador, while Lando made up a story about Kimi Räikkönen secretly being Oscar Piastri’s dad.

Meanwhile, Alexandra, acrobatically clinging a nearby bookshelf, caught my eye, a mischievous smile tugging at her lips. “T’as capté? Il te lâche pas du tout.” (Did you catch that? He can’t stop looking at you.)

I laughed, shaking my head. “Arrête…” (Stop…)

She raised an eyebrow, leaning in closer. “T’inquiète, ma puce, j’dirai rien... mais c’est cramé!” (Don’t worry, sweetie, I won’t say anything… but it’s so obvious!)

We giggled, and across the room, Charles, who had clearly understood the exchange, raised an eyebrow, amused. He didn’t say anything, but his knowing look said enough.

Lando, noticing the laughter but missing the French, put his hands on his hips dramatically. “Oi! What’s going on over there? You two plotting in French again? That’s not fair!”

Alexandra and I burst into laughter, but before I could explain, Lando waved a hand dramatically. “Fine! You know what? Max! We’ll speak Dutch and leave them out.”

Max raised his glass, thoroughly entertained. “Go ahead, mate.”

Lando nodded, puffing up with mock determination. “Absolutely. Let’s go!”

Max leaned back in his chair, grinning. “Alright, your turn.”

Lando furrowed his brow in concentration and attempted his best Dutch. “Uhh… Ik… spreek beetje Nederland… ja?”

Max nearly choked on his gin. “That’s… good effort.”

Undeterred, Lando kept at it, much to Max’s amusement. “Lekker... uh… ja?”

Max waved him off, laughing. “Stop. You’re embarrassing the language.”

The game continued late into the evening, with everyone’s laughter filling the room. Despite the storm outside, the chaos, and the completely nonsensical F1 trivia, it felt like we’d turned the night into something unexpectedly fun.

..

The night had wound down after hours of conversation, laughter, and chaotic games. The storm outside was still relentless, but inside the apartment, everything felt warm and comfortable. Conversations had softened, and people were beginning to yawn, signaling the end of the night.

Alexandra and Charles were the first to head off, exchanging quiet goodnights before disappearing into their room. The rest of us remained scattered around the living room, tired but still riding the wave of the evening’s energy.

Max, who had been slowly sinking into the armchair with his sixth gin and tonic, stood up, stretched, and made a beeline for the guest room without a word. It was clear he was done for the night. Lando was half-asleep on the larger couch, sprawled out in his usual dramatic fashion, leaving little room for George, who had claimed the other side.

Franco, who had been lounging on the small two-seater sofa, stretched his arms and looked over at me. “Looks like this is my spot for the night,” he said with a grin, patting the cushion beside him. “Not much room, except between Lando and George. You might as well join me.”

I hesitated for a second, but the way he said it — so casual and light, yet with that playful spark in his eyes — made it clear that the offer wasn’t just about space. The tension between us was undeniable.

I smirked, feigning reluctance. “Alright, but if you take up all the room, I’m kicking you off.”

Franco chuckled softly, shifting over to make space for me. “Deal.”

I sat down next to him, the proximity between us much closer than I had anticipated. The couch was small, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. In fact, being close to Franco felt easy, natural. His arm rested across the back of the sofa, and as we settled in, his fingers lightly brushed my shoulder.

We sat there for a moment in silence, the only sounds coming from the soft rumble of the storm outside and the occasional rustling from Lando’s half-asleep movements on the other couch. The apartment had gone from a chaotic whirlwind of noise and laughter to a quiet, almost serene atmosphere.

Franco shifted slightly, his fingers moving gently to stroke my hair. The movement was soft and rhythmic, calming, and I felt my heart skip a beat. I leaned into him, resting my head against his chest. His touch was tender, each stroke of his hand sending a warm shiver through me as I relaxed into the closeness between us.

We didn’t need to say anything. The silence between us spoke volumes, and as the storm continued to rage outside, I felt a warmth spread through me that had nothing to do with the blankets or the fire. Franco’s presence next to me, his fingers softly tracing through my hair, was all the comfort I needed.

As we lay there, my eyes growing heavy, Franco leaned down just slightly, his breath warm against my hair. “Sleep well,” he whispered.

I smiled, closing my eyes. “You too.”

And with that, the storm outside became nothing more than a distant hum as I drifted off, cocooned in the warmth of Franco’s embrace, his hand still softly stroking my hair.

..

The morning light streamed through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the apartment. The storm had passed, leaving only the gentle patter of rain ticking against the window. stirred slightly, realizing that Franco’s arm was still wrapped around me, and my head rested comfortably against his chest. It might sound a bit odd but waking up like this — still wrapped up in his embrace — felt surprisingly natural.

Franco shifted beneath me, his arm tightening briefly before he blinked awake, his eyes meeting mine with a soft, sleepy smile.

“Morning,” he murmured, his voice still low and heavy with sleep.

“Morning,” I replied, matching his smile.

Neither of us moved for a few moments, letting the quiet of the morning linger between us. I could hear faint sounds coming from the kitchen, the telltale signs of someone already up and making breakfast. I lifted my head slightly, glancing over toward the kitchen, and saw Lando and George huddled near the stove, clearly trying not to be obvious as they watched us.

Lando, with his ever-present grin, didn’t miss a beat. “Well, well, well. Look who’s finally awake.”

George, more restrained but no less amused, added, “Breakfast is almost ready... in case you’re interested.”

I sat up, reluctantly pulling myself away from Franco’s embrace, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks under their teasing gazes. Franco, however, seemed completely unbothered, sitting up with a lazy stretch and flashing them a grin. “You guys couldn’t give us a few more minutes?”

Lando flipped a pancake with dramatic flair. “Mate, I’ve been up for hours. Go do that lovey dovey stuff some other time.”

Before I could respond, more footsteps approached from the hallway, and soon enough, Max and Charles appeared, both looking groggy but curious. Charles raised an eyebrow when he saw Franco and me, but he said nothing, just exchanged a knowing glance with Alexandra, who had wandered into the room with a smile.

She looked between Franco and me, her eyes twinkling with amusement. Leaning in, she whispered, “Je vois que tu as passé une très bonne nuit… “(I see you had a very good night...)

I couldn’t help but laugh softly, shaking my head at her teasing. Franco glanced between us, clearly picking up on the tone but not the words. “What did she say this time?”

“Just more girl talk,” I replied with a grin, standing up.

The kitchen smelled of pancakes, coffee, and eggs as everyone gathered around the table for breakfast. The atmosphere was relaxed. Even Max, still hungover, managed a grin as the lighthearted banter continued.

After breakfast, as everyone began packing up and getting ready to leave, Franco pulled me aside. His voice was quieter now, more thoughtful. “So... I was thinking.”

I turned to him, curious. “About what?”

He hesitated for just a second, but then smiled. “I live in Madrid, and I was wondering if you’d like to come with me for a few extra days. It’d be nice to spend some more time together... before you head back to Paris.”

Hearing it made my heart flutter. Madrid. A few extra days with Franco. I couldn’t help but smile at the thought.

“I’ve had a lot of fun and I’m not ready to say goodbye yet. If you let me, of course.”

“I’d love that,” I replied softly.

Franco’s grin widened, the excitement clear on his face. “Perfect.”

Before I could say anything else, Lando’s voice cut through the room. “Oi! What’s this about Madrid? You two planning a romantic getaway?”

Franco didn’t miss a beat. He leaned down, planting a soft kiss on the top of my head, and then turned to Lando with a mischievous grin. “Jealous?”

Lando clutched his chest dramatically. “A little bit, yeah! Where’s my invite?”

Everyone laughed, even Max managed a small chuckle behind his coffee cup. The teasing flowed easily as we packed up, and the mood in the apartment was as bright as the morning outside. Whatever had started between Franco and me felt natural, fun, and as I grabbed my things, I couldn’t help but feel a little giddy about what was next. I wasn’t nervous, just excited —a new adventure waiting to unfold.

[alwaysmicado]

Trouble

5.3k | 18+ MDNI | fwb!Joel Miller x f!reader | pt. 5

Warnings: no outbreak AU, implied age gap, D/s dynamic, rough oral (m receiving), spitting, cum eating, leg humping, degradation/praise, humiliation kink, pet names, aftercare, feelings Summary: After you’ve distracted Joel from work with your explicit texts all day, he decides to teach you a lesson.  A/N: Consensual degradation & humiliation – my beloved. This one's for you if you're into unadulterated filth with feelings sprinkled on top hehe. Let me know what you think, I love hearing your thots! 🤍

pt. 1 ・ pt. 2 ・ pt. 3 ・ pt. 4 ・ series masterlist

“You sure you got nothing else to say to me?”

“I’m—sorry?”

“No,” he tilts his head and you see the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “But you will be when I’m done with you.”

---

“Sneaking out for a hot date?” 

Busted. 

You sigh and turn around to face Kristen’s triumphant grin. Beautiful Kristen. The only person at your job with a bearable personality. 

If you only had Janice from accounting and her incessant yapping about her feral kids, or John from HR and his never-ending tirades against “modern women”, you probably would have burnt down the building already.  

Kristen’s been your lifeline over the past two years at this job. She’s upbeat, fun, a gifted painter and the closest thing to a female friend you have. 

Her only flaw: she’s so nosy it’s not even funny.

After your get-well-fuck with Joel three days ago where he left multiple marks on your neck, you not only plastered a bunch of foundation over the purple reminders of his fever-fueled nipping, you also wore a silk scarf which, in hindsight, was a dumb idea.

The first thing you were welcomed with when you came in that morning was an enthusiastic “You go, girl!” followed by giggling after Kristen saw your unimpressed face. 

You shoot her a half-hearted smile and raise an eyebrow. “Who says it’s a date?” 

Kristen’s grin widens. “Oh, come on! You think I don’t notice the way you giggle at your phone like a lovesick idiot?”

“Oh, shut up,” you protest in mock offense. What the hell is she talking about? You don’t do that. “I got a doctor’s appointment. Nothing hot about that,” you say nonchalantly.

Kristen leans in, lowering her voice dramatically. “A doctor, huh? Do you have an ache only he can cure with his special tool?”

“You’re a pervert, you know that?” 

“Yeah, duh. That’s why you love me,” she chuckles, causing the corners of your own lips to twitch. 

“Well,” she smirks, “I hope the doctor will take the best care of you.” 

You roll your eyes at her teasing, grab your bag and blow her a kiss before heading out. You leave the office with a grin, reveling in the sunshine that greets you when you step out.

The warmth of the day feels refreshing against your skin as you stroll to the parking lot. Your dress, despite being a result of prolonged laundry procrastination, is surprisingly comfortable, allowing you to appreciate the light breeze that rustles its fabric. 

The sun casts a golden hue on the cityscape and you can't help but smile at the small pleasures of life – the sun on your face, a staff meeting getting canceled earlier, finding twenty bucks in an old pair of jeans this morning.

Life is okay at the moment.

Despite work kicking your ass, your mother trying to guilt-trip you into coming “home” and the last hookup you had throwing you out in the middle of the goddamn night because his wife came home from her business trip early.

You’re feeling good. 

One might even say you’re happy.

If only there wasn’t this nagging feeling in the pit of your stomach.

You take a deep breath and straighten your shoulders when you see your Uber pull up. Get yourself together. 

The car winds through the city streets, and as you give Joel's address to the driver, you can't help but feel a flutter of anticipation. The engine hums softly as you navigate the familiar turns, presenting the perfect background to lose yourself in a daydream.

As you settle into the comfort of your bed, the world outside fades away. In the gentle embrace of your imagination, you feel a figure appear behind you. Their warmth is a soothing balm, and as they pull you close, a profound sense of security envelops you. The weight of the world, of your being lifts, replaced by the tender reassurance of this ethereal embrace.

In this imagined sanctuary, sleep finds you easily, cradled in the arms of solace. The whispered promise of warmth and safety lingers, allowing dreams to unfold like petals, undisturbed and serene in the soft glow of moonlight.

The notification sound of your phone pulls you back to reality. Glancing at the screen, you see Joel's name. You open the message and involuntarily press your thighs together, your pulse quickening instantly. 

Door’s open. Get naked, then come upstairs.You’re in real trouble, angel.

