#Portico tiles | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

inky-duchess · 9 months

Text

Fantasy Guide to Interiors

As a followup to the very popular post on architecture, I decided to add onto it by exploring the interior of each movement and the different design techniques and tastes of each era. This post at be helpful for historical fiction, fantasy or just a long read when you're bored.

Interior Design Terms

Reeding and fluting: Fluting is a technique that consists a continuous pattern of concave grooves in a flat surface across a surface. Reeding is it's opposite.

Embossing: stamping, carving or moulding a symbol to make it stand out on a surface.

Paneling: Panels of carved wood or fabric a fixed to a wall in a continuous pattern.

Gilding: the use of gold to highlight features.

Glazed Tile: Ceramic or porcelain tiles coated with liquid coloured glass or enamel.

Column: A column is a pillar of stone or wood built to support a ceiling. We will see more of columns later on.

Bay Window: The Bay Window is a window projecting outward from a building.

Frescos: A design element of painting images upon wet plaster.

Mosaic: Mosaics are a design element that involves using pieces of coloured glass and fitted them together upon the floor or wall to form images.

Mouldings: ornate strips of carved wood along the top of a wall.

Wainscoting: paneling along the lower portion of a wall.

Chinoiserie: A European take on East Asian art. Usually seen in wallpaper.

Clerestory: A series of eye-level windows.

Sconces: A light fixture supported on a wall.

Niche: A sunken area within a wall.

Monochromatic: Focusing on a single colour within a scheme.

Ceiling rose: A moulding fashioned on the ceiling in the shape of a rose usually supporting a light fixture.

Baluster: the vertical bars of a railing.

Façade: front portion of a building

Lintel: Top of a door or window.

Portico: a covered structure over a door supported by columns

Eaves: the part of the roof overhanging from the building

Skirting: border around lower length of a wall

Ancient Greece

Houses were made of either sun-dried clay bricks or stone which were painted when they dried. Ground floors were decorated with coloured stones and tiles called Mosaics. Upper level floors were made from wood. Homes were furnished with tapestries and furniture, and in grand homes statues and grand altars would be found. Furniture was very skillfully crafted in Ancient Greece, much attention was paid to the carving and decoration of such things. Of course, Ancient Greece is ancient so I won't be going through all the movements but I will talk a little about columns.

Doric: Doric is the oldest of the orders and some argue it is the simplest. The columns of this style are set close together, without bases and carved with concave curves called flutes. The capitals (the top of the column) are plain often built with a curve at the base called an echinus and are topped by a square at the apex called an abacus. The entablature is marked by frieze of vertical channels/triglyphs. In between the channels would be detail of carved marble. The Parthenon in Athens is your best example of Doric architecture.

Ionic: The Ionic style was used for smaller buildings and the interiors. The columns had twin volutes, scroll-like designs on its capital. Between these scrolls, there was a carved curve known as an egg and in this style the entablature is much narrower and the frieze is thick with carvings. The example of Ionic Architecture is the Temple to Athena Nike at the Athens Acropolis.

Corinthian: The Corinthian style has some similarities with the Ionic order, the bases, entablature and columns almost the same but the capital is more ornate its base, column, and entablature, but its capital is far more ornate, commonly carved with depictions of acanthus leaves. The style was more slender than the others on this list, used less for bearing weight but more for decoration. Corinthian style can be found along the top levels of the Colosseum in Rome.

Tuscan: The Tuscan order shares much with the Doric order, but the columns are un-fluted and smooth. The entablature is far simpler, formed without triglyphs or guttae. The columns are capped with round capitals.

Composite: This style is mixed. It features the volutes of the Ionic order and the capitals of the Corinthian order. The volutes are larger in these columns and often more ornate. The column's capital is rather plain. for the capital, with no consistent differences to that above or below the capital.

Ancient Rome

Rome is well known for its outward architectural styles. However the Romans did know how to add that rizz to the interior. Ceilings were either vaulted or made from exploded beams that could be painted. The Romans were big into design. Moasics were a common interior sight, the use of little pieces of coloured glass or stone to create a larger image. Frescoes were used to add colour to the home, depicting mythical figures and beasts and also different textures such as stonework or brick. The Romans loved their furniture. Dining tables were low and the Romans ate on couches. Weaving was a popular pastime so there would be tapestries and wall hangings in the house. Rich households could even afford to import fine rugs from across the Empire. Glass was also a feature in Roman interior but windows were usually not paned as large panes were hard to make. Doors were usually treated with panels that were carved or in lain with bronze.

Ancient Egypt

Egypt was one of the first great civilisations, known for its immense and grand structures. Wealthy Egyptians had grand homes. The walls were painted or plastered usually with bright colours and hues. The Egyptians are cool because they mapped out their buildings in such a way to adhere to astrological movements meaning on special days if the calendar the temple or monuments were in the right place always. The columns of Egyptian where thicker, more bulbous and often had capitals shaped like bundles of papyrus reeds. Woven mats and tapestries were popular decor. Motifs from the river such as palms, papyrus and reeds were popular symbols used.

Ancient Africa

African Architecture is a very mixed bag and more structurally different and impressive than Hollywood would have you believe. Far beyond the common depictions of primitive buildings, the African nations were among the giants of their time in architecture, no style quite the same as the last but just as breathtaking.

Rwandan Architecture: The Rwandans commonly built of hardened clay with thatched roofs of dried grass or reeds. Mats of woven reeds carpeted the floors of royal abodes. These residences folded about a large public area known as a karubanda and were often so large that they became almost like a maze, connecting different chambers/huts of all kinds of uses be they residential or for other purposes.

Ashanti Architecture: The Ashanti style can be found in present day Ghana. The style incorporates walls of plaster formed of mud and designed with bright paint and buildings with a courtyard at the heart, not unlike another examples on this post. The Ashanti also formed their buildings of the favourite method of wattle and daub.

Nubian Architecture: Nubia, in modern day Ethiopia, was home to the Nubians who were one of the world's most impressive architects at the beginning of the architecture world and probably would be more talked about if it weren't for the Egyptians building monuments only up the road. The Nubians were famous for building the speos, tall tower-like spires carved of stone. The Nubians used a variety of materials and skills to build, for example wattle and daub and mudbrick. The Kingdom of Kush, the people who took over the Nubian Empire was a fan of Egyptian works even if they didn't like them very much. The Kushites began building pyramid-like structures such at the sight of Gebel Barkal

Japanese Interiors

Japenese interior design rests upon 7 principles. Kanso (簡素)- Simplicity, Fukinsei (不均整)- Asymmetry, Shizen (自然)- Natural, Shibumi (渋味) – Simple beauty, Yugen (幽玄)- subtle grace, Datsuzoku (脱俗) – freedom from habitual behaviour, Seijaku (静寂)- tranquillity.

Common features of Japanese Interior Design:

Shoji walls: these are the screens you think of when you think of the traditional Japanese homes. They are made of wooden frames, rice paper and used to partition

Tatami: Tatami mats are used within Japanese households to blanket the floors. They were made of rice straw and rush straw, laid down to cushion the floor.

Genkan: The Genkan was a sunken space between the front door and the rest of the house. This area is meant to separate the home from the outside and is where shoes are discarded before entering.

Japanese furniture: often lowest, close to the ground. These include tables and chairs but often tanked are replaced by zabuton, large cushions. Furniture is usually carved of wood in a minimalist design.

