Chapter Text
Even though the address pointed towards a rather posh, high-end street, the shop was shrouded in secrecy – contrary to its neighbours, there were no flashy displays in the windows that would scandalise more than lure potential customers inside. No outrageous advertising either. People were milling about their business, and nobody stopped or gave a second glance to you, lingering in front of the entrance, debating whether you should come in or turn around and leave.
You hated shopping.
Clutching the visitation card in your sweaty palm, you braved the first step. And another.
“Welcome,” a Twi’lek female greeted you warmly, turning away from a figurine she was currently dressing for display. She carried pieces of fabric thrown over her shoulders, and a pincushion attached to her wrist as she worked meticulously, folding the layers correctly and pinning them in place. “I’ll be with you shortly, sweetheart, you can have a look around in the meantime.” Her Basic was heavily accented, and she spoke in a honeyed tone.
You didn’t get very far before she appeared by your side. Actually, you were kind of lost among the racks more than anything. Salon Lucille was vast, if you were to judge by a glance towards the back, and you guessed that the part you had walked in held more modest designs. Still, a section of elaborate corsets caught your eye.
“Anything specific in mind, my lady?” the Twi’lek asked. She wasn’t taller than you, her skin a lighter shade of purple, lekku hanging off her back adorned with ornaments. Her clothes could be easily described as ethereal – she looked so much like those dancers whose holovids popped up everywhere. Her pantaloons with abstract print were complimented by a tight camisole holding gauzy sleeves falling off her shoulders in place.
“Not really,” you frowned at your lack of thought on the matter. “I’m looking for something… uhmm… I’d like to drive my husband mad with lust,” you whispered, blushing.
“Don’t we all?” she gave you a wicked smile.
“He likes lingerie. And stockings. You have no idea how many I go through when he visits… But I wonder… whether I could surprise him somehow… See, he is usually the one choosing for me, and I appreciate it, but –“
“But it doesn’t always feel like you?” she finished for you.
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Then come, you can have a look at some of our catalogues and decide whether you like something from there, maybe it will help you to form a clearer picture of what you desire,” She was already taking your hand, leading you to a more private area. “We also offer tailored designs, but it depends on your schedule, of course. I believe you’ll find whatever you are looking for in our extensive collection of ready-made pieces, and we can provide any alterations at any time. Should you look for something special, though, don’t hesitate to come to us,” she chirped.
“How long would that take?”
“A few business days, depends,” she shrugged. “We are always packed with orders around the time of the gala, so it might take longer then.” She led you to secluded corner divided from the shop’s front by an intricately carved screen that was laden with fabric samples from one side. When she caught you eyeing it, she continued. “Oh, yes, we can also offer the existing patterns being sewn in custom fabrics,” she brushed the swatches with her delicate hand. “We have an assortment of natural fibres as well as synthetic ones. Aren’t these nice?”
“They look luxurious. I might take you up on the offer, but for today, I’m pressed by time. We’re leaving for… delayed honeymoon in a few days.”
The Twi’lek beamed at your words, excited for you. “Anything to drink?” she offered, seating you in a lounge chair and putting an assortment of catalogues within your reach, their covers illustrated – an unusual sight, with Salon Lucille printed on top of each in decorative font.
You asked for water, taking the first magazine when she left you promptly to fetch a glass, but only for a short while, bringing a pitcher of water with sliced fruits floating inside, infusing it. “Thank you.”
“No worries, sweetheart.”
You browsed, leaving the pages with things that caught your eyes open at your feet. These held various designs, from a formal eveningwear to scanty sets that were clearly not overly practical.
Hearing voices, both feminine, you looked up from your task. You indeed spotted another person, a Pantoran, with a wild mop of white hair on top of her head, golden tattoos on her cheeks and piercings adorning her timeless face with sharp cheekbones and chin. She was dressed in a burgundy red tunic reaching her knees, its opening showing her cleavage, and dark flowy pantaloons. Noticing you, she gave you a warm smile and approached, taking a seat on a small divan in the area while greeting you and introducing herself as the co-owner of the boutique – and lover of the Twi’lek.
“Are these models that caught your eye, honey? I see that you chose some traditional ones – it is always a good choice, although your complexion invites a bolder palette.”
“I usually wear white or black or muted tones,” you admitted, “but I’m open to suggestions.”
“Excellent! We can also design a garment specifically for you if you are interested. Now, we have a lot to do, dearie,” she hopped on her feet. “Let’s have a look around, then, shall we?”
You stood up, leaving your cloak on the lounger.
“A Naboo?” she looked delighted at the revelation of your more simple gown.
“Assimilated,” you snorted at her enthusiasm, “I wasn’t born there.”
“Zinya told me you were looking at the corsets. They are great for wearing with the more structured garments like some of those worn on Naboo. Perhaps you would like to try it?”
“Maybe.”
“Wonderful! But first, we might get you more comfortable, it will be easier to try on whatever will catch your eye.” She procured a simple dressing gown, laughing softly at your confusion. “No need to be shy, men seldom wander here.”
Leading you to a changing cabin, she then helped you undress, noting a few fading bruises adorning your skin with a disapproving click of her tongue. One of them looked alarmingly like a handprint. Damn you, Orson Callan Krennic.
“Consensual?” she rose her brow.
“… yes.”
“Your partner is dominant, then?”
“Very,” you whispered, inspecting his marks on your body in the mirror.
“In that case, I have a few more suggestions you may choose from,” she grinned.