---

The familiar scent of Joel’s home greets you when you step inside. It smells more like home than your apartment or any other place you’ve lived in since you were a child. Safe, warm, comforting – like its owner. And it’s a surprisingly well-decorated and welcoming home for a bachelor.

So much so that you asked him flat out if he had a wife on your first night together.

You take your shoes off and put your bag on the couch in the living room before heading to the downstairs bathroom to wash your hands and quickly check if you look presentable. Your eyes are a bit swollen from lack of restful sleep, but other than that, you’re good to go.

As you take your dress, bra and panties off, you somewhat fondly remember the last time Joel ordered you to his home because you were sending him filthy texts and photos while you both were at work. 

You spent thirty minutes sitting still on his lap while he worked on his computer, his throbbing cock buried deep inside you. Every time he would shift in his chair a little, you would whimper into the crook of his neck and he would whisper into your ear how well you were doing for him and draw soothing circles on your back with his palm.

You hated and loved every torturous second of it. 

The office door is open when you come upstairs. Your eyes widen when you see Joel sitting at his desk. It’s incredible how handsome he looks. He’s wearing a black t-shirt, blue gym shorts and his glasses as he’s staring at the computer and typing something with his index fingers.

Your heart starts beating faster as you take him in, the domesticity of this scene giving you an unexpectedly warm feeling deep within you. 

“You just gonna stand there and stare at me?” Joel asks with a swivel of his chair, his body now facing yours. He saw you out of the corner of his eye before but now that he’s getting a good look at you, his jaw almost hits the floor.

He will never get used to seeing you naked. 

“God, you’re so much more beautiful in real life,” he murmurs, his pupils blown wide and the admiration in his voice unmistakable.

You give him a satisfied smile as you lean against the doorframe. “I sure hope so,” you tease. 

“Do you know why you’re here, darlin’?” Joel asks with a tilt of his head, his brow slightly furrowed.

“I’m assuming it has something to do with the silly little texts and pics I sent you to brighten up your day,” you say, feigning innocence. “Did you like them?” 

“You really think now’s the time to be a brat, huh?” He chuckles and shakes his head. “Alright, then.” His eyes sparkle dangerously as he sits back in his chair and spreads his legs wider.

“You sure you got nothing else to say to me?”

“I’m—sorry?”

“No,” he tilts his head and you see the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “But you will be when I’m done with you.”

You bite your lip as your eyes focus on the visible bulge in Joel’s shorts, and try to suppress the huge grin that’s threatening to spread across your face. This is exactly what you wanted and you both know it.

“Hands and knees, baby,” Joel orders calmly and puts his hands on his thighs. “C’mere.”

You lower yourself on all fours without hesitation and crawl towards him slowly, making sure to sway your hips and never break eye contact. Joel’s the only person you’d put yourself in such a submissive position for and you revel in the exhilarating feeling it gives you.

Joel keeps his eyes trained on you, subtly rubbing his thighs as you come closer to where he’s needed you all day. His eyes are dark and full of need as he licks his lips and follows the mesmerizing movement of your body. He likes how you, despite your brattiness, know perfectly well where your place is. 

“Look at what you did,” he says, once you’re kneeling on all fours between his spread legs. He palms his throbbing cock over the fabric and your eyes widen a little, your pussy clenching around nothing.

“That's right, baby, you did this. And now you need to take responsibility for your actions.” He gently caresses your cheek, tracing your lips with his thumb.

When he presses on your lower lip, you instinctively open your mouth enough for his finger to slip inside. He presses on your tongue, admiring the feeling and your willingness to submit.

“Look at you,” he chuckles, gently rubbing his cock. “Such a little slut, always wants something in her mouth.”

He moves his thumb further along your tongue, causing you to furrow your brow and gag a little. “You couldn't help yourself, huh, just had to put on a show all day like the needy whore you are.” 

He takes his thumb out of your mouth and pulls his shorts all the way down, letting them fall on the floor next to his chair. His heavy cock flops against his lower belly, causing you to swallow and part your lips instinctively. Joel smirks at your reaction, enjoying the raw need sparkling in your eyes as he strokes himself slowly.

You start squirming, pressing your thighs together to alleviate at least some of the uncomfortable ache between your legs, and let out an almost inaudible whine as Joel continuously strokes up and down his length while looking at you curiously. 

He leans in and tilts your chin up, his dark eyes boring into you.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” He asks softly, feigning concern. He looks from you to his cock and back, raising an eyebrow. “All of this just because you’re a pathetic little cockslut with nothing else in her dumb little head than my cock. Isn’t that right, angel?”

You nod slowly, your lips slightly parted, hypnotized by Joel’s big eyes and filthy words.  

“Use your words, slut,” he growls, gripping the back of your neck to tilt your head up even more. 

“I just—wanted you so bad, I–” 

“Aww, of course you did,” he teases you, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Tell me your safeword, angel.” 

He looks into your eyes intently as you say it out loud, then puts a soft kiss on your lips. You whimper when he withdraws, the feeling of his warm lips lingering. 

“Open up,” he orders with a tap of his fingers to your bottom lip. “Stick your tongue out for me.” 

You obey and do as he says, looking into his eyes expectantly. You watch in awe and pure need as the thick glob of saliva makes its way down from Joel’s mouth and lands on the back of your tongue. A shiver runs down your spine as you feel it run down your throat. 

“Swallow.” He gently puts a strand of hair behind your ear as you show him your empty mouth. “Good girl.”

You moan softly at his praise and furrow your brow when your eyes find his cock again. 

“You really want it, huh,” Joel purrs, trailing your neck and chest gently with his hands. When he brushes your nipples, you wince a little, eliciting a low chuckle from him. “Spread your legs, baby. Let me see your little pussy.” 

He sucks in a sharp breath, his cock twitching impatiently when you sit back on your heels and present your glistening folds.

“Fuck me,” he murmurs, tracing your belly all the way down to your mound and stopping right before touching your clit. “Must’ve been uncomfortable to sit in that all day, hm?” 

He gently pulls your lips apart with his thumbs and index fingers, inspecting you closely. “Your little clit is so swollen, baby, does it hurt?” 

“Mhm,” you whine, his touch so close to your neglected bundle of nerves torturing you beyond belief. “It–it hurts so bad, Sir.” 

“Hmm,” he searches your eyes, “and that’s why you thought it was a good idea to send me all those naughty messages?” He spreads your lips apart further, eliciting a long moan from you. “You thought I’d fuck you if you did?”

“Y–yes,” you stammer, your legs trembling, “I’m sor–”

You’re cut off when Joel lets go of your lips and swipes his fingers through your dripping wet folds agonizingly slowly, once, twice, three times, barely brushing your pulsating clit. 

Listening to the noises you make and feeling your hot cunt on his hand is enough to make him almost come, despite his cock not having any contact at the moment. His eyes never leave yours as you whimper desperately, his barely there touch enough to build your long overdue orgasm.

“Go on, angel,” he withdraws his hand and holds his hand up to your lips, “clean up the mess you made.”

He pushes his wet fingers into your mouth, forcing you to suck your own juices off of him. You do so eagerly, sucking and licking his fingers, moaning around them. 

“You would’ve sucked my cock in front of everyone if I had let you, huh.” You let out a desperate moan, feeling your pussy get wetter at the thought. “That’s right, baby,” Joel chuckles. “Show everyone you’re my little cockslut.”

He pulls his fingers out of your mouth, satisfied with the job you did, then grabs your chin hard, his wet fingers pressing into your hot cheeks.

“You want it so bad, baby? Then beg for it.” 

“Please,” you whine. “Please let me suck your cock, please, I–I want your cock so bad—”

“All yours, baby.”

He leans back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head, looking at you through lidded eyes. 

“Fuuuck, that’s it,” Joel groans as you start licking and sucking at his balls, then lightly trace the veins of his cock with your warm tongue, swirling it around the tip, licking up the salty precum. You look at him expectantly as you lick up and down his length, fondling his balls with your hand. 

He smiles at the needy look in your eyes, finding it unbelievably hot that you want to, need to hear his praise so badly even though it’s obvious that everything you do to him is and feels beyond perfect. 

“Good girl,” he says softly, eliciting a little whimper from you. “Now stop teasing and take it.”

You immediately hold him up by the base and take the tip into your mouth, sucking on it eagerly. You take him further, inch by inch, bobbing your head up and down his shaft until he’s nudging the back of your throat. Your eyes well over with tears as you gag around his cock. Joel groans in response, his whole body tensing as he tangles his hands in your hair.

You make a surprised sound when he leans over you and pushes your head down until your nose is rubbing his pubic hair, giving you no chance to move your head. He keeps his length buried deep inside you for a few seconds before pulling you up, a thick string of saliva mixed with precum connecting you two, only to push you right back down.

“Fuck, I love the sounds you make,” Joel pants as you choke and whine loudly. 

He pulls your head back up to let you catch your breath and make sure you’re enjoying yourself as much as he is. He knows from the look in your eyes that you are, but he wants to make sure before you continue. 

“What’s your color, angel?” 

You look at him with bleary eyes, but give him a dazed smile and whisper, “Green.”

Joel nods and caresses your wet cheeks, wiping away some of your tears with his thumbs. 

He traces your swollen lips with the head of his cock, loving the way his precum sticks to them. 

“Breathe through your nose, baby,” he pants. “Can’t have you passing out on me.”

You wrap your lips around his head, swirl your tongue around it, then bob your head again – messily, sloppily, just the way he likes it. 

“Good girl,” he breathes, thrusting his hips to slide in and out of your mouth, smiling at you and petting your hair. “Such a perfect little fleshlight.”

You tremble and moan around him, not entirely sure if his filthy mouth, his groaning, or the fact that he’s using you for his pleasure  is turning you on the most. You just know you love it when he holds your head steady and fucks your mouth roughly, taking what he wants from you, making you gag and choke, saliva and tears running down your cheeks, chin, neck, and body.

You look like a masterpiece. 

“I’m close, baby,” Joel pants, your perfect, wet mouth and the admiration he sees in your big, wet eyes making him tremble every time he thrusts his hips into you. You push him right over the edge when you squeeze his balls hard. 

He comes with a strangled groan, shooting rope after rope of warm cum down your throat and onto your tongue. You welcome it with eager moans, so far gone that you don’t realize what you’re doing until after it’s too late — you swallow it all without his permission.

Fatal mistake. 

Joel grabs you by your hair, pulling you off his pulsating cock, still breathing heavily.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, huh?”

Your eyes widen in shock, your lip quivering. “I–I'm sorry, I–I forgot.”

“You forgot?” Joel sighs and raises his eyebrows. He loosens his grip in your hair and looks at your eyes welling up with tears. You stumble over your words as you keep apologizing over and over again. You’re so perfect like this. 

“What’s your color, baby?” 

“Green, Sir,” you sniffle. “It��s green.”

“Now what am I supposed to do with a fleshlight that doesn’t work right, hm?” He tilts your chin up and rubs it softly with his thumb. “Do you think you deserve to get fucked?”

“I’m—please, I'll be good, I promise,” you choke out through tears and hiccups. “Please, I’ll do anything you want, just please—”

Joel smirks and leans back in his chair. “No need to tell me that, angel. I know you’ll do anything.” He lifts his foot between your thighs, eliciting a small, needy noise from you when he presses it against your swollen cunt.

“You’re so fucking wet, baby. All from being used, hm?”

“Yes, Sir,” you whine, wiping your cheeks and trying your hardest to stay still. “Thank you.”

“Such a pathetic little slut.” He rubs his foot against your folds, and you moan, closing your eyes, your lips trembling, your face hot from embarrassment and arousal. Joel presses harder and you cry out, your hips jerking instinctively. 

“Pathetic enough to hump my leg?”

He snorts when he sees the stunned look on your face. You are definitely startled, but you don't protest. Joel can see a mix of hesitation and need in your eyes, and he understands that he needs to push you.

“I’m not going to fuck you,” he says, gently petting your hair, “so you better thank me for letting you come at all.”

He sighs and pulls your head back by your hair when you don’t answer fast enough. 

“Use your words, slut.”

“Th–thank you,” you whimper. “I–I just–” You trail off, too shocked and embarrassed to finish your sentence, your voice trembling as you babble unintelligibly.

You hear Joel say your name and feel him cup your cheeks. “Look at me, sweetheart.”