Nature: As both the Shinto and Buddhist beliefs are great influences upon architecture, there is a strong presence of nature with the architecture. Wood is used for this reason and natural light is prevalent with in the home. The orientation is meant to reflect the best view of the world.

Islamic World Interior

The Islamic world has one of the most beautiful and impressive interior design styles across the world. Colour and detail are absolute staples in the movement. Windows are usually not paned with glass but covered in ornate lattices known as jali. The jali give ventilation, light and privacy to the home. Islamic Interiors are ornate and colourful, using coloured ceramic tiles. The upper parts of walls and ceilings are usually flat decorated with arabesques (foliate ornamentation), while the lower wall areas were usually tiled. Features such as honeycombed ceilings, horseshoe arches, stalactite-fringed arches and stalactite vaults (Muqarnas) are prevalent among many famous Islamic buildings such as the Alhambra and the Blue Mosque.

Byzantine (330/395–1453 A. D)

The Byzantine Empire or Eastern Roman Empire was where eat met west, leading to a melting pot of different interior designs based on early Christian styles and Persian influences. Mosaics are probably what you think of when you think of the Byzantine Empire. Ivory was also a popular feature in the Interiors, with carved ivory or the use of it in inlay. The use of gold as a decorative feature usually by way of repoussé (decorating metals by hammering in the design from the backside of the metal). Fabrics from Persia, heavily embroidered and intricately woven along with silks from afar a field as China, would also be used to upholster furniture or be used as wall hangings. The Byzantines favoured natural light, usually from the use of copolas.

Indian Interiors

India is of course, the font of all intricate designs. India's history is sectioned into many eras but we will focus on a few to give you an idea of prevalent techniques and tastes.

The Gupta Empire (320 – 650 CE): The Gupta era was a time of stone carving. As impressive as the outside of these buildings are, the Interiors are just as amazing. Gupta era buildings featured many details such as ogee (circular or horseshoe arch), gavaksha/chandrashala (the motif centred these arches), ashlar masonry (built of squared stone blocks) with ceilings of plain, flat slabs of stone.

Delhi Sultanate (1206–1526): Another period of beautifully carved stone. The Delhi sultanate had influence from the Islamic world, with heavy uses of mosaics, brackets, intricate mouldings, columns and and hypostyle halls.

Mughal Empire (1526–1857): Stonework was also important on the Mughal Empire. Intricately carved stonework was seen in the pillars, low relief panels depicting nature images and jalis (marble screens). Stonework was also decorated in a stye known as pietra dura/parchin kari with inscriptions and geometric designs using colored stones to create images. Tilework was also popular during this period. Moasic tiles were cut and fitted together to create larger patters while cuerda seca tiles were coloured tiles outlined with black.

Chinese Interiors

Common features of Chinese Interiors

Use of Colours: Colour in Chinese Interior is usually vibrant and bold. Red and Black are are traditional colours, meant to bring luck, happiness, power, knowledge and stability to the household.

Latticework: Lattices are a staple in Chinese interiors most often seen on shutters, screens, doors of cabinets snf even traditional beds.

Lacquer: Multiple coats of lacquer are applied to furniture or cabinets (now walls) and then carved. The skill is called Diaoqi (雕漆).

Decorative Screens: Screens are used to partition off part of a room. They are usually of carved wood, pained with very intricate murals.

Shrines: Spaces were reserved on the home to honour ancestors, usually consisting of an altar where offerings could be made.

Of course, Chinese Interiors are not all the same through the different eras. While some details and techniques were interchangeable through different dynasties, usually a dynasty had a notable style or deviation. These aren't all the dynasties of course but a few interesting examples.

Song Dynasty (960–1279): The Song Dynasty is known for its stonework. Sculpture was an important part of Song Dynasty interior. It was in this period than brick and stone work became the most used material. The Song Dynasty was also known for its very intricate attention to detail, paintings, and used tiles.

Ming Dynasty(1368–1644): Ceilings were adorned with cloisons usually featuring yellow reed work. The floors would be of flagstones usually of deep tones, mostly black. The Ming Dynasty favoured richly coloured silk hangings, tapestries and furnishings. Furniture was usually carved of darker woods, arrayed in a certain way to bring peace to the dwelling.

Han Dynasty (206 BC-220 AD): Interior walls were plastered and painted to show important figures and scenes. Lacquer, though it was discovered earlier, came into greater prominence with better skill in this era.

Tang Dynasty (618–907) : The colour palette is restrained, reserved. But the Tang dynasty is not without it's beauty. Earthenware reached it's peak in this era, many homes would display fine examples as well. The Tang dynasty is famous for its upturned eaves, the ceilings supported by timber columns mounted with metal or stone bases. Glazed tiles were popular in this era, either a fixed to the roof or decorating a screen wall.

Romanesque (6th -11th century/12th)

Romanesque Architecture is a span between the end of Roman Empire to the Gothic style. Taking inspiration from the Roman and Byzantine Empires, the Romanesque period incorporates many of the styles. The most common details are carved floral and foliage symbols with the stonework of the Romanesque buildings. Cable mouldings or twisted rope-like carvings would have framed doorways. As per the name, Romansque Interiors relied heavily on its love and admiration for Rome. The Romanesque style uses geometric shapes as statements using curves, circles snf arches. The colours would be clean and warm, focusing on minimal ornamentation.

Gothic Architecture (12th Century - 16th Century)

The Gothic style is what you think of when you think of old European cathedrals and probably one of the beautiful of the styles on this list and one of most recognisable. The Gothic style is a dramatic, opposing sight and one of the easiest to describe. Decoration in this era became more ornate, stonework began to sport carving and modelling in a way it did not before. The ceilings moved away from barreled vaults to quadripartite and sexpartite vaulting. Columns slimmed as other supportive structures were invented. Intricate stained glass windows began their popularity here. In Gothic structures, everything is very symmetrical and even.

Mediaeval (500 AD to 1500)

Interiors of mediaeval homes are not quite as drab as Hollywood likes to make out. Building materials may be hidden by plaster in rich homes, sometimes even painted. Floors were either dirt strewn with rushes or flagstones in larger homes. Stonework was popular, especially around fireplaces. Grand homes would be decorated with intricate woodwork, carved heraldic beasts and wall hangings of fine fabrics.

Renaissance (late 1300s-1600s)

The Renaissance was a period of great artistry and splendor. The revival of old styles injected symmetry and colour into the homes. Frescoes were back. Painted mouldings adorned the ceilings and walls. Furniture became more ornate, fixed with luxurious upholstery and fine carvings. Caryatids (pillars in the shape of women), grotesques, Roman and Greek images were used to spruce up the place. Floors began to become more intricate, with coloured stone and marble. Modelled stucco, sgraffiti arabesques (made by cutting lines through a layer of plaster or stucco to reveal an underlayer), and fine wall painting were used in brilliant combinations in the early part of the 16th century.

Tudor Interior (1485-1603)

The Tudor period is a starkly unique style within England and very recognisable. Windows were fixed with lattice work, usually casement. Stained glass was also in in this period, usually depicting figures and heraldic beasts. Rooms would be panelled with wood or plastered. Walls would be adorned with tapestries or embroidered hangings. Windows and furniture would be furnished with fine fabrics such as brocade. Floors would typically be of wood, sometimes strewn with rush matting mixed with fresh herbs and flowers to freshen the room.

Baroque (1600 to 1750)

The Baroque period was a time for splendor and for splashing the cash. The interior of a baroque room was usually intricate, usually of a light palette, featuring a very high ceiling heavy with detail. Furniture would choke the room, ornately carved and stitched with very high quality fabrics. The rooms would be full of art not limited to just paintings but also sculptures of marble or bronze, large intricate mirrors, moldings along the walls which may be heavily gilded, chandeliers and detailed paneling.

Victorian (1837-1901)

We think of the interiors of Victorian homes as dowdy and dark but that isn't true. The Victorians favoured tapestries, intricate rugs, decorated wallpaper, exquisitely furniture, and surprisingly, bright colour. Dyes were more widely available to people of all stations and the Victorians did not want for colour. Patterns and details were usually nature inspired, usually floral or vines. Walls could also be painted to mimic a building material such as wood or marble and most likely painted in rich tones. The Victorians were suckers for furniture, preferring them grandly carved with fine fabric usually embroidered or buttoned. And they did not believe in minimalism. If you could fit another piece of furniture in a room, it was going in there. Floors were almost eclusively wood laid with the previously mentioned rugs. But the Victorians did enjoy tiled floors but restricted them to entrances. The Victorians were quite in touch with their green thumbs so expect a lot of flowers and greenery inside. with various elaborately decorated patterned rugs. And remember, the Victorians loved to display as much wealth as they could. Every shelf, cabinet, case and ledge would be chocked full of ornaments and antiques.

Edwardian/The Gilded Age/Belle Epoque (1880s-1914)

This period (I've lumped them together for simplicity) began to move away from the deep tones and ornate patterns of the Victorian period. Colour became more neutral. Nature still had a place in design. Stained glass began to become popular, especially on lampshades and light fixtures. Embossing started to gain popularity and tile work began to expand from the entrance halls to other parts of the house. Furniture began to move away from dark wood, some families favouring breathable woods like wicker. The rooms would be less cluttered.

Art Deco (1920s-1930s)

The 1920s was a time of buzz and change. Gone were the refined tastes of the pre-war era and now the wow factor was in. Walls were smoother, buildings were sharper and more jagged, doorways and windows were decorated with reeding and fluting. Pastels were in, as was the heavy use of black and white, along with gold. Mirrors and glass were in, injecting light into rooms. Gold, silver, steel and chrome were used in furnishings and decor. Geometric shapes were a favourite design choice. Again, high quality and bold fabrics were used such as animal skins or colourful velvet. It was all a rejection of the Art Noveau movement, away from nature focusing on the man made.

Modernism (1930 - 1965)

Modernism came after the Art Deco movement. Fuss and feathers were out the door and now, practicality was in. Materials used are shown as they are, wood is not painted, metal is not coated. Bright colours were acceptable but neutral palettes were favoured. Interiors were open and favoured large windows. Furniture was practical, for use rather than the ornamentation, featuring plain details of any and geometric shapes. Away from Art Deco, everything is straight, linear and streamlined.

3K notes · View notes

blueiscoool · 10 months

Text

‘Incredible’ Mosaics Were Found in an Ancient Luxury Home in Rome

Italy’s Culture Minister Gennaro Sangiuliano has called the works “an authentic treasure.”

Researchers working in the Archaeological Park of the Colosseum in Rome have shared their discovery of luxurious mosaic-tiled rooms found in an ancient home on the site, which they believe may have belonged to a Roman senator. Created from shells, glass, white marble, and Egyptian blue tiles, the mosaics have been described by Italy’s Culture Minister Gennaro Sangiuliano as “an authentic treasure”.

The “rustic” mosaics, found on the grounds surrounding the Colosseum in the heart of the city, date to the late Republican Age, in the last decades of the second century B.C.E., and show a series of figurative scenes. They once decorated a townhouse, or domus, owned by an upper class citizen. Italy’s Ministry of Culture have said that “due to the complexity of the scenes depicted” and their age, the mosaics are “without comparison.”

One mosaic depicts a coastal city with towers and porticos, with three large ships floating by on the ocean waves. The culture ministry believes this could be a reference to naval victories achieved by the owner of the home, which is believed to have been a Roman senator. This is supported by historical sources describing the area as having been occupied by such high-ranking members of society.

The decorated walls were likely located in the home’s dining rooms, where luxurious banquets would be hosted, and guests at these events were likely wowed with “spectacular water games,” according to the culture ministry, based on the presence of lead pipes set into the walls.

In the reception room, an extremely well preserved decorated stucco featuring landscapes and figures was also discovered. Other designs include vines and lotus leaves flowing from vases, musical instruments, and tridents.

The mosaic walls were first discovered near the Colosseum in 2018, but excavation at the site will continue into 2024, and more rooms could be discovered. Alfonsina Russo, the Director of the Archaeological Park of the Colosseum, has said that once the domus is full uncovered, “we will work intensely to make this place, among the most evocative of ancient Rome, accessible to the public as soon as possible.”

By Verity Babbs.

#‘Incredible’ Mosaics Were Found in an Ancient Luxury Home in Rome #Archaeological Park of the Colosseum #Late Republican Age #second century B.C.E.#mosaic #roman mosaic #ancient artifacts #archeology #archeolgst #history #history news #ancient history #ancient culture #ancient civilizations #ancient rome #roman history #roman empire #roman art

1K notes · View notes

lilis-palace · 1 year

Note

Could you share with us some traditional Central European farm house inspirations ? :D

This guide is about Hungarian traditional farmhouses.

🏠 EXTERIOR & STRUCTURE

Back in the 19th century, the three-room farmhouse was a common sight all across the Carpathian Basin. Its rooms are arranged in rows, i.e. one after the other. The front of the house, facing the street, was shorter, and you could enter through the long courtyard. The room facing the street was usually the main living area, while the second room served as the kitchen. In simpler houses, the third room was a pantry, but it wasn't uncommon to find a second room or even multiple pantries.

The floor was usually made of brick or tiled earth.

In richer houses, rooms had wooden floors.

The walls were white or smoky

🚪 ENTRANCE / Bejárat

It has two types: (1) There is only one external entrance from the courtyard, the other rooms can only be accessed via this entrance. It always leads to the second room. (2) Each room of the house has a separate entrance to the courtyard, and there is no internal passage between them.

🏛️ TORNÁC / PORTICO?

The wooden side-tornác is generally older, but there are many variations depending on the region.

🏛️ FACADE / Oromzat

The façade varied from landscape to landscape and from house to house. The houses were richly decorated with floral, religious and national motifs.

Traditional houses at Balaton.

🐔 THE COURTYARD / Udvar

🔥 STOVE / Kályha & Tűzhely

In the village house, the stove takes center stage and symbolizes the heart of the home. The kitchen had a fire burning to cook meals, and the warmth spread throughout the house thanks to a closed stove in the adjacent room. So, not only did the kitchen provide delicious food, but it also kept the entire house cozy and snug.

🔪🍰 KITCHEN / Konyha

Old traditional Hungarian kitchens were known for their functional design, centered around a hearth for cooking and a sturdy wooden table for family gatherings. These kitchens were often decorated with handmade ceramic or copper utensils, giving them a charming traditional touch.