You sniffle and try to focus on his eyes. “Tell me your color,” he says gently, his deep voice soothing your nerves. 

“Still green,” you breathe, swallowing hard. 

He searches your eyes and nods before sitting back up and extending his leg a little.

“Go on, then.”

You look at the satisfied smirk on his face before taking a deep breath and scooting forward, adjusting yourself against Joel’s leg. Gripping Joel’s thigh for balance, you tilt your hips forward until your clit makes contact with his hairy leg. You shudder at the feeling, a needy little moan escaping your lips. 

Joel’s pupils are so blown, his eyes are completely black now. 

You slowly drag your hips upward and duck your head, embarrassed that you’re actually enjoying this – and that you’re this wet. After slowly rocking your hips up and down a few times, you can’t keep yourself from moaning anymore. It feels to fucking good.

You shift a little and allow yourself to set a pace that will make you come. You nuzzle your face against Joel’s thigh and don’t hold back anymore, rutting against his leg with abandon, chasing your release. 

“That’s it, angel,” Joel purrs, gently brushing a wet strand of hair out of your face. “You’re doing so well for me.”

You rock your hips against his leg over and over again, your brows furrowed, whimpering desperately as you grind your wet folds against Joel’s leg, the friction causing your whole body to shudder.

Joel fucking loves seeing you like this; pliant, obedient, wanting to be good so badly that you’d do anything to please him. Most of all, though, he loves how much you trust him. 

“You’re such a good girl,” he praises, tilting your chin up to look into your glazed over eyes. “My good girl.”

You moan at his words, your fingers digging into the flesh of his thighs, your hips jerking frantically, desperate for release. Joel smiles softly at your reaction, reveling in the fact that he's ruining you for anyone else.

He fucking delights in it.

“That’s right, angel. Keep looking at me with those beautiful eyes.”

You barely hear what he says as your breathing comes out in noisy, deep gasps, too far gone, too overwhelmed to feel embarrassed at fucking yourself on Joel’s leg. There are no thoughts left in your brain, your only focus now is chasing your climax.

“Feels good, huh? Such a spoiled brat, aren’t you,” he taunts, marveling at your blissed out expression and the sheen of sweat glistening on your naked body.

“You think you deserve to come, hm? Even though you’re just a dumb little whore, only good for taking my cock in all her holes?”

That’s almost enough right there to tip you over the edge. 

“Tell me what you are.”

You let out a choked sob, fresh tears making their way down your cheeks. Joel wipes them away with his thumbs as you stutter, “I’m–I’m your dumb little whore, Sir. I’m all yours — please, please–”

He gives you a warm smile as his dark eyes bore into. “Come for me, angel.”

You press your throbbing clit hard against him, humping his leg feverishly until the tension finally snaps and shockwaves grip your whole body, your legs trembling as you moan uncontrollably. Your walls contract around nothing as you collapse onto Joel’s thigh and start sobbing.

It’s all too much right now. 

He immediately draws you into his strong arms, lifting you up and cradling you. “Shh, sweetheart,” he purrs, holding you tight and stroking your hair, “you did so well. Are you alright, hm? You want me to go get you a towel?”

Your eyes widen at the suggestion of him leaving you, causing you to shake your head fervently, your tears flowing freely now as you gradually come down from your high. 

“Shh, it’s okay, baby” he coos, putting soft kisses on the top of your head and rubbing soothing circles on your back. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

You're still naked and Joel wants you to feel comfortable and warm, so he swivels you two towards the couch to snag the blanket and drape it over you. He holds you close, whispering into your hair how well you did and how good you are, intermittently pressing soft kisses on your wet face. 

You feel the steady rise and fall of his chest with each breath, a comforting rhythm that wraps around you like a protective cocoon. The warmth emanating from his body seeps into yours, making you feel calm and protected. 

Joel’s not surprised that you need physical affection and closeness right now, knowing that humiliation is one of the most effective ways to make you fly – and crash.

Falling apart in front of somebody, allowing them to see you in such a raw, uninhibited state, is an incredibly vulnerable act.

Joel is not taking your trust lightly. 

When he sees you wipe your nose with your arm, he swivels you back to his desk and opens the drawer to get you some tissues. Your heart skips a beat when you see what else is inside, but you keep quiet. 

“Was I really good?” You mumble after listening to Joel’s calming heartbeat for a few minutes.

“You were perfect, baby,” he says softly, pressing a tender kiss on the crown of your head. 

“So, can you fuck me now?”

The vibrations of Joel’s chuckles reverberate beneath you, making you laugh yourself. 

“How about we make sure you drink enough and eat something first, hm?”

“Just say that your refractory period is getting longer, old man.” 

“Why, hello,” he laughs and pinches your sides, making you squeal, “the princess is back.” You lift your head to look into his eyes. His beautiful, warm eyes. “You think I’ll fuck you if you keep being a brat, hm?” 

“That’s exactly what I think. Because you always do. Because you love it.” 

“Wow,” he chuckles and shakes his head. “All this just now and you’re still sassing me?”

“Just admit you fucking love it, so we can move on and decide what we wanna have for dinner,” you murmur. 

Joel can’t hold back the beaming smile that’s spreading across his face.

Save for last time, you usually leave shortly after you’ve come down. He’ll sometimes ask if you want to stay a bit, but will never pressure you into doing so – even if it hurts him. 

And it does, sometimes, if he’s being honest. 

“Alright, alright,” he sighs deeply, his smile betraying his mocking tone. “I fucking love it when you’re a little brat and torture me all fucking day, making me sit in a fucking meeting for hours on end with a hard cock, listening to some rich fucks who want me to build some bullshit building for them.” 

You giggle at the description of his day and kiss his dimple. “I really am sorry, you know.”

“No you’re not,” he shakes his head. “Now, what are you in the mood for?”

“Can we, um, can we go eat the fattiest, unhealthiest junk food ever and then wash it down with huge cups of pure sugar, so we’re both gonna have a stomach ache for the next three days?” 

“Have I ever told you you’re perfect before?”

---

You step out of the shower, dry off, wash your face with Joel’s face wash and drink a glass of water. Joel put your bag outside the door when you were in the shower, giving you space to do your thing and going downstairs to take a shower there himself.

You’re kind of tired now, feeling a little burnt out.

You put on your panties and retrieve the comfy gym shorts you were smart enough to bring with you from your bag. They’re the only other clean piece of clothing besides the dress you could find in your drawer this morning.

“Joel?” You shout from the top of the stairs. 

“Yeah?”

“Can I borrow a t-shirt?” 

“Sure, darlin’. Just grab one you like.” 

“Thank you.” 

You smile and make your way to Joel’s bedroom. Opening the drawer, your eyes fall on a white shirt you’ve seen him wear many times. Don’t do it. You sigh defeatedly and lift the shirt up to your face, inhaling the unmistakable scent. 

Then you suddenly remember it. Fuck. You need to make sure. 

You put on the shirt and quickly walk to the office. Taking a deep breath and making sure Joel’s not watching you snoop through his things, you open the drawer. 

The polaroid feels strange in your hand as you lift it to take a closer look. 

It’s one of Tommy, you and Joel in it, from the night Tommy introduced you two. You don’t even remember taking this one, but now that you’re looking at it, you see something. It’s the way you’re smiling.

You turn the photo and read the handwritten note that catches your eye. 

when I met her

You swallow hard and put it back. It doesn’t mean anything. You hung the other polaroid, the one of only you and Joel, up in your apartment and that doesn’t mean anything either—right?

“Babe?” Joel’s voice pulls you back.

You turn around and look at him, startled. “I, uh, was just looking for some batteries. Couldn’t find any though.” 

“I got plenty downstairs,” he says with a tilt of his head. “Come on, let’s go.”

---

You’re sitting in a booth, munching on your burger, intermittently sipping your soda. You don’t even realize you haven’t answered Joel for the third time. 

“Are you sure everything’s okay, sweetheart?” Joel touches your arm, his brow furrowed. You look at his concerned face, his cute little frown, before putting down your burger with a sigh. 

“I, uh,” you start but can’t think of the right words. “I’m just feeling a little off these days, I guess. Work’s been stressful and, um, you–you’re gonna think I’m weird,” you murmur while picking at the fries on your plate. 

“Darlin’,” Joel sighs, taking your hand into his, “you’re the weirdest person I’ve ever met.” He chuckles when he sees your offended face. “And I wouldn’t change a thing.”

He rubs the back of your hand softly and searches your eyes. “You know you can tell me anything, right?” 

“It’s, um,” you clear your throat. “Do you ever get this feeling that there’s something looming?”

He tilts his head and looks at you curiously. “I’m not sure I follow, darlin’?”

“Like if you’re happy, do you ever feel like it’s not real, it can’t be real, and there’s something looming? Like there’s something just waiting to fuck everything up?” 

When he doesn’t answer, you avert your gaze and try to withdraw your hand. “I’m sorry, I’m killing the vi–”

“No, sweetheart. Hey, c’mere.” He extends both of his hands to you on the table and you give him yours to hold. “I’m sorry, darlin’,” he murmurs, “your question just caught me off guard a little.”

You softly rub his hand with your right thumb and study his features. He looks gorgeous with his tousled hair and his big cow eyes.

“Look, I know that happiness is hard to accept sometimes because we’re afraid of it not lasting. It may even seem easier to sabotage it preemptively, so we’re not disappointed or don’t get hurt when something bad does happen. And I also know that we sometimes don’t think we even deserve to be happy.”

Bingo. 

“But sweetheart, I need you to understand something,” he squeezes your hands gently, his sincere eyes boring into you.

“If anyone deserves to be happy, it’s you.” 

You try your best to blink away the tears that are forming in your eyes.

---

Thank you for reading! ��� part 4 || part 6 || series masterlist

[nathanbatemanfucker]

Ambrosial

summary: he knows your scent— he knows your heart and now he knows your people.

pairing: din djarin x fem!black!reader

contents: longing, pining, fluff, cultural differences

wc: 2.5k

an: this has been a longggggg time coming but this one's for you @cptn-nash and for all of the black women who feel left out of fandom. there’s always space for you.

pedro characters masterlist

The crest always smells like citrus with a hint of cinnamon these days. If Din closes his eyes he can imagine himself standing in an orchard with you by his side.

The warm, fresh smell is all thanks to you— to your hair, your people, and your culture. All things that you hold close to your heart and in turn, Din tries to respect. But, it is not lost on you that he cannot understand the importance of hair to you and your culture completely, not when his is hidden inside of a helmet day in and day out.

What he does know is how much he enjoys yours— watching the way your curls move when you walk, how they pile into the crown when you tie them up, how a bit of them spill out of the silk scarf you wear at night when Grogu refuses to sleep without you and the two of you take over his bed. He has to tear himself away from the sight of you—dark skin lit up in the moonlight and his foundling in his arms— slinking off to your bunk. But there is a reward when he gets there— the sweet, concentrated scent of you rests on the fabric of your pillow.

In the deepest recesses of his mind, there’s a place where there’s just the three of you. Din holds to his creed, unwaveringly so, but here there is no worry of exile. No worry that you or Grogu will be taken away from him on one of your adventures through the galaxy. There is just you, holding his son, curls blowing in some light evening breeze. There is just him, wrapping his arms around the both of you, his nose pressed into the crown of your head as he is able to succumb freely to your scent. He doesn’t let himself go there often, not when he is so unsure that he will ever have it.

The two of you are charted for a bounty when you ask him to make a detour that is quite out of the way— you need something for your hair. And while he’s more than happy to make sure your needs are met, he has to ask.

He glances back at you, his voice soft and not unkind as he asks, “Could you not use my things?”

If you didn’t share the fresher with him you doubt he even had things. He does, though they aren’t as intricate as yours. There are worse things than smelling like the Mandalorian, yes but proper hair care is sacred to you and your people.

You smile at him, shaking your head, “No, it doesn’t work like that. There are specifics, rituals, ingredients.”

“And it is…strict? Necessary?” You can practically hear the confusion in his voice, his lack of understanding.

“As necessary as this,” You murmur, leaning forward and raising a hand to cup the cheek of his helmet.

He blushes within the space of his helmet, unable to bite away the grin that spreads across his face. You and Din teeter on the edge of more— never explicitly naming or acknowledging any of the affection that passes between you, but undoubtedly knowing that the other is devoted. There’s something particularly sweet about his dedication without words. There is no doubt in your mind that he cares for you, but with this lifestyle, with his creed, neither of you make any move to change your relationship.

This is enough. It has to be.

When the silence sits thick between you for a beat too long, you start to ramble, “Like I told you before, hair is integral to our culture, it helps build every facet of relationships in my village. It sounds silly, but it's the basis of community. We would not be nearly as devoted to each other without hair at the center.”

He hums, delicately taking one of your curls in between his fingers. He studies it closely through the dark t of his visor, noticing the intricate way that it spirals. You let out a soft, shaky breath– feeling his eyes on you is something you’ve become used to, but the effect it has on you never dissipates.

“I could show you,” You murmur shyly, feeling the fascination in his gaze.

“Show me?” He repeats cautiously.

“Show you how my momma taught me to take care of it,” You suggest. After a moment of hesitation, you add, “Show you my home as you’ve shown me yours.”

The two of you have gone to Mandalore—just once, to show Grogu what should be his home and collect water from the sacred waters. You’ve always tried not to put too much stock in Din letting you tag along— where else were you meant to go if you’re his travel partner?

His helmet tilts, shock in his sandy voice, “You would take me to your home?”

You gaze with the black void of his visor breaks for a moment before you look up at him through your lashes, “Of course I would, so that you could see where I come from, how I’ve become who I am. You let me see yours. Would you like to see?”

He nods, finally releasing the curl that he was still holding between his fingers.

“Chart the course and then I will show you why I take so long in the fresher,” You say, backing out of the cockpit.

He meets you there just as you finish turning everything the correct way, labels up. You keep it all in a bin that you take to and from the fresher, not wanting to take up too much space.

You can’t see his shock but you can hear it in voice, in the way he tilts his helmet as he says, “This is…a lot.”

You laugh softly, before explaining, pointing at various bottles as you do, “There are different products for different times of year, holidays, special occasions.”

“Special occasions?”

“For one’s birthday or wedding. Even for a funeral. All milestones in life, from beginning to end.”

“And you must have all of it at all times?”

“You are to be prepared for all of the days of your and your neighbor’s life. If we were to meet someone from home during our travel and they were in need of something, then its my duty to help. It is our custom. Our way so to speak.”

Din hums in understanding. He understands living life a certain way more than anyone you’ve ever known. He starts to understand the importance— but this is just the beginning. He wants to know everything about your people, to fuse the two of your cultures into something loving and uniquely your own.

—

It takes the night to make it to your home, allowing you to arrive in the morning. You’d sent a communication to your mother as soon as Din had agreed, and she had excitedly responded, eager to see you after such a long stint away. Eager to meet Din, though you’d given her no indication that things had progressed romantically between the two of you.

When you wake in the morning, you find Din a little nervous to have the conversation that made you toss and turn most of the night. You know that he’s quite fond of Grogu, that he loves him with all his heart. You feel the same way, happy to take care of the little creature in any way that you can. It’s a bit confusing, raising a child with Din despite not knowing explicitly what you are. But, you love Grogu. Though you don’t let yourself think about it much, you love Din. You’d do whatever you could to make things easier for the two of them.

But what would your mother think about such an arrangement?

Din tilts his head at you in concern when you inhale a nervous breath, fingers twisting in your lap. He reaches for your hands, steadying them. “What’s wrong? Have you changed your mind?”

You gaze down at his gloved hand that covers nearly both of yours before you shake your head, assuring him quickly, “No, no, I haven’t changed my mind.”

“Then what is it?” He asks gently.

“I know that Grogu is yours, and I’m not ashamed or embarrassed. But, I think it best he stays on the ship while we visit my mother. I don’t want her to assume anything that would make you uncomfortable.”

He’s quiet for a moment, but you can practically hear the gears turning in his head. “You were nervous to ask me this.”

You snort, “He’s your son, Din, of course I was nervous.”

“I understand,” He says, squeezing your hand in reassurance. “The next visit, we can introduce him to your mother.”

The next visit. He plans to make this habitual?

“You’re sure?”

“It’s your home. I’m sure if you’re sure,” He declares with a shrug. As if the decision is that easy for him.

“Thank you, Din.”

He simply squeezes your hand again before clearing his throat, saying that he needs to make sure Grogu is taken care of before you two land.

—

When the ship door opens, you and Din are met with a plethora of people, headed up by your mother. Din can’t help but notice how much of her is in you— the same rich color of your skin, the curls though they are greying. Some of your beauty comes from her, and some of it is uniquely you.

She gathers you into her arms immediately, hugging you tightly. She guides your curls back so that her lips are at the shell of your ear, “We’ve missed you. I’ve missed you.”

“I know, mama. I’ve missed you too,” You whisper back, pulling back to give you a watery smile.

She turns her curious gaze to Din, looking him up and down. “This is who you’ve been traveling with. A Mandalorian who will keep you safe.”

Din nods his head, and you about melt with embarrassment at the way she’s sizing him up.

“Yes, mama, this is Mando. He is my—“ You start to say but Din cuts you off smoothly, extending his hand to your mother.

“Her partner. Din, Din is my name,” He murmurs, taking her hands into his.

The smile on your mother’s face matches your own— wide, flustered and accompanied by warmth that spreads through your entire body. He may be encased in metal but he can always make a woman swoon.

“Din. Thank you for taking care of my daughter.”

“Mama,” You scold, giving Din a nervous smile.

“It’s a pleasure,” He murmurs to her, his voice just as sandy and nonchalant as ever.

Your mother starts to guide you towards the villages, and Din offers you his arm which you take readily. You’re happy to walk in silence as your mother catches you up on all the happenings— who’s married, given birth, changed professions, or died. All of it goes in one ear and out the other as you try to digest what’s just happened.

He gave her his name. What more is to come?

Eventually, the two of you are sequestered in a corner of your mother’s house as she helps another woman with her hair when Din turns to look at you. You raise a brow at him in question.

He leans closer to you, speaking in a hushed voice, “One day you will teach me to care for my own appropriately.”

“What do you mean?” You whisper back.

You feel his gaze meet yours through his helmet as he says, “When you are truly mine and I am truly yours.”

Your heart skips a beat before pounding rapidly in your chest. You stare into the dark t of his visor, mouth open in shock. He’s full of declarations today, ones that you had hoped would be true but never got your hopes up for. He simply nods his head at you, one of his gloved hands coming to tangle with your own.

Meeting your mother has clearly changed things— all that’s been left unsaid is now cleared up with just a single sentence from him.

His hand doesn’t leave yours as your mother shows him around the village, introducing him as your partner to everyone she can get to speak to her. Din feels a little sheepish, heat creeping into his cheeks by your mothers candidness, by the curious stares of those she speaks to. You keep him close, answering any questions and doing all of the talking if anyone is curious enough to bypass your mother and speak to the two of you.

You don’t even let go to hug those you recognize, holding onto his hand firmly as you wrap an arm around a few of those you encounter. At this, Din’s flush deepens, butterflies in his stomach.

You make him feel like just a man— the most ordinary man in the best way— like he isn’t bound to his creed or this life of hunting. You make him feel like he’s just your Din. A man so desperately in love with a woman that he’d do anything she asked and then some.

Your mother sends you home with droves of oils and butters and soaps. Some of them are for you, but by the labeling and color you can tell that many of them are for Din. There’s a variety, as with the helmet she couldn’t properly see the texture of his hair and gather the corresponding products. It’s your mother’s way of telling you she approves and you hold her tight, murmuring a soft thank you as you bid her goodbye.

The two of you unpack Din’s things, setting the bottles and containers up in a perfect line. You even fetch your own, adding more clutter that both of you are immediately quite fond of. It means more than Din could know, but he’s starting to learn.

He invites you into his bed that night and unlike all of the previous times he stays, gathering you into his arms in the pitch-black space. For the first time, you feel him. He buries his nose into your hair the way he’s always dreamed about.

That night once you’re asleep, Din heads to the fresher, curious about all of the things your mother had sent off with the both of you. You spent a lot of time here earlier— even more than usual. As soon as he’s inside, he sees why. You’ve labeled everything step by step and added his name to the products that are his.

He spends an ungodly amount of time under the water, closing his eyes as he succumbs to the sweet smells. And though they all smell wonderful, he finds himself reaching for your things. He wants to be surrounded by your scent.

When he slides under the covers beside you later, he smells like citrus— that telltale hint of cinnamon. He smells like you. One day, he’ll let you bury your nose in his hair so that you can smell him too. Until then, his helmet is filled with the scent of you and he will have it no other way.

[sovietpostcards]

"From Soviet women"

Vintage silk scarf (USSR, 1960)

[ssinnerplazahotel]

𝘽𝙞𝙧𝙙𝙞𝙚&𝙀

╭──────────.★..─╮

*Chapter One*

╰─..★.──────────╯

WC:5k

Warning: age gap, eventual smut, fluff

Pairing: elvis x black reader

Masterlist: Prologue

YOU WEREN’T YOURSELF WITHOUT YOUR MOTHER. You didn’t think you would be yourself ever again. You carried a piece of her with you—a silk scarf wrapped over your head and around your neck, patterned in a floral paisley print. The red matched the skirt you wore. You had purposely chosen a blue blouse that day, being that you were a true believer that the clothes you wore should reflect the way you felt on the inside. You, of course, couldn’t always abide by that rule. If you were to, you’d be wearing blue all the time. You carried your mother in the hairstyle that she had sent you to the nearest hairdresser to have done. She had the appointment and style picked before you even knew you were going to Memphis.

“If you look your best you feel your best,” She had said. As if three hours in a salon would make you feel any better or different about your situation. “You’re gonna look just like Donyale Luna!”

You may have looked your best the day you arrived at your aunt's house in Memphis, but you felt nothing short of miserable.

“You’ll sleep in Chris’ old room,” Dawn mused as she led you through the single-story house. You tried to look around to take in everything you saw but there wasn’t much to look at. Nothing special caught your eye in the plain, empty house. Apart from the old choral sofa in the living room and a few dull paintings on the walls, the house was minimal. “He stays on the road fixing houses most of the year. So it’ll just be us the majority of the time.”

You tried to smile as you walked over to the twin-sized bed in the middle of the room. It creaked under the weight of your single suitcase. You surveyed the room. Similar to what you saw of the house before it was very minimal. There was a tall rosewood dresser opposite the bed and a wardrobe in the corner. Above the bed was an old, washed-out painting of a dove soaring through the cloudless sky holding an olive branch between its beak. Your eyes lingered on it as Dawn rambled on behind you. Although it would never be your home, you could make the most of it if you genuinely wanted to.

“Thank you, Aunt Dawn, it’s really nice of you to let me stay.”

“You can stay as long as you like.” Dawn smiled at you. “Go ahead and get your things put away, we’re off to work when you’re done.”

“Work?” You asked. You were no stranger to work, not by a long shot. Being the youngest of two, you had been working from a young age. When you were still a small child, your father had taken your brother with him when he left. It wasn’t much of an anomaly, just another part of your life.

You were caught off guard by Dawn’s mention of a job. A job where the two of you would work together no less.

“You didn’t think you’d show up all pretty and get out of earning your keep, did you?”

She laughed. She was quite the comedian when she wanted to be. You usually enjoyed that about her. But right now, when all you wanted to do was crawl into bed and cry, you weren’t in the mood for her jokes.

“I didn’t know, that’s all.” You forced a laugh. “Is there anything I need or~”

“Oh no, everything we need is already there,” Dawn said. “I would leave that scarf, you wouldn’t want it to get dirty.”

“I’ll take it off in the car.” You examined your outfit and wondered if it was suitable for the job. You asked Dawn just what job it was.

“Housekeeping for the Presleys.” She straightened out the collar of your blouse.

“The Presleys?” You repeated—your mind registered the name slowly. It took you all of two seconds to realize who Dawn was referring to. “Elvis Presley?”

Your expression was so shocked it looked like dread.

“You heard of ‘im?” Dawn asked, crossing her arms with a prying smile. “The girls and the women run around here like chickens with they heads cut off since he come back from the service.”

“No.” You quickly changed your answer as you registered the question. “I mean, yes. Who hasn’t?”

“His songs play every day on the radio, especially here in Memphis.” There was an edge of distaste in her tone. “I’m lucky when I can find a station playing anything else.”

“You don’t like him?”

“I like the Elvis I know. I don’t know about that person everyone makes him out to be.”

Dawn always had some elaborate explanation for everything. You could always count on her to have some sort of mystery behind her words.

“Are you sure I shouldn’t change?” You asked, but the question was futile as you were already in the car headed to Graceland. “I feel overdressed.”

“You’re fine. The Presleys don't believe in being overdressed.” Dawn laughed as she took another right onto a long curving road that led right to the front of the house. You couldn’t deny the anxiety forming in the pit of your stomach as you eyed the house through the passenger window. You felt yourself starting to regret ever coming. Before you could say anything you were already climbing out of the car.

“Ms. Dawn.” A male voice called. Your head snapped immediately in its direction but you relaxed when you saw that it wasn’t him. Instead you saw a lanky guy with wavy blonde curls, the sides gelled away from his face. “I’ll take her off your hands a while.” He held his hand out with a smile.

“Don’t get lost pulling her around back again,” Dawn said pointedly—handing over the keys to her car. “I’ll know if you did.”

“You know everything.” He went to climb into the car, his eyes stopping on you before he waved his hand in a halfhearted hello. You barely returned the wave before he was climbing into the car and driving away.

“That’s Joel, the Klatten’s boy.” Dawn led the way inside as she spoke. “He likes to pull the car around. His dad’s a mechanic so he practices under the hood from time to time to try to impress him. They own the dealership in town. You wouldn’t know it.”

You nodded your head. It was hard not to focus on the anticipation building in your gut. You weren’t exactly a fan—you or your friends never bought any of his records and you hadn’t bothered seeing any of his films. Yet, you were absolutely trembling at the thought of meeting him. At the thought of seeing him with your own two eyes.

Once inside you braced yourself for the encounter. You didn’t want to be caught off guard by his sudden appearance. It wasn’t until you saw him barreling down the stairs with two other guys hot on his trail that you realized that nothing could have prepared you for seeing him for the first time. Even as he roughhoused with the other guys and shoved them the rest of the way down the stairs you felt his presence. You couldn’t look away. Even if you wanted to, you were too struck by his beauty. You didn’t want to miss a second of his smiling face as he reached the bottom of the stairs. His eyes met your Dawn’s, he offered a smile and a polite head nod. You almost thought he was going to completely ignore your existence. You would’ve been perfectly fine if he had. But he stopped short when he saw you—sending the others crashing into him.

“Let’s go, E. It starts in half an hour, we’ll never get there in time.”

“Hold on a minute.” Elvis held his hand up, his eyes somehow still on yours. He turned and headed towards you. “Ms. Dawn, how are you?”

He spoke in a deep southern accent as he stalked over. As they exchanged pleasantries you took a moment to quickly look him over. You forced yourself not to stare, it was nearly impossible when everything about him caught your eye. Everything from the forest green sweater he wore to the way he towered over you with his hands in his pockets. Something about his stature almost looked shy, but you quickly dismissed that thought. Elvis Presley was anything but shy—you didn’t need to be a fan to know that much.

“Who might this be, Dawny?” His voice said, ripping you from your thoughts before they went haywire. You met his eyes briefly—you couldn’t hold his gaze as your aunt introduced you.

“My niece,” She said, putting her arm over your shoulder. “ She’s gonna be staying with me for a while. I figured she could help us out around here.”

Elvis agreed—his eyes shifting to you again. “Can always use an extra pair of hands I s’pose. It’s nice to meet you, honey.”

“You too.” You felt as though your body was betraying you in the way it reacted to him. The hairs on your arms stood at attention, your palms were tacky, and there was an endless shiver running down your spine. You had never experienced such a fierce and immediate attraction.

“Pretty scarf.” He nodded at the piece of material still wrapped around your head.

“I meant to take it off.” You rushed to remove the scarf. He stopped you with a wave of his hand.

“Leave it.” His lips twitched into a smile. “It compliments you.”

You let your hand fall away from the scarf–staring up at him with the overwhelming urge to cower under his eyes. Not because you were afraid, but because every second his eyes were on you it felt like you would spontaneously combust.

“Let’s go, EP.”

Elvis’ smile widened and his eyes darted across your face once more. You couldn’t tell if he was aware of what he was doing to you, or if he was simply waiting for you to thank him for his compliment.

“I-I gotta get goin. Daddy’ll get all the paperwork and stuff figured out for your niece here. It shouldn’t be an issue havin her hired.” His eyes finally left yours. He and Dawn shared a few more words that sounded muffled to your ears before he finally made his exit. “Take care, Ms. Dawn.”

“Thank you, you too, Mr. Presley.” Your aunt responded as she headed further into the house, expecting you to follow.

“It was nice meeting you, honey,” He said again. You looked over your shoulder at him briefly before scurrying after Dawn. You found her in the kitchen tying an apron around her waist.

“Look at you, sweating like a sinner in church.”.

“Stop it. I’m not.”

“Mhm. Don’t you go getting any ideas. I work here, I don’t need you messing this up for me.”

“I don’t have any ideas.”

You tied the apron that she had handed you over your skirt. She reached under your chin to unravel your scarf and deflated a bit as she placed it in your hand.

“You just stay out of trouble and keep a low profile. You’ll blend right in.”

You tied the scarf around a loop on your apron, keeping it there as you followed Dawn’s directions. You did everything she said. You stayed out of trouble and kept your head down for the day. Even when supper came around and everyone gathered in the dining area, you didn’t meet Elvis’ eyes again. Although there were a few times that you swore you felt his on you. It must’ve been all in your head.

After a few unfamiliar glances from the other residents, you seemed to blend in perfectly just as Dawn had expected. As you were leaving that night the two of you ran into Elvis again. He was leaning against one of the pillars outside—alone.

Your aunt’s words rang through your head as you avoided eye contact, nodding politely when he wished the two of you a good night.

***

“There are more dishes up there than in the kitchen.” Dawn motioned for you to follow her to the kitchen. “I’d get the two confused if I didn’t know any better.”

You hummed in acknowledgment of her words but didn’t give a verbal response. You got to work putting the dishes in the sink. There was never much conversation between you and your aunt, not like there was when you were younger. You stayed out of her way as much as you stayed out of everyone else’s. She usually left you alone when she saw that you weren’t interested in conversation, which you were grateful for.

As you were busy polishing the last of the glasses you felt another presence enter the room, not your aunt or any of the other help. Despite your brief encounter months ago, you still recognized the musk of his cologne and the click of his shoes as he walked—his feet dragging the ground with every other step. You turned in time to watch him walk across the kitchen, his eyes meeting yours before you turned away.

“Excuse me,” You muttered. You dried your hands and made your exit. Or at least you attempted to.

“Don’t mind me, doll.” Elvis stopped you. “I’m just grabbin a glass.”

You hesitantly turned back to the sink. You stood there unmoving for a moment before coming back to your senses. Your heart rate increased rapidly as you forced yourself to continue shining the glass in your hands.

He said your name suddenly. “Right?” He wondered, pulling a glass from the cupboard. His voice startled you.

You saw him coming closer and felt the urge to move away. “Can I help you, Mr. Presley?”

“Elvis.”

“Can I help you, Elvis?”

He lowered his head and chuckled shortly. He walked over and stood beside you by the sink. He smiled as he turned the faucet. “Nah, baby, you just keep doin what you’re doin.”

You turned your attention back to the dishes. You felt his eyes boring into you but you didn’t meet them. You expected him to—or at the very least hoped he would—leave the kitchen after running water into his glass. He didn’t. He leaned against the sink with one arm folded in while he drank the water—making no move to leave.

“Tell me somethin,” He propositioned. He swirled the water in the glass, twirling it around a few times before stopping—sending the liquid spinning through the glass weightlessly. “Why is it that every time you see me you get all spooked and run away?”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean, Mr. Pres~”

“Elvis is fine.”

You turned your head in his direction. You almost mistook his insistent tone for being upset, but you saw that he wasn’t when you met his sapphire gaze. “I-I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean, Elvis.”

“You just did it.” Elvis laughed. “Dropped everything you was doin and ran for the hills.”

“I wasn’t running,” You denied. He laughed at you. You felt yourself almost become flustered by the way he tipped his head back slightly to laugh at you. There was something infectious about his laughter. Even in your flustered state, you couldn’t be upset. “I wasn’t, I’m…trying to not get in your way.”

“Why’s that?” He asked, chuckling slightly as his laughter came to an end. “You scared of me?”

“No, it’s just not my job to be in your way.” You tried to remain professional, focusing on the glasses you were putting away instead of his influx of inquiries.

“What kind of accent is that?” Elvis asked, completely ignoring your response to his question.

“Wilmington.”

“You’re from North Carolina?”

You were shocked by how much that piqued his interest. “Unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately?” He asked, his eyebrow quirking. “I know a lot of great spots in North Carolina.”

You didn’t engage in the conversation. You reached for the top shelf of the cupboard, having to stand as high as you could on your tiptoes.

“Do you want me to~”

“No,” You said quickly, abandoning the leftover glasses on the counter. “I’ll put them away later.”

“I don’t mind,” Elvis insisted, setting his glass down and stepping forward.

“Mr. Presley, my aunt thinks it’s best if I keep my distance a-and stay out of your way,” You blurted—stepping away from him.

“Keep your distance? From me?” He asked, his eyebrows drawing together in confusion.

“N-Not only from you,” You said. “From everyone.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. Dawn told you to keep your head down and stay out of trouble. She wasn’t solely talking about Elvis then.

“Why she tell you that?” Elvis asked with a troubled expression. “Dawn’s like family around here.”

You shrugged your shoulders, fidgeting with the front of your apron as you avoided his eyes.

“How old are you, birdie?” He asked suddenly. Birdie—he must’ve thought you were skittish and fragile.

“Seventeen.” You answered after a moment.

“Ohh.” Elvis drawled as if he’d figured it all out. “She thinks you’re just a baby.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“Oh, I can tell. But you are to her.”

You looked away, you felt the warmth of the room suddenly. “Either way…I think it’s best if I do what she tells me. So I’ll stay out of your way.”

“What if I don’t want you to?” He stepped closer—drumming his fingers along the counter.

“I don’t see why you wouldn’t.”

“If I want you out of the way I want it to be my decision. And I don’t think I do.”

You had to check if he was serious. He had a bit of a smirk on his face. His eyes flitted to where his fingers still traced the edge of the counter before settling on yours again.

“If you asked me to leave you be I’d try, of course,” He continued, moving impossibly close to you. Your breath hitched. “But I have to say, I haven’t got much practice at doin what I’m told.”

“Gotta start somewhere.” You didn’t mean it as a joke, but that didn’t stop him from releasing a deep chuckle. He reached out and took ahold of the scarf that was still tucked securely into your apron. Your mind short-circuited as you watched him finger the material. “I think I should listen to Dawn.”

He nodded, his eyes focused on the scarf as he ran his fingers over the patterned silk. You wanted to step back. You were too close. “Good girl,” He finally said. Officially knocking the wind from your lungs. For a moment you thought he was commenting on the fact that you had kept the scarf around. His next words, however, cleared that thought right up. “You should listen to your auntie.”

You didn’t take a breath until he walked away, watching dizzily as he grabbed his discarded glass and dumped the rest of the water out. He sighed heavily as he set the glass in the sink, staring down at it for a moment before turning on his heel and heading out of the kitchen.

“Don’t mind what I was sayin before.” He stopped short and faced you. “I was just messin. I don’t want you in any trouble with Dawn, she can be—y’know.”

“It’s okay.” Although he wasn’t apologizing something about his tone seemed apologetic. “Take care, Mr. Presley.”

“Thank you, honey, you too,” He said with a final smile before he was gone.

You released a tense breath and leaned against the counter. You removed your scarf from your apron with unsteady hands and stuffed it in your pocket. Pushing it down—all the way down. Along with everything you felt at that moment.

“Just push it down,” You told yourself. “Way, way down.”

***

“A live-in position?”

Your aunt had professed the news so excitedly when she first broke it. She smiled wildly and packed the house up in a hurry. She went on and on about how she would be able to save and buy a new house with the new position. Room and board and a steady paycheck weren’t things you would ever expect her to decline. Had it been offered by anyone but Elvis Presley.

“I might even save up enough to pay off the car.” Dawn beamed as she taped off another box. “You could work fewer hours, and start studying for the placement test at the school. Like we talked about before.”

You made yourself busy with helping her pack everything away. You tried to distract yourself from the thoughts that ran through your head as you got everything ready for storage. Despite your best efforts, you couldn’t help but dread the change that was coming. You absolutely dreaded the thought of not leaving Graceland every night. You especially dreaded not having every other weekend away from the house completely. Especially now that Elvis, despite claiming that he didn’t want you in trouble with Dawn, had somehow made it a habit to coincidentally show up wherever you were in the house. Of course, you tried to write it off as all in your head, but you couldn’t make it up.

Despite this inner turmoil, you celebrated your aunt’s promotion gladly. You knew that it was something that would make a huge difference in her life and that was enough for you to push away your complaints. You had your personal things moved into one of the empty rooms of the house and from there the rest was history.

You continued with your daily chores, wrapping up around eight as usual. Instead of leaving, you enter your room on the second floor of the house. You were nervous that first night, Dawn’s room was on a completely different side of the house. You felt secluded from the only person you knew out of all the people living there. At times, you wished you could call up your mom and tell her all your worries, but you tried not to worry her with any bad news—only good. You wanted her to think you were happy here, even though you weren’t.

You gave up on sleeping after tossing and turning for a couple of hours. You got out of bed and wrapped yourself up in your coat, adjusting the scarf on your head before walking out of the room. You could hear a lot of commotion still happening around the house despite the early hour of the morning. A few people lingered downstairs, too many to pay you any mind as you slipped out the front door. You sighed at the silence you were met with. You walked a few steps, leaning against one of the pillars with your arms crossed. You were exhausted, but you knew that being in a new place would keep you up. That and the noise.

You were done fighting it.

The front door opened again as you were standing there, and you didn’t even have to turn your head to know who it would be. He didn’t say anything as he leaned against the opposite pillar, crossing his arms in a similar manner.

“Are you keeping tabs on me?” You asked after he didn’t break the silence himself—he usually did.

“Nah, I saw you slip out.” He shifted towards you. “The noise keepin you awake?”

“A little,” You answered honestly. “I’m not a huge fan of new places either.”

“New places?” Elvis asked incredulously, a smile tugging at his lips. “You’ve been workin here for months.”

“It’s different now.” You found his eyes already watching you—they usually were. “I can’t get away from you as easily now that I live here.”

“Maybe you’d find out that I’m not so bad if you stuck around for more than a minute.” He seemed to be enjoying the light conversation. You figured it was because he wasn’t used to you saying more than a few words to him at a time.

“Everywhere I go, somehow, you’re right there,” You said. Maybe it was because you were delirious and sleep-deprived, but you found yourself not caring what your aunt might think as you bantered with Elvis. “Why is that?”

“I like watching you,” He admitted. “I’m tryna figure you out.”

You couldn’t help but laugh a little at that—hiding the smile on your face. When you lifted your head you were met with an astonished smile.

“She laughs,” Elvis stated as if it was an anomaly that he wasn’t yet aware of.

“What?” You asked, though you heard his words clearly in the dead of the night.

“I’ve been watching and you hardly ever smile, you never laugh,” He stated, tilting his head. “I was starting to think you didn’t have it in you.”

You weren’t sure how to respond to that, you knew you couldn’t respond with the truth. You were already pushing the boundary you had so vehemently tried to uphold by carrying on with this conversation. You couldn’t possibly wreck everything by actually opening up to him about your mom and the move to Memphis that you still were acclimating to.

“A little girl like you should be laughing all the time.” He continued after your silence.

“I’m not a little girl,” You said after another beat of silence. “And what do you expect me to do? Laugh while I dust your end tables?”

“Aw, birdie, don’t get cross now,” He chuckled. There that nickname was again—birdie. “I just wanna know what goes on inside that pretty head of yours.”

“Nothing that concerns you.” Your walls came back up as quickly as you had let them down.

“I see you goin outta your way to take care of everyone and to make everyone comfortable,” He started again, you weren’t sure if the man had ever tried to catch a hint in his life. “Who’s takin care of you?”

“You’re being inappropriate.”

“You haven’t told me to go away.”

“Go away.”

“No.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, you hardly had any patience so it didn’t take much to wear it thin. “I’m starting to wonder what goes on inside your head, y’know?”

“I’ll tell you anything you wanna know.” He suddenly decided to move towards you.

“Really?” You asked, your tone mildly sarcastic. “Okay then, what do you think your friends inside would have to say if they saw you talking to me right now.”

“I don’t think they’d have anything to say,” He responded. “We’re not doing anything wrong here.”

“I don’t think you believe that.” You had to fight the urge to back away from him as he stepped closer.

“You think I give a shit about what they think?” Elvis asked, his cool eyes hardening under the dim lights outside. “Really?”

“I do,” You said matter-of-factly. It seemed like the air thinned with every step he took, and your legs became more unsteady beneath you. “Or at least I think you should.”

“I don’t care and I’m not gonna start.” He stood close enough now to place his hand beside your head on the pillar you were leaning against. He leaned down to meet your eyes. “Is that why you’re so nervous all the time? Because you’re afraid of what they think of you?”

“They don’t think of me, Elvis, that’s my point.” Your voice was hardly steady as you forced yourself to keep still. “The only time people like that, or people like you, think of someone like me is when a chore is left undone. Or when you make a mess and you need someone to clean it up. That’s why I don’t understand what you want with me.”

He spoke your name and you were genuinely shocked. He had rarely called you anything outside of ‘honey‘ or ‘birdie’ in the months that you knew him—you thought he’d forgotten it. You stiffened when you felt his cool fingers gently slip under your chin but you let him lift your head to meet his eyes. “W-When I think of you…baby, that’s not what I’m thinkin about. When I look at you that’s not all I see. I can’t help that I’m drawn to you—that I want you. I want to know who you are, I want to know what you think, and how you feel. Since I first laid eyes on you, you've been on my mind~ b-but not for any of those reasons.”

You were too overwhelmed. He was too close. His words sent the blood rushing from your head. There were tears in your eyes but you didn’t feel like crying, too much was happening all at once and you weren’t exactly sure how you got here when the two of you were joking a second ago. You stumbled away from him, trying to make a break for the door but failing as he steadied you with his hands on your waist.

“I didn’t mean to overwhelm you,” He said. He kept his hands around you until he was sure you wouldn’t sink to the ground. “I-I’m sorry, I-I-I shouldn’t’ve…I don’t know.”

You closed your eyes in an attempt to force away your tears, you were having a hard time processing his words. You didn’t understand where all his feelings were coming from or why he was feeling them at all. “It’s a lot…”

“I know,” He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck as if he was suddenly embarrassed after his spiel. “I just don’t want you thinking I see you any differently because you’re…”

“You can’t even say it?” You heaved incredulously.

“N-No, I’m t-trying not to say the wrong thing. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, birdie, that’s it, honest.” His leg started to shake restlessly. “Ask anybody who knows me, I-I believe that we’re all created equal. A-And if I cut you right now I know we’d bleed the same~”

“Oh please, Elvis, you don’t have to preach to me~”

“Then stop tryin so goddamn hard to make me out to be something I’m not.”

“Is that what I’m doing?”

“That’s what it feels like.”

You watched him kick at the ground with his hands shoved in the pockets of his slacks. “I don’t think you’re one of them. I just think you know too many of them to ever truly be my friend.”

“What they think shouldn’t reflect who I am,” He said without looking up from his shoes, his voice low. “If I could weed out every goddamn racist I knew or worked for I would, but I’d be left high and dry.”

You fell silent, each of you staring off in thought for what felt like forever before he finally spoke again.

“I didn’t mean to upset you, honey,” He said, turning his back to you. “Go on back in the house.”

“Now you’re telling me to go away?” You teased in an attempt to lessen the tension in the air before you went inside. You felt like you did something to upset him, and you couldn’t bring yourself to leave the conversation that way. “I thought that was my job.”

He looked over his shoulder at you. His features softened when he saw the small smile playing on your lips. “And I thought you were a good girl who did what she was told,” He said. “I guess we were both wrong.”

You shrugged, walking back to your respective pillar and leaning against it. You leaned your head against the post.

“I meant everything I said before, y’know?"

"...I believe you."

***

[chinesehanfu]

[Hanfu · 漢服]Chinese Song Dynasty (960–1279 AD)Traditional Clothing Hanfu Reference to Song Dynasty Murals

【Historical Reference Artifacts】:

Woman in the murals of the Song Dynasty tomb in Tangzhuang, Dengfeng, Henan,China.

【Histoty Note】Song Dynasty (960–1279 AD)·Woman Formal Garment

The large-sleeved shirts and skirts of the Northern Song Dynasty were based on the long blouses and skirts of the late Tang and Five Dynasties, and became more refined and gradually became more ritualized. At the same time, the trend of women wearing crowns became more and more popular, and a variety of crown styles and matching hairstyles were developed.

The restoration of this outfit refers to the image of a woman in the murals of the Song Dynasty tomb in Tangzhuang, Dengfeng, Henan: her head is combed in a bun, with clouds shape hair around her temples, and a crown, which is fixed with flower hairpins on the front and back, and pearl hairpins on the left and right; Wearing a sleeved blouse, a long skirt, and a silk scarf was the attire of the common people and women attending formal occasions at that time.

At that time, married women often wore crowns, long-sleeved shirts and skirts, and shoulder-wrapped scarf when attending formal occasions or when common women got married. It gradually developed into a classic paradigm, which had an impact on popular fashion and the system of public service. The "golden crown and xiapi金冠霞帔" that often appeared in literary works of the Song and Yuan Dynasties was developed from this classic ceremonial attire.

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📸Recreation Work:@裝束复原

🔗Weibo ：https://weibo.com/1656910125/NdlVDn8JP

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[chic-a-gigot]

La Mode nationale, no. 6, 6 février 1904, Paris. Toilette de visite pour jeune femme. Bibliothèque nationale de France

Toilette de visite pour jeune femme, en drap satin parme. La jupe est à plis chevauchés au-dessous d'un empiècement souligné d'un biais de velours quadrillé violet, blanc ou noir. Le boléro plissé devant et dans le dos à un semblant de capuchon, composé d'une bande de plis et d'un biais de velours; à la pointe pendille un gland de soie parme. Sur la manche, brassard de plis; au bas, haute bande de plis encadrée de biais de velours. Ceinture et bouffant de soie parme.

Toque de velours violet traversée d'une plume violette teintée du blanc au violet pensée.

Visiting ensemble for young women, in purple satin cloth. The skirt has overlapping pleats below a yoke highlighted with a purple, white or black checkered velvet bias. The bolero pleated in front and back has a semblance of a hood, made up of a band of pleats and a velvet bias; at the tip dangles a purple silk tassel. On the sleeve, cuff of pleats; at the bottom, high band of pleats framed with velvet bias. Purple silk belt and bouffant.

Purple velvet hat crossed with a purple feather tinted from white to pansy purple.

Matériaux: 6m,50 de drap; 75 centimètres de velours; 1m,50 de soie.

—

Costume pour jeune fille de 15 à 16 ans, en lainage écossais. La jupe est faite de trois volants superposés ainsi que le corsage; ces volants sont bordés d'un galon de fantaisie. Chemisette de foulard et ceinture en gros grain. Manche plate du haut, très bouffante dans un poignet en pointe. Chapeau torpilleur avec ailes de pigeon et velours.

Suit for young girls aged 15 to 16, in Scottish wool. The skirt is made of three superimposed ruffles as well as the bodice; these ruffles are bordered with a fancy braid. Scarf shirt and grosgrain belt. Flat upper sleeve, very puffy in a pointed cuff. Torpedo hat with pigeon wings and velvet.

Matériaux: 7m. lainage; 18 m. galon.

[she-is-ovarit]

I say this while being one, but women with curly hair are unhinged.