🛌💤 ROOM / Szoba

Interestingly, in many areas, the first room wasn't used much at all, except for specific occasions like when someone was sick or when there was a baby on the way. The room was beautifully adorned and one corner was set up as an altar. People referred to it as the "clean room" because it was kept tidy and pristine.

LINKS & MORE EXAMPLES

Traditional farmhouse exterior: [omnia]

Hungarian villages: [fortepan]

Traditional floor plans & rooms: [mek.oszk]

Floor plans, motifs, exterior, furniture [arcanum]

Floor plans, exterior, roofs, regional differences [docplayer]

Interior of a house from 1863 [szikm.hu]

200 years old house interior & exterior [24.hu]

Pretty houses [multidezoepiteszet.blog.hu]

Wooden deco elements and more pics [mandadb.hu]

Useful link for every aspects of a farmhouse [sulinet.hu]

Houses from Kalotaszeg, a village in Transilvania [taj-kert.blog.hu]

The architectural tradition of the Hungarian village [epiteszforum]

more, and more... [mandadb.hu]

#guide #hungary #hungarian culture #european culture #central europe #eastern europe #Btw I'm from a schwabian (german minority in Hungary) town and I went to german minority schools so what I know is mainly schwabian culure

455 notes · View notes

tilesbros · 2 months

Text

Elevate Your Home's Exterior: Portico and Car Parking Tiles by TileBros Coimbatore

Tilebros in Coimbatore offers a specialized range of portico and car parking tiles designed to enhance outdoor spaces with durability and aesthetics. Portico tiles from Tilebros come in various colors and textures, adding charm to entrances and outdoor areas.

#Car parking tiles in coimbatore #portico and car parking tiles #floor tiles in Coimbatore #wooden floor tiles in Coimbatore #elican chimney dealers in coimbatore #tile showroom

0 notes

pastshadows · 4 months

Text

Shadows of the Past

Chapter 16: Ruins

Summary: After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.

Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.

The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.

With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?

Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.

Word Count: 6.9K

Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.

Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.]

Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [Implied/attempted sexual assault: Chapter 7]. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions. Panic attacks. Anxiety.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” You ask, glancing at Shadowheart.

Her eyebrows pinch, and she studies the map in her hands with Gale looking over her shoulder.

“This is the correct location, according to the map.” Gale says, with his fingers cradling his chin.

You walk through a grand wrought-iron archway toward the two-story manor with a facade of azure tiles that gleam in the sunlight. A marble staircase leads to the portico, lined with stately round columns and a double door with intricate carvings of mermaids and sea serpents.

“You look perplexed, Gale,” you say, as he comes up beside you with his arms crossed. “Something wrong?”

“Just lost in thought." Gale cants his head. "I cannot recall ever seeing this building before, and something with this much grandeur stands out.”

"So, are we just going to spend the day outside or are we going to discover what treasures this puppy has inside?" Hecat prompts with her voice high with excitement.

You barely manage to stifle the groan that tries to cow its way from your throat, but your face deforms into a disgruntled scowl despite your intentions to remain impassive.

Why did I insist on bringing her again? Ah-yes, because it was either this or leaving her alone with Astarion.

“We cannot just go barging into homes,” you conclude with an authoritative edge. It’s been a while since you had to take this tone with anyone, and it feels strange to be playing the role of the fearless leader again. “Gale grew up here. If he says he hasn’t seen this building before, then something is up, and we must proceed carefully.”

Hecat purses her lips with her hands on her hips, and then she laughs like an overly energetic child. “Of course, dragon girl. Whatever you say.”

“Well, it’s possible I missed it.” Gale says, trying to ease the tension. “Though, unlikely.”

“No.” Shadowheart hisses with distain. She looks at you with a mischievous smile. “Kamena is right, Gale. You wouldn’t miss a bright blue building in your hometown.”

You make a mental note to hug Shadowheart later. There’s a peculiar feeling rife in the air, and you glance around and study the environment. Though it looks picturesque, no birds fly in the sky above, no insects hover above the vivid yellow and blue flowers that line the gardens, and the salty breeze doesn’t rustle the trees or grass.

An illusion, and a sloppy one at that.

The Weave suffuses you, infusing every pore of your being, until the essence emanates from you in a blushing radiance. Reaching out, you project vines of power to twist and penetrate into the illusion and expel the magic that holds it in place.

The mirage flutters and dissolves away like paint on a canvas left out in the rain, revealing a forsaken structure with thorny, sunburnt vines that run up cracked walls of dirt-stained limestone.

“Someone went through a lot of trouble to hide this,” you mutter, drawing your quarterstaff, Markoheshkir. “Be on your guard.”

Gale fills himself with the Weave, Shadowheart brandishes her spear, and Hecat unholsters the sword she procured from the prison as you approach. The door squeaks on its hinges as you push it open and enter the grand vestibule. A discarded chandelier lays sprawled on the floor, which is layered with dust and rubble that grinds under your boots.

It doesn’t look like anything aside from rodents and insects has resided here in a long time as you search the forgotten manor. Clothing is strewn with holy moth-eaten rags hanging from wardrobes and chests as if the drawers were retching the clothing, indicating whoever lived here fled quickly. Jewellery of all kinds still sits on tarnished silver platters in the bed chambers.

“Don’t mind if I do!” Hecat yammers with a wide smile as she fills her pockets.

You roll your eyes as you flip through the embrittled pages of what looks to be an old journal, but the pigment in the ink has faded with age and become nearly unreadable.

Leaving Hecat to her ransacking, you meander through the upper-floor bedrooms and libraries, trying to imagine what this place would have looked like without the mould eagerly crawling up the walls, spreading its tendrils of decay, and the dreary, dirt-clad flooring. The ceiling was once frescoed to depict epic scenes of something that's no longer discernible through the fractures and decayed patches.

Shadowheart trots up beside you and whispers. “Hecat is going to need someone to carry her out of here if she keeps stuffing her pockets.”

“Good.” You lean close to Shadowheart, putting your arm around her shoulder. “I will happily leave her and her overstuffed pockets here.”

Shadowheart chuckles under her breath. “Me too, but I imagine we will have to drag Gale away.”

You wiggle your glowing fingers with a devious grin. “What do you think Sleep spells are for?”

Ducking into a bed chamber, you use the sleeve of your robe to wipe the grime from the window, allowing some light into the dim space. Shadowheart follows you, pulling out drawers and opening containers, analyzing everything with a quizzical furrow pinching her brow.

Your boots thud off a floor plank with a hollow plunk, making you stop in your tracks. Crouching, you brush away the debris and rap your knuckles against various boards until you find the source. It’s barely perceptible, but you can see the scratches where the beam has been moved.

“Shadowheart. Do you think you can pry this up with the tip of your spear?”

Shadowheart wedges the point of her blade between the board and pops it out to reveal a small compartment full of the silky remains of spider webs, and you cringe.

Shadowheart laughs. “Don’t tell me you’re still afraid of spiders.”

“Oh, don’t you start to!” You huff theatrically. “I take enough shit from Astarion over this.”

“Well, you did throw rocks at him that one time.” Shadowheart goads, trying to stifle her chuckling.

“Once! I did it once! Gods above. I’m about to throw rocks at you too!”

“Spiders, huh?” Hecat simpers, leaning against the doorframe with a smarmy grin. “Don’t worry. We all have our weaknesses. I’ve got you, dragon girl.”

You and Shadowheart glance at each other with palpable caution. Hecat has never been quiet, always stomping around Gale’s manor with footsteps so loud that it’s like her feet are made of lead. Yet here she is sneaking up and eavesdropping on your conversations. This one was innocent, but if she is capable of moving that quietly when she wants to, you will have to be more vigilant.

Hecat reaches into the hole, shooting you a smile that looks genuine but doesn’t reach her eyes, and produces a small diary with leather straps, keeping it tied shut. She hands the item off, probably unhappy that it’s not another gem or golden necklace for her to stuff in her already plump pack.

You open it carefully. The pages feel weak, as if they might fall to pieces like a dried leaf. The ink is dull, but there are passages that are legible, and you scan them. It’s written in an old dialect of common and speaks of meeting a handsome man in a tavern with eyes red like the sunset and skin pale and impossibly smooth like a pearl’s surface.

Several pages have to be flipped before you find another passage clear enough to read. It talks about sneaking out to meet the unnamed man in the rose gardens bordering the estate every night, how he seemed oddly cold when they embraced, and how his smiles were only ever tight-lipped.

Another excerpt speaks about sneaking him into the basement of the manor, falling in love, and how he spoke in sweet promises of eternity.

The rest of the words are illegible until the last page, which reads, “I am dead. I am dead. I am dead.”

By the time you look back up, Gale is standing with Hecat while Shadowheart reads over your shoulder.

Shadowheart shakes her head. “Poor fool.”

“I didn’t see a basement in this place.” You glance between Shadowheart and Gale, who both shrug.

You meticulously search the main floor for anything that looks out of place. Hecat and you move overturned furniture, Shadowheart tosses books off shelves, and Gale uses the Weave to look for any illusion that may be still at play, but all you get for it is dirt-streaked faces and grimy hands.

“You could just break the walls,” Hecat muses, looking around. “You’re powerful enough to do that, aren’t you?”

“What a bright idea!” You cannot keep the poisonous sarcasm out of your voice. “I will just bring the entire place down on our heads. That will surely do it!”

Hecat scoffs, but before she can lash you with a clever counter, Gale shouts, “My friends! I think I found something!”

Shadowheart pats your back as you trail behind Hecat with a fearsome frown. You really would like to melt her eyes from her sockets. She’s been eyeballing Astarion ever since you returned, and try as you might, letting go, or growing up, as Astarion so harshly put it, has been a challenge.

You’re trying, but insecurity is a rabid beast, and it hasn’t quite had its fill of you yet.

Gale points to an unremarkable shelf built into a wall. “Seek, and you shall find! There’s a draft from the cracks in the wood.” Gale grabs your hand, sticking it close. “Feel it?”

Although it’s barely perceivable, the air coming from behind the cracks is cooler than that of the ambient room. Your fingers trace around the edges. If there were any scratches or marks to indicate a way to open this, they’ve been hidden by peeling paint and swollen, cracking wood.

You fill yourself with the Weave making your eyes burn pink, and Shadowheart and Gale move away habitually, an old habit from your adventures. Hecat, on the other hand, stands close, tapping her foot impatiently. You’re very tempted to let her get caught in your destruction — an unfortunate accident — but Gale guides her away before you can make up your mind.

“Detono!”

The wood boards are thrown inward, hailing splinters with a loud boom. The dank, mildewed air fans your sweaty face as you peer into a dark corridor. Shadowheart casts Light on her spear, and you hold fire in your palm as you make your way through the cramped alley with mindful steps until you come to a stone staircase that winds down.

The shadows seem to stretch and distort along the stone walls ominously, and your footsteps echo throughout. It takes minutes to reach the bottom, where it finally opens up into a room with a dirt floor. There are dirty, hay-stuffed mattresses strewn about, but the room extends too far to see properly.

You crouch as Shadowheart stops by your side. You hold your arm out to halt her and scan the earthy ground. “Traps.”

Astarion taught you many things — identifying traps was one of them — but he laughed boisterously until tears shone in his eyes when you asked him to teach you how to disarm them.

“Ah-no.” Astarion giggles mirthfully. The harder you scowl, the funnier he thinks it is.

“What?” You pout and shoot him the puppy eyes that you know he has a hard time refusing. “Please?”

Astarion smirks, leaning back in his chair with his hands laced behind his head. “You can look at me with your sad puppy eyes and precious pout all you like, darling. The answer is still no."

“Why not?” You snort. “Don’t you think it would be prudent for me to know? What if I get myself trapped somewhere?”

“Well, since I go where you go, I don’t see that being a problem.” Astarion grins handsomely, fangs peeking out from the perfect bow of his lips.

“You’re scared I’m going to blow myself up, aren’t you?”

“Scared?” He chuckles with a highly arched brow and a slight shake of his head. “No. I have no doubt you will blow yourself up. If you die, who is going to light the fire for me? Gods forbid I would have to return to doing it the old-fashioned way. With these nails? Truly a travesty."

“You know that I am well aware you can cast Fire Bolt, right? I mean, you don’t cast it well, but well enough to light the fire."

“Don’t cast it well? Hells below.” Astarion groans. “It’s a cantrip; there’s hardly any skill needed for such child's play. The same cannot be said about disarming traps. If you fuck that up, you die, and your dexterity is atrocious. I’ll leave the magic to you, and you leave the traps to me, yes?”

“Fine!” You relent, giving your foot a stomp because you know it will earn you another lilting giggle from him, and it’s somehow the prettiest sound you’ve ever heard. “I didn’t hear any complaints about my dexterity last night.”

"Sassy tonight, are we?" Astarion smiles, patting his lap. “Do you ever stop thinking about sex?”

“With you?” You settle with your legs at his hips and his hands around your waist. “Never.”

“Well, stop thinking and start doing, my sweet.”

Returning at night is a dangerous prospect. You’ve been doing most of your scouting during the day and making sure you’re well within the safety of the manor long before twilight blankets the city.

You sigh. “We will need to return with Astarion before we can proceed any further.”

“Oh, goody!” Hecat squeals. “I cannot wait to see the vampire in action. That must truly be a real pleasure to see.”

You close your eyes tightly, scrunching up your entire face with a white-knuckled grip on Markoheshkir.

It would be so terrible if she tripped and fell into the traps. Wouldn't it?

“That vampire has a name,” Shadowheart scolds with a surly intonation. “And you would do well to mind your tongue, or you’ll find yourself on the streets.”

“Now, now,” Gale mewls in his too-cordial, assuaging intonation. “I’m sure Hecat didn’t mean to offend.”

“I—“ Hecat trips over her own words. She tries to keep her voice steady, but you catch the faintest tremble of dread braided with embarrassment. The Tiefling doesn’t want to be left on the streets, it seems, but you cannot help but wonder if it’s all an act. “I didn’t mean to antagonize anyone. I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me.” Hecat grabs your arm, forcing you to turn and look at her. She pleads, “Especially you. Truly. My mouth can run a little brainlessly. I’m sorry.”

She sounds sincere, and her eyes don’t radiate any ill-will. Guilt sneaks up on you like a shadowed figure, unnoticed until it’s standing behind you and smothering your conscience in its dark silhouette. This woman has been decent to you. In prison, she protected you from the riffraff and was essential to your escape; outside of it, she’s done nothing more than make obtuse comments and salivate over Astarion, but most people do the same when in his presence.