"hi here's my routine! First I basically dip my head a few times into hot dog water, really let it soak into the roots. Apply this curl cream product at the end, this will create your cast. It happens to be derived from a formula rumored to be made from the genetic material of a fallen strand of Eve's hair prior to her being cast out of the garden of Eden, and this was also just recently discontinued by several distributors. but there's this cartel that hangs around an Olive Garden nearby that's been importing it in. So it might be a little hard to find at first. Okay so this next part requires a little math, basically you want to calculate the speed of a a bullet fired by an M2 Browning and subtract it from the rotation of the earth's orbit if a target was about 1000 meters away, and the end number is going to be the length of the microfiber silk shirt scarf you will wrap your hair in. Make sure you plop it for 15 minutes exactly or this whole process has to be repeated, so that's another 50 minutes down the drain (quite literally, with the wasted hot dog water). Once the 15 minutes is up, carefully unwrap your microfiber silk shirt scarf and apply another layer of this curl cream, warmed in the microwave for 4.5 seconds. Now you're ready to diffuse, but make sure you turn the diffuser off in between diffusing and you have Joan Jett on in the background. Once you're done, please make sure to not wash your hair for two weeks and don't touch it ever again, try to only inhabit microclimates with low precipitation and no wind, but not too hot because you'll sweat. To touch it up every so often, apply a small amount of that curl cream again and hold your hair for a few seconds over some smoke."

[ryuzakemo128]

Sneak peek for: We're All Gonna Die - Part 3

Content Warnings: Angst, Self-reflection, Philosophy, self-esteem issues, verbal and physical abuse, misogyny and internalised misogyny, possible other dark topics. Slight smut implication.

Notes: No summary for this one. The official part will have it though. Pack some tissues. You're going to need them.

Note 2: Cried writing this. So I'm 100% recommending tissues now.

Credit for Dividers: @cafekitsune + @strangergraphics

Boomer continued to think about it more, mulling it over inside her head. Questions popping up through her mind.

Does it really mean she couldn't be a woman if she wasn't gentle or delicate?

Does this imply she'll never be seen as a woman or feminine enough?

Does this indicate she'll never date anyone because she's too rough around the edges?

What does it mean?

What does that mean for this woman?

Does it mean she’s never enough?

Does it mean she will never be viewed as desirable, like the soft-spoken women in frilly dresses drenched in pastel colours?

Is she better off dead?

“Women are supposed to be in the home. Women are supposed to be soft, gentle. You will never be any of those things. Stop trying. It looks abhorrent on you fucking freak.” she remembered someone telling her.

Is it her broad shoulders?

Is it the way she walks with purpose, not a dainty stride but a confident march?

Is it her physique? How it's been honed by years of rigorous training, her muscles not hidden under layers of soft flesh but starkly defined?

Was her height to blame? Her towering height of at least six foot four or possibly being taller than that.

Was it her appetite? The way she could scarf down a whole meal with a side of more meat than anyone else at the table?

'I want to be able to look at myself in the mirror and no see what others point out to be disgusting. Am I not a real woman?' she pondered.

'I want to wear a dress and feel pretty, is that so much to ask?'

'But I want rarely matters and I hate it.'

'Perfect for the job. But not much else. Now am I?'

A bodycon dress with kimono sleeves made from velvet with silk lining. A deep V-neckline, knee-length. Deep Burgundy colour, almost black in the right lighting.

She chose to wear black lace up chunky heeled boots.

Accessories tied with the dress. Which are the: Megalodon shark tooth soft leather choker, negative space nail art with burgundy polish, a deep burgundy clutch.

The make-up look she went with crimson red lipstick with black lip liner, a light blush, a nude brown eyeshadow with a cat eyeliner, false eyelashes to make her eyelashes appear bolder in look.

The sides of her hair shaved to a light buzz cut, creating a stark contrast with the long, wavy locks that fell over her shoulders. Tied into a loose side braid.

The sides of her head were shaved, not to the skin but to a more textured, soft, fluffy shortness. The length of her hair remained the same, but now it cascaded over one side like a waterfall.

Simon had never seen her look so elegant and yet so fierce at the same time. The dress hugged her curves in a way that made his heart race, and he couldn't help but think of all the things he'd like to do to her while she wore it.

[contentment-of-cats]

Chiss headcanons - cultural

Chiss traditions surrounding hair are complex. Thrawn is constantly suppressing twitches because his Humans' hair is Wrong. most of the men, of course, emulate the 'Tarkin' where the hair is combed back as if in a wind tunnel and plastered with gel strong enough to seal a hull breach or alternatively worn in a 'Guard Six' buzz. The women if they do not have hair trimmed to above the collar wear braids or buns. He understands that Chiss familial traditions cannot apply, but some styles and lengths are improper for their age, or rank, or status. One cannot run through the crew rebraiding female officers and crew members' hairstyles.

Funerary traditions also center around hair for the Chiss. When a person passes, their hair is shorn and the head wrapped in a silk scarf in family colors. The hair is then made into elaborate hair pieces (for the wealthy) or for Lesser and Common families is pressed between pieces of crystal and sealed into a pendant, ring, or charm for a bracelet. The act of shearing the heads of the deceased is to cut them from the bonds of life, and allow them to go free.

Hair is 'dressed' by a hereditary class of workers, so skilled that a braid of hair 500 years old looks as if it was dressed that morning. However, when hair becomes too brittle or fragile, it is burned to ash and then placed in a pressure chamber and turned into a hard, diamond-like glass. Even the grindings as the glass is smoothed and polished are incorporated into the metal of the frame. Not a speck is wasted.

Most deceased Chiss are placed in deep rich soil to decay for a year, then their bones are removed and polished before being placed in the familial or community ossuary. In places without soil, the body goes into a pod of cultured bacteria that decay the body instead. The resulting fluids are vaporized to steam and allowed to cool, falling as life-giving water on crops. If no body exists, coils of hair from the immediate family are placed in the container instead.

Among some Chiss on ocean world like Rentor, a burial at sea is preferred. For others who live and work in space, being shot into the heart of a sun allows them to return to the universe completely.

Among colonial Chiss, it is traditional to shear the hair of a young person enlisting in the CDF or going into space for an extended time. This tradition is not usually followed by the Ruling or Great families unless they are taking a Merit Adoptive to symbolize the separation from their old life.

The wealthy have hairdressers on staff, their ancestors' hair is made into elaborate hairpieces to be worn on the most important holidays and occasions. When not in use, it's placed in wooden boxes lined in silk and kept in climate controlled rooms. The less wealthy patronize small firms for the same reasons, and may keep their important hairpieces in storage there or at home. The Common families have their hair made into amulets worn on a chain under the clothing.

Members of the military wear plan hairstyles. No hair pieces or wigs. Among families, the higher the rank the more elaborate the hair. Depending on the personality and family traditions, a Patriarch may wear a hairpiece requiring frameworks and other supports. On Founding Day - the day a Family was founded - the Patriarch of a Ruling family wears the most elaborate and oldest hairpiece, robes that can trail three meters, and sometimes need cooling fans within.

On a formal occasion, Thrawn does brush out Pyrondi's hair, then braids it properly. He puts a lot of thought into it. He denotes her rank, he marital and familial status, her ship, but most importantly - her victories.

He goes on to braid more hair, and for some of the men to razor designs into the sheared sides of their undercuts. The first time the Chiss see Humans with those hairstyles, it's a message. "These are my Humans. These are my family."

Compiled with help and inspiration from Bextia!

[virginiablossoms]

Silk Scarf For Women | Virginia Blossoms

Elevate your style with our exquisite Silk Scarves for Women. Luxurious, versatile, and timeless accessories to enhance any outfit.

Visit: https://www.virginiablossoms.com/silk-hair-scarves-shop

[15-lizards]

literally following and regularly checking your tag for asoiaf hair and clothing i’m so obsessed <3 if you want/have the energy: how do you think sansa and arya dress and does it influence the winterfell “court”? does catelyn? does it influence the rest of the north?

*kisses you*

Cat alters the winterfell fashions for the first time in years, as she’s coming up from the riverlands with corsets and stays, low necklines, wide sleeves, and other fashions that are mostly associated with a slightly warmer climate. She does still wear the traditional winterfell fashions of high necks, many layers, head coverings, but she also creates a mashup of the two styles. It’s more popular in the summertime for women to start wearing tighter dresses and loose veils, bc of Catelyn

I think Sansa tends to dress in traditional winterfell clothes, but still adds a twist to it inspired by her mother, to give her a more “southern” look. Brighter colors and soft silks and the occasional tighter bodice and high waistline. It’s her idea of what princesses from her stories wear. All of the other girls around her age are suddenly also wearing fun colors and begging their fathers to buy them nice silks from white harbor. She is a baby trendsetter

Arya is just so scrungly…she doesn’t really care about her clothes and doesn’t like them to get in her way. She probably wears old skirts that are too short for her so she doesn’t trip while running, and undershirts that she terribly hemmed herself at the elbow bc she doesn’t like big sleeves. The simplest clothes she can find in her wardrobe (or trade with the servant girls) Cat usually just lets her be but when they all need to be presentable she’s forced into a starched ankle length dress and tight fitted jacket and her hair combed back with and embroidered scarf. But overall she dresses more like the kitchen girls than Ned’s daughter

[beehunni62]

Origins of the Pibo: Let’s take a trip along the Silk Road.

1. Introduction to the garment:

Pibo 披帛 refers to a very thin and long shawl worn by women in ancient East Asia approximately between the 5th to 13th centuries CE. Pibo is a modern name and its historical counterpart was pei 帔. But I’ll use pibo as to not confuse it with Ming dynasty’s xiapei 霞帔 and a much shorter shawl worn in ancient times also called pei.

Below is a ceramic representation of the popular pibo.

A sancai-glazed figure of a court lady, Tang Dynasty (618–690, 705–907 CE) from the Sze Yuan Tang Collection. Artist unknown. Sotheby’s [image source].

Although some internet sources claim that pibo in China can be traced as far back as the Qin (221-206 BCE) or Han (202 BCE–9 CE; 25–220 CE) dynasties, we don’t start seeing it be depicted as we know it today until the Northern and Southern dynasties period (420-589 CE). This has led to scholars placing pibo’s introduction to East Asia until after Buddhism was introduced in China. Despite the earliest art representations of the long scarf-like shawl coming from the Northern and Southern Dynasties period, the pibo reached its popularity apex in the Tang Dynasty (618–690 CE: 705–907 CE).

Academic consensus: Introduction via the Silk Road.

The definitive academic consensus is that pibo evolved from the dajin 搭巾 (a long and thin scarf) worn by Buddhist icons introduced to China via the Silk Road from West Asia.

披帛是通过丝绸之路传入中国的西亚文化, 与中国服饰发展的内因相结合而流行开来的一种"时世妆" 的形式. 沿丝绸之路所发现的披帛, 反映了丝绸贸易的活跃.

[Trans] Pibo (a long piece of cloth covering the back of the shoulders) was a popular female fashion period accessory introduced to China by West Asian cultures by way of the Silk Road and the development of Chinese costumes. The brocade scarves found along the Silk Road reflect the prosperity of the silk trade that flourished in China's past (Lu & Xu, 2015).

I want to add to the above theory my own speculation that, what the Chinese considered to be dajin, was most likely an ancient Indian garment called uttariya उत्तरीय.

2. Personal conjecture: Uttariya as a tentative origin to pibo.

In India, since Vedic times (1500-500 BCE), we see mentions in records describing women and men wearing a thin scarf-like garment called “uttariya”. It is a precursor of the now famous sari. Although the most famous depiction of uttariya is when it is wrapped around the left arm in a loop, we do have other representations where it is draped over the shoulders and cubital area (reverse of the elbow).

Left: Hindu sculpture “Mother Goddess (Matrika)”, mid 6th century CE, gray schist. Artist unknown. Looted from Rajasthan (Tanesara), India. Photo credit to Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, United States [image source].

Right: Rear view of female statue possibly representing Kambojika, the Chief Queen of Mahakshatrapa Rajula, ca. 1st century CE. Artist unknown. Found in the Saptarishi Mound, Mathura, India. Government Museum, Mathura [image source].

Buddhism takes many elements from Hindu mythology, including apsaras अप्सरा (water nymphs) and gandharvas गन्धर्व (celestial musicians). The former was translated as feitian 飞天 in China. Hindu deities were depicted wearing clothes similar to what Indian people wore, among which we find uttariya, often portrayed in carvings and sculptures of flying and dancing apsaras or gods to show dynamic movement. Nevertheless, uttariya long predated Buddhism and Hinduism.

Below are carved representation of Indian apsaras and gandharvas. Notice how the uttariya are used.