You wonder idly if there is anything you can do to make him slightly less earth-shatteringly handsome — a moronic contemplation. Your best idea is that you could polymorph him into a sheep, but knowing him, he would find a way to make even that look good.

Ridiculous, bafflingly beautiful man.

With a lungful of musty air, you acquiesce and try to gag the mistrustfulness that has made its home in your bone marrow. “It's alright. Let's return home, and we can think about if we want to return here at night. We could be walking straight into a trap.”

Astarion greets you, standing just shy of the sun flooding in from the door, having heard your approach. “Gods. You’re positively filthy. What in the Hells were you up to? You look like you’ve been rolling in dirt.”

“What? Not going to give me a welcome back hug, lover?” You tease.

“Bloody Hells no,” he taunts, quirking a brow at you with a mock disdainful grin. “You seriously cannot expect me to sully all of this with all of that.” He gestures wildly toward you.

“I’m certain I recall you enjoying a little roll in the dirt once in a while.” You taunt, shimming your shoulders with a whimsical smile.

“Good Gods, you two really haven’t changed a bit, have you?” Shadowheart chuckles, placing her spear on the weapon rack. “At least take it upstairs, will you?”

Astarion smirks with a dangerous gleam in his eyes. “Gladly.”

Hecat strolls past Astarion without even glancing his way, and you wonder if the woman has finally — fucking finally — taken the hint, but there is still a slight sway to her hips and the tip of her tail ghosts over his upper thigh. Whether it was done on purpose or by accident, there’s no way to tell.

Astarion darts to the side at the unexpected contact, and his features contort in a knee-jerk response. He swallows hard, making his Adam’s apple bob, and you see it written in his eyes.

Disgust. Loathing. All those feelings he tries so hard to forget.

You seethe, your skin worming over your frame in a sea of flames, and you step forward with magic braced on your fingertips. Astarion slips in front of you and shakes his head in a silent plea to overlook it. It makes you physically ill, but you yield and stalk upstairs to your room to change into something less covered in muck.

“Thank you,” Astarion murmurs.

“For?”

“I do love it when you act pig-headed,” he grunts, currying his fingers through his hair. “Hecat. I know you saw it, and I know you saw my reaction to it.”

“She made you uncomfortable,” you hiss under your breath, tossing your dirty robe and trousers away aggressively. You want to say she is lucky to still have her life, and that is a godsdamned truth. Relax, you think. Astarion is capable of taking care of himself. He needs my support, not my ire. You take a deep breath and say, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“There’s nothing to talk about, really,” Astarion laments, sitting on the bed with his hand on his forehead. “Not that you’re not aware of anyway. It was a spontaneous response to being touched in a way I wasn’t expecting, and perhaps a little too close to home, if you catch my drift, but I am not convinced it was purposeful.”

Sometimes you wonder if you pushed him too hard in the Shadowlands when he confessed. Should you have backed off and been his friend instead of his lover? Is that what would’ve been better for him? In the moment, it felt right to hug him, but sometimes you look back and see it as a selfish thing to do when he was telling you he didn’t enjoy intimacy.

Oh? Intimacy brings up feelings of disgust and loathing? Well, let me press my body right up against yours without asking!

Foolish fucking woman.

You cannot help but worry that you cause the same discomfort on occasion when you touch him unexpectedly. Though his issues surrounding affection are difficult for him to navigate, they are also undeniably demanding of you. Where you find solace in his touch, regardless of whether it’s expected or sudden, the same cannot be said about him, and it’s all too easy to misplace the mindfulness of that fact.

How often do you touch him out of reflex and cause the same feelings to crop up? How many times has he ignored it and simply let it happen without saying a word?

“Don’t.” Astarion pleads suddenly right in front of you, taking your hand and pressing it to his chest in the way he knows soothes you. His face and voice are a ledger to his anxiety. He blurts frantically. “Don’t pull away from me now. Don’t run from me. Please.”

In another lifetime, you would’ve asked the questions plaguing your mind without hesitation. You have memories of when communication was harmonious and uncomplicated. He would tell you when you were being an obstinate, pigheaded child, and you would tell him when he was being a haughty, old prick.

And then he left me, you think, in the dead of night.

That time is dead, buried in a graveyard of uncertainty and doubt. You’re beginning to trust him; day by day, it gets easier and a little less daunting, but will you ever be that confident in your relationship again?

Astarion’s crimson eyes don’t leave yours, and his thumb sweeps across the back of your hand, the picture of patience. You allow your body to lean into him slowly so that he knows your intention — a gesture of comfort and reassurance that you aren’t going to race out the door like you’ve done on so many occasions. His response is unforced and natural, wrapping his arms around you and holding you tight.

“Tell me what’s going on in that beautiful mind of yours, my love.” He coos, soft and gentle, in that whisky-warm voice that allays your turbulent thoughts. “You can talk to me about anything.”

You mull it over in your head, not completely sure that you can handle starting down this particular road. Quiet minutes stretch out between you. Astarion’s hand rubs slow circles across your back, but he does not press you further.

“Do I ever make you feel like that?” You mutter against his chest, sheltered in his arms from whatever painful truths this ends with. “I forget sometimes to make my intentions to touch you obvious or known. I need you to remind me when I lapse.”

“Oh, love, no.” Astarion smiles as you venture a glance up at him. He leans forward but halts inches above your lips, making you meet him halfway. You kiss him, your hand caressing his cheek. “When it’s just us, you needn’t be heedful of when or where you touch me, Kamena. You haven’t made me feel that way in some time, but if you ever do, I will tell you. I do not intend to keep anything from you again.” He reassures.

“Okay.” You exhale heavily through your nose and try to relax the rigidity in your body. “I still get scared sometimes that you’re going to leave again, that I’ll wake up one morning and you’ll be gone.”

“I know,” Astarion sighs, kissing your forehead. He takes your arms and gently guides them around his waist, encouraging you to touch his back with a steady gaze. When you hug him, you rarely wrap yourself around his waist, ever mindful of his back and scars. It is a show of how much he trusts you and how your touch does not bother him. “I know it will take time, and I will never stop trying, but do you think you will ever be able to trust me again?”

“I’m trying,” you reply truthfully, even though it’s far more complex than that. You bury your face in his chest, finding it easier to confess when he isn’t staring at you with those eyes that impair your ability to speak honestly. “It just... it still hurts.”

“I’m well aware. You mutter in your trance sometimes, begging me not to go or to come back.”

A flush of embarrassment tidal waves through you, pricking across your skin all the way to the tips of your ears. Hells. You knew you often woke up screaming, but you didn’t realize you were also talking during your rest.

You wave it off, trying to play it as insignificant and something you can easily disregard.

Astarion grabs your arm. His touch is gentle, but his expression is grave. “No. Don’t pretend it’s nothing when it is anything but.”

You ground yourself and attempt to persuade him. “They are just dreams, Astarion. It’s really not— “

“Serious?” Astarion retorts, clearly a little irritated that you think you can manipulate him into believing this little white lie. “It is significant, Kamena. Those fears, the ones I caused, do not just infect your dreams; they bleed into the waking world as well. I see them on your face; endeavour to catch them before they latch on and take root; keep them at bay as much as I can.

“I do not begrudge you, but don’t discount your residual pain.” Astarion looks askance, his eyes darkening like cloudy skies. “If you minimize it, then you also discard the effort I am putting in to dispel them and prove that I am here and I’m not going anywhere.”

“I--" you stutter, trying to govern the impulse to keep cementing your suffering behind a wall and hope he doesn’t see it. Your throat feels dry all of a sudden. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I know this has been difficult for you as well. I didn’t mean to undervalue your efforts.”

Astarion’s eyes return to yours, full of hope and appreciation for acknowledging that you know he’s trying. “Thank you. Now, quit leaving me in this dreadful suspense. Did you find anything on your little expedition today?”

You dig through your bag and hand him the diary. “Not much, but the place was glamoured like the bog, if you remember.”

“Do you think my memory really that fickle?” Astarion scoffs while he pours over the pages. “I may not remember everything from two centuries ago, darling, but I vividly remember a couple years ago, especially your sun-kissed skin, rosy cheeks, and eyes that could slow galaxies. Though, I would have preferred if you had left that illusion in place.”

“Perhaps it would have been more pleasant, but it was pretty funny to “Baaa” at the Redcaps, no?”

Astarion laughs. “You surprised me that day.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes,” Astarion simpers with a smug grin. “I did not expect you to bleat like a sheep so well — a flawless performance, truly.”

“A flawless performance, truly,” you repeat, doing your best to imitate him with a mocking flair.

“Sorceress.” His eyes swing up from the journal with a handsomely quirked brow. “Not half bad! You’re improving.”

You giggle at his praise. “Do you still have armour and weapons, Rogue? Or do we need to go on a thieving spree?”

That gets his full attention, and Astarion’s head jerks up. “I would never say no to a night of splendid depravity, but I do indeed still have my armour and weapons. Why?”

“There’s a basement positively brimming with traps that need disarming.”

“Hm, well, now I kind of wish I picked the thieving spree.” Astarion pouts. “Disarming traps all night sounds like much less fun.”

“You could always teach me how,” you taunt.

“This again? Gods.” Astarion groans, smoothing his hand down his face, exasperated. “The answer will be no until the end of time, sweetheart, but nice try.”

“You suck sometimes.”

Astarion laughs, saunters over, and folds his arms around you. He presses the sculpted muscles of his chest against your back and kisses your neck, tracing his lips up the column. “I am a man of many talents. I suck, bite, and lick, if you ask nicely enough, love.”

“Please.”

“Good girl,” he purrs.

Approaching the derelict estate slowly, Astarion’s eyes flit about the shadows as he methodically scans every concealed corner. He holds out a hand, halting you and Shadowheart at the archway, and listens. You and Shadowheart know this routine well, and you stand muted and motionless until Astarion indicates otherwise.

“I don’t hear or smell anything out of the ordinary, but that doesn’t mean they are not waiting downwind or out of sight.”

“You don’t say.” Shadowheart snickers satirically. “I would never have guessed that. Thank you, Astarion, for your impressive observations.”

“You’re very welcome, flower.” Astarion drawls with a boyish grin.

It feels like old times watching Astarion in his strikingly etched, black leather armour with gold stitching and buckles. Shadowheart still wears the Adamantine armour from your travels, but it’s been dyed sky blue, white, and gold. You adorn Wavemother’s robe, dyed deep lilac, orange, and black. The chains have been altered to include dragons that appear to soar up your chest.

It is, unsurprisingly, Astarion’s favourite among your robes.

Brandishing Markoheshkir with a flourish, you keep the Weave poised at your fingertips as you make your way inside.

“Do you think I could have a little look around?” Astarion asks, looking at you for permission as if you were still the leader of the ragtag group of misfits. “Perhaps I will find something you… overlooked.”

“Missed,” you grunt. “You want to look for things we might have missed. Be my guest, but if you’re looking for valuables to steal, Hecat already pocketed them all.”

Astarion nods, strolling off to pick through the ruins of someone’s life long since dead and turned to bone dust. Your fingers pass over dainty figurines that are chipped, dulled, and antiquated.

“How did you get Hecat to stay behind?” Shadowheart asks.

“I don’t know if you remember, but I can be exceptionally persuasive, and if that fails, intimidating.”

“Oh,” Shadowheart picks up a tattered book, tossing it aside. “How could I ever forget your silver tongue? It got us into and out of so many situations.”

“Didn’t it?”

“Who do you think these people were?” Shadowheart’s brows furrow. “They were obviously affluent and left in a hurry, but people with this type of money don’t tend to just go missing without notice.”

“Left, taken, or were killed.” You cast Light on your quarterstaff to illuminate the gloomy space and peer around.

“Killed,” Astarion concludes, descending the stairs with silent but rapid steps. “Massacred really.”

“How do you know?” Shadowheart frowns.

“Come now. Need I remind you that I’m a vampire?” Astarion crouches, sweeping away the layers of grime to reveal tenebrous, old floorboards. He twitches his fingers at you, and you toss him your glowing quarterstaff. He hovers it above the cleared patch and gestures toward an almost invisible discoloration. “Blood,” he concludes. “Very, very old, but blood nonetheless. It’s positively hither and yon in this place.”

“Hither and yon?” Shadowheart giggles. “Hells below. I do forget how old you are.”

“Curious.” Astarion arches a brow at her with a dastardly gleam in his nebulously red eyes. “I never forget how much of a child you are.”

Shadowheart scoffs indignantly, her arms crossing with a scowl.

Astarion chuckles, spinning Markoheshkir like he would his daggers, and then handing it to you. “Well, shall we head down into whatever horrors await us? You’ve only paid for my services until dawn, sorceress. It will cost you extra if I have to make an additional visit to this hellhole.”

“I don’t know if I can afford your fee, Rogue.”

Astarion pivots on his heel, tugging you by the waist into a chaste kiss with a knavish grin. “I am positive we can work something out, love.”

Shadowheart grunts her displeasure, making Astarion smile against your lips. You give him a playful shove away and point. “I’m not paying you to stand around.”

“Oh,” Astarion murmurs with a wink. “I do like it when you take charge and boss me around.”

Descending the stairs is even more imposing with the knowledge that you could be walking straight into a trap. The drum of your heartbeat spikes, and your breathing starts to quicken. Astarion glances back with a nod that tells you he still hasn’t detected anything unusual lurking in the abyssal depths. He offers you his hand, and you take it gladly.

At the bottom, you, Shadowheart, and Astarion all shuffle into the minimal space that Astarion indicates as a safe zone. Each of you tries peering into the nethermost bowels of the basement, but the shadows are far too thick. Even the Light emanating from Markoheshkir is hardly enough to brighten the vicinity around the three of you.

Shadowheart stares at the ground with a mix of trepidation and hesitancy. “Can you disarm traps in such low light, Astarion? Safely, I mean. I rather like my limbs attached to my body.”

“Not all traps are bombs, my dear.” He drawls nonchalantly, taking your staff and holding it out over the ground. “And these are an invigorating mix between acid and explosives. Hmm. If the acid is combustible, we would be in for quite the show. Not to worry. I can defuse these in my sleep. However, I’ll need some light, so Kamena, you need to stick close to me and step only where I indicate, understand?”

“Are you sure?” You ask, gripping his arm.