Upper left: Carved relief of flying celestials (Apsara and Gandharva) in the Chalukyan style, 7th century CE, Chalukyan Dynasty (543-753 CE). Artist Unknown. Aihole, Karnataka, India. National Museum, New Delhi, India [image source]. The Chalukyan art style was very influential in early Chinese Buddhist art.

Upper right: Carved relief of flying celestials (gandharvas) from the 10th to the 12th centuries CE. Artist unknown. Karnataka, India. National Museum, New Delhi, India [image source].

Bottom: A Viyadhara (wisdom-holder; demi-god) couple, ca. 525 CE. Artist unknown. Photo taken by Nomu420 on May 10, 2014. Sondani, Mandsaur, India [image source].

Below are some of the earliest representations of flying apsaras found in the Mogao Caves, Gansu Province, China. An important pilgrimage site along the Silk Road where East and West met.

Left to right: Cave No. 461, detail of mural in the roof of the cave depicting either a flying apsara or a celestial musician. Western Wei dynasty (535–556 CE). Artist unknown. Mogao Grottoes, Dunhuang, China [image source].

Cave 285 flying apsara (feitian) in one of the Mogao Caves. Western Wei Dynasty (535–556 CE), Artist unknown. Photo taken by Keren Su for Getty Images. Mogao Grottoes, Dunhuang, China [image source].

Cave 249. Mural painting of feitian playing a flute, Western Wei Dynasty (535-556 CE). Image courtesy by Wang Kefen from The Complete Collection of Dunhuang Grottoes, Vol. 17, Paintings of Dance, The Commercial Press, Hong Kong, 2001, p. 15. Mogao Grottoes, Dunhuang, China [image source].

I theorize that it is likely that the pibo was introduced to China via Buddhism and Buddhist iconography that depicted apsaras (feitian) and other deites wearing uttariya and translated it to dajin.

3. Trickle down fashion: Buddhism’s journey to the East.

However, since Buddhism and its Indian-based fashion spread to West Asia first, to Sassanian Persians and Sogdians, it is likely that, by the time it reached the Han Chinese in the first century CE, it came with Persian and Sogdian influence. Persians’ fashion during the Sassanian Empire (224–651 CE) was influenced by Greeks (hellenization) who also had a a thin long scarf-like garment called an epliblema ἐπίβλημα, often depicted in amphora (vases) of Greek theater scenes and sculptures of deities.

Left to right: Dame Baillehache from Attica, Greece. 3rd century BCE, Hellenistic period (323-30 BCE), terracotta statuette. Photo taken by Hervé Lewandowski. Louvre Museum, Paris, France [image source].

Deatail view of amphora depicting the goddess Artemis by Athenian vase painter, Andokides, ca. 525 BCE, terracotta. Found in Vulci, Italy. Altes Museum, Berlin, Germany [image source].

Statue of a Kore (young girl), ca. 570 BCE, Archaic Period (700-480 BCE), marble. Artist unknown. Uncovered from Attica, Greece. Acropolis Museum, Athens, Greece [image source].

Detail view of Panathenaic (Olympic Games) prize amphora with lid, 363–362 BCE, Attributed to the Painter of the Wedding Procession and signed by Nikodemos, terracotta. Uncovered from Athens, Greece. J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles, California, United States [image source].

Roman statue depicting Euterpe, muse of lyric poetry and music, ca. 2nd century CE, marble, Artist unknown. From the Villa of G. Cassius Longinus near Tivoli, Italy. Photo taken by Egisto Sani on March 12, 2012, Vatican Museums, Rome, Italy [image source].

Greek (or Italic) tomb mural painting from the Tomb of the Diver, ca. 470 BCE, fresco. Artist unknown. Photo taken by Floriano Rescigno. Necropolis of Paestum, Italy [image source].

Below are Iranian and Iraqi period representations of this long thin scarf.

Left to right: Closeup of ewer likely depicting a female dancer from the Sasanian Period (224–651 CE) in ancient Persia , Iran, 6th-7th century CE, silver and gilt. Artist unknown. Mary Harrsch. July 10, 2015. Arthur M. Sackler Gallery of Asian Art, Smithsonian, Washington D.C [image source].

Ewer with nude dancer probably representing a maenad, companion of Dionysus from the Sasanian Period (224–651 CE) in ancient Persia, Iran, 6th-7th century CE, silver and gilt. Artist unknown. Mary Harrsch. July 16, 2015. Arthur M. Sackler Gallery of Asian Art, Smithsonian, Washington D.C [image source].

Painting reconstructing the image of unveiled female dancers depicted in a fresco, Early Abbasid period (750-1258 CE), about 836-839 CE from Jawsaq al-Khaqani, Samarra, Iraq. Museum of Turkish and Islamic Art, Istanbul [image source].

The earliest depictions of Buddha in China, were very similar to West Asian depictions. Ever wonder why Buddha wears a long draped robe similar to a Greek himation (Romans called it toga)?

Take a look below at how much the Greeks influenced the Kushans in their art and fashion. The top left image is one of the earliest depictions of Buddha in China. Note the similarities between it and the Gandhara Buddha on the right.

Left: Seated Buddha, Mahao Cliff Tomb, Sichuan Province, Eastern Han Dynasty, late 2nd century C.E. (photo: Gary Todd, CC0).

Right: Seated Buddha from Gandhara, Pakistan c. 2nd–3rd century C.E., Gandhara, schist (© Trustees of the British Museum)

Standing Bodhisattva Maitreya (Buddha of the Future), ca. 3rd century, gray schist. From Gandhara, Pakistan. Image credit to The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City, United States [image source].

Statue of seated goddess Hariti with children, ca. 2nd to 3rd centuries CE, schist. Artist unknown. From Gandhara, Pakistan. The British Museum, London, England [image source].

Before Buddhism spread outside of Northern India (birthplace), Indians never portrayed Buddha in human form.

Early Buddhist art is aniconic, meaning the Buddha is not represented in human form. Instead, Buddha is represented using symbols, such as the Bodhi tree (where he attained enlightenment), a wheel (symbolic of Dharma or the Wheel of Law), and a parasol (symbolic of the Buddha’s royal background), just to name a few. […] One of the earliest images [of Buddha in China] is a carving of a seated Buddha wearing a Gandharan-style robe discovered in a tomb dated to the late 2nd century C.E. (Eastern Han) in Sichuan province. Ancient Gandhara (located in present-day Afghanistan, Pakistan, and northwest India) was a major center for the production of Buddhist sculpture under Kushan patronage. The Kushans occupied portions of present-day Afghanistan, Pakistan, and North India from the 1st through the 3rd centuries and were the first to depict the Buddha in human form. Gandharan sculpture combined local Greco-Roman styles with Indian and steppe influences (Chaffin, 2022).

In the Mogao Caves, which contain some of the earliest Buddhist mural paintings in China, we see how initial Chinese Buddhist art depicted Indian fashion as opposed to the later hanfu-inspired garments.

Left to right: Cave 285, detail of wall painting, Western Wei dynasty (535–556 CE). Mogao Grottoes, Dunhuang, China. Courtesy the Dunhuang Academy [image source]. Note the clothes the man is wearing. It looks very similar to a lungi (a long men’s skirt).

Photo of Indian man sitting next to closed store wearing shirt, scarf, lungi and slippers. Paul Prescott. February 20, 2015. Varanasi, India [image source].

Cave 285, mural depiction of worshipping bodhisattvas, 6th century CE, Wei Dynasty (535-556 A.D.), Unknown artist. Mogao Grottoes, Dunhuang, China. Notice the half bow on his hips. That is a common style of tying patka (also known as pataka; cloth sashes) that we see throughout Indian history. Many of early Chinese Buddhist paintings feature it, including the ones at Mogao Caves.

Indian relief of Ashoka wearing dhoti and patka, ca. 1st century BC, Unknown artist. From the Amaravathi village, Guntur district, Andhra Pradesh, India. Currently at the Guimet Museum, Paris [image source].

Cave 263. Mural showing underlying painting, Northern Wei Dynasty (386–535 CE). Artist Unknown. Picture taken November 29, 2011, Mogao Grottoes, Dunhuang, China [image source]. Note the pants that look to be dhoti.

Comparison photo of modern dhoti advertisement from Etsy [image source].

Spread of Buddhism to East Asia.

Map depicting the spread of Buddhism from Northern India to the rest of Asia. Gunawan Kartapranata. January 31, 2014 [image source]. Note how Mahayana Buddhism arrived to China after passing through Kushan, Bactrean, and nomadic steppe lands, absorbing elements of each culture along the way.

Wealthy Buddhist female patrons emulated the fantasy fashion worn by apsaras, specifically, the uttariya/dajin and adopted it as an everyday component of their fashion.

Cave 285. feitian mural painting on the west wall, Western Wei Dynasty (535–556 CE). Artist unknown. Mogao Grottoes, Dunhuang, China [image source].

Cave 285. Detail view of offering bodhisattvas (bodhisattvas making offers to Buddha) next to the phoenix chariot on the Western wall of the cave. Western Wei Dynasty (535–556 CE). Artist unknown. Mogao Grottoes, Dunhuang, China [image source].

Cave 61 Khotanese (from the kingdom of Khotan 于阗 [56–1006 CE]) donor ladies, ca. 10th century CE, Five Dynasties period (907 to 979 CE). Artist unknown. Picture scanned from Zhang Weiwen’s Les oeuvres remarquables de l'art de Dunhuang, 2007, p. 128. Uploaded to Wikimedia Commons on October 11, 2012 by Ismoon. Mogao Grottoes, Dunhuang, China [image source].

Detail view of Ladies Adorning Their Hair with Flowers 簪花仕女图, late 8th to early 9th century CE, handscroll, ink and color on silk, Zhou Fang 周昉 (730-800 AD). Liaoning Provincial Museum, Shenyang, China [image source].

Therefore, the theory I propose of how the pibo entered East Asia is:

India —> Greek influenced West Asia (Sassanian Persians, Sogdians, Kushans, etc…) —> Han China —> Rest of East Asia (Three Kingdoms Korea, Asuka Japan, etc…)

Thus, the most likely theory, in my person opinion, is Buddhist iconography depicting uttariya encountered Greek-influenced West Asian Persian, Sogdian, and Kushan shawls, which combined arrived to China but wouldn’t become commonplace there until the explosion in popularity of Buddhism from the periods of Northern and Southern Dynasties to Song.

References:

盧秀文; 徐會貞. 《披帛與絲路文化交流》 [The brocade scarf and the cultural exchanges along the Silk Road]. 敦煌研究 (中國: 敦煌研究編輯部). 2015-06: 22 – 29. ISSN 1000-4106.

[apilgrimpassingby]

One of my projects (on hold currently) is designing the Kingdom of Anchorage and Kodiak, an Alaskan kingdom in a post-apocalyptic/dystopian world, ruled by a Native American Orthodox dynasty. I've already consulted @rebelnurse for designing the hunting rifle of the founder figure, Queen Abigail. I've also designed an outfit worn by her, which I'm submitting to my female followers for their opinions - I especially want to hear from @melisssg99, @miss-rogers-all-american, @cactusflowerfemme, @roses-red-and-pink and @femme-et-traditionnelle but I'd like to hear from any of my female followers (or just women and girls reading this post).

The base layer is a chemise, and above that is a corset (not tightlaced) and pouches tied to the side that are accessed through slits in the skirt and function as pockets (this is how pockets were made historically). Above that is another undershirt and a petticoat, and then the dress proper - made out of matching skirt and jacket in a medium shade of pink. The skirt hem and sleeve edges are decorated with bead patterns of purple saxifrage, the neck is decorated with lace and the waist with snow goose feathers. The hair is held in a bun at the back with a hairnet, and covered with a light pink flower-patterned silk scarf. Completing it are a pink bowler hat, a pair of wrist-length white silk gloves and a string of pearls.

So, my female followers, your opinion?

[mezmer]

Shawl master post for my bridesmaid outfit. The goal is to take away from the party vibe going on with the strappy shoes and tight dress, without looking matronly, but still adding elegance. Also, mostly to cover up or obscure my obvious spinal deformity. Please help me choose a shawl! It's getting to be too late to buy one!

I really like that white shrug and I don't think it's too white that it would take away from the bride's dress.

Some novelty honorable mentions below. I may get one just for fun .. rock & roll scarf