“If I was not sure, I would not have you follow me. I would never put you in danger.” Astarion assures with his eyes anchored on you, covering your hand with his own. “Do you trust me, Kamena?”

A nod to your earlier conversation where you admitted you’re still afraid he’s going to leave. You meet his gaze resolutely. “I trust you. Lead on.”

Astarion leads you through the tangle of traps, pointing where to place your feet. With Markoheshkir gleaming and slung across your back, you let fire hover in your palm at a distance Astarion deems safe and impel the element to burn white-hot. It is, admittedly, an excessive expenditure of your sorcery.

Even with Astarion’s mastery, it’s a slow-going process. There are far more traps than you were able to perceive at first glance, and the room extends further back than you anticipated. It seems every time Astarion has you proceed, you get naught more than a couple of shuffling steps before he’s crouching over another trap lying in wait for a careless foot. You glance back at Shadowheart, who has cast her own weapon with Light and call back to make sure she’s safe.

“Tell Astarion to bloody hurry up!” She grunts. “I think he’s out of practice.”

Astarion rolls his eyes, groaning under his breath as he fiddles with the device before him. You watch the deftness of his fingers as he makes short work of the mechanisms. It’s obvious why he refuses to teach you this particular skill. You wouldn’t possess enough patience or adroitness to perform this task. How Astarion knows which wires to cut, levers to adjust, or shells to remove is a mystery to you. They all appear different visually.

“She knows I can hear her, yes?” Astarion grumbles, wiping the sweat from his brow.

“She knows. Are you getting tired? We could take a break.”

“Tired?” Astarion quirks a brow at you with a frown. “What gives you that impression?”

“You’re sweating,” you reply bluntly.

“Yes,” he says snidely. “You are hovering a white-hot orb of flame over my head.”

“Why didn’t you just say something?” You scold him, trying to hide embarrassment. You know you’re being overzealous with the brightness. “I think I can coerce it to burn cooler.”

It’s an utter certainty that you can; fire is in your blood, and it bows to you, but it will require more endurance. As adept as you are, power is not limitless.

“I didn’t say anything because it’s kind of like being in the sun again, Solicallor.” He smiles authentically, but there is a sadness behind it that he doesn’t try to hide.

He misses the sun.

You nod your understanding, but still focus on marginally reducing the heat.

“How did you learn this?” You blurt out the question that’s been whirring around your mind since you started watching him.

You can’t imagine a magistrate would have much use for this, even a crooked one. Picking locks, absolutely, but this?

“Books at first.”

“Books?”

“Yes, darling, books. You know those things with paper and words all bound together? Books.” He teases.

“Ha-ha.” You say flatly. “I meant it more like you can learn this from books?”

“The basic principles of it anyway.” Astarion nods. “The application of them requires a little more hands-on experience.”

“There is not much to do during the day when you’re a vampire, besides trance, so I would read.” He glances up at you. “At night, after my orders were completed, I would peruse the city and disarm every trap I found. I blew myself up, poisoned myself, and had my skin eaten away by acid plenty of times before I got it right. Cazador would get positively peeved when I returned injured. It was good fun. Looking back at it now, I think I was trying to get myself killed, either by the traps themselves or Cazador.”

He seems bemused by the whole reminiscence, and you’re trying to decide whether to be horrified or not.

“Vampire spawn are obnoxiously hard to kill.” He muses thoughtfully. “I think that’s the last of them.” He stands, eyeing the ground and looking for anything he might have missed. He reaches for the quarterstaff draped across your back. “May I?”

You nod, and he takes it. He instructs briskly. “Stay here. I’m going to double check.”

“Astarion…”

Astarion squeezes your shoulder comfortingly. “If one of these things blows up on me, I will survive — a little blood and I’ll be right as rain — but if one blows up on you, it could kill you, and I would never be able to forgive myself. Please don’t be mulish for once. I will be right back, and you’re more than welcome to continue scowling at me.”

You huff, rubbing your forehead. “Fine.”

Astarion strolls off confidently while you mutter under your breath, keeping the fire in your palm animated mostly for the solace it provides. You observe Astarion’s movements only by the lambency of Markoheshkir bobbing around in the dark like a dancing spectre.

He returns, calling out to Shadowheart to let her know it’s safe to move about.

“Should we spread out and search, or should we stick together?” Shadowheart asks, directed at you. “How big is this place?”

“I’m not sure.” Spreading out doesn’t sit well with you when you don’t know what could be skulking around in the darkness, but time is also of the essence, and it would be more efficient. You find yourself giving instructions, falling back into the leader role you so loathed. “Spread out, but always keep each other in sight. We can work our way down systematically.”

You recast Light on one of Astarion’s daggers, making the spell keeping Markoheshkir aglow fade. Astarion opens his mouth to protest, but you cut him off. “I have fire. I don’t need it.”

It surprises you when Astarion merely nods and concedes. He knows well enough that there’s nothing he can say to change your mind, and it’s a pointless venture to try.

You can veritably hear him in your head calling you pig-headed, and you smirk to yourself as you start combing through the space. Mattresses litter the ground, stained and soiled. Pieces of loose paper, utensils, cracked or broken dinnerware, and sometimes stuffed animals are scattered around chaotically.

When you finally get to a wall, it’s just plain bedrock. This place is more of a cavern than a basement. Droplets of water dribble down the stone, and gnarled roots reach out from the ceiling like spindly fingers. You swallow hard when you come across sets of rusty shackles and bindings affixed to the walls, nailed straight into the stone. A shiver runs down your spine; whether it’s from being cold or your increasing disquietude, you’re unsure.

It may have been prudent to wear a thicker robe.

You, Shadowheart, and Astarion don’t need to communicate much as you work your way through foot by foot. It takes little more than a glance or a curt nod for any of you to indicate you’ve found nothing and it’s time to proceed.

The nostalgia is equal parts wonderful and unnerving. You cannot deny that you enjoy having a clear goal — the danger and exhilaration of peril — but the small voice of reason affirms that this, too, is another way of running from yourself.

Barrelling headfirst into hazards gives you something to focus on instead of facing the fact that something within you is broken, perhaps beyond repair, and you don’t have to admit to yourself the thing you fear most — that you will never be able to trust Astarion again and any chance of a real relationship is fated to fail.

Can you go to bed every night terrified that when you wake, he will not be there? Can you spend the rest of your days wondering if today is the day he disappears?

Furthermore, is it fair to keep him with you if you’ll always doubt him?

Your inability to let your fears go and move forward affects him just as much as it affects you. Would he be better off finding someone else — someone who can be with him without reservations, someone who can love him completely and utterly without worry.

He deserves that, the kind of love you had for him before, and you’re not sure you will ever be able to get back to it.

“Kamena!” Astarion hollers with a too-high, almost panicked timbre that rips you from your contemplations.

You lunge into a sprint, Shadowheart following closely behind, both of you with spells already sparking on your fingertips, and Markoheshkir poised by your side. In your alarm, your mastery of your dragon Hellfire slips, and flames writhe over your body like a nest of molten serpents wrestling to escape.

Astarion is standing by a dilapidated desk, with moss growing over the surface and up the tottery legs. He holds a piece of wet parchment in his hands that he’s inspecting with a dismayed look.

He hands it to you when the flames around you wane. “Recognize these?”

The red ink has been smudged and streaks down the parchment like crimson tears, but you would know these markings anywhere. You’ve been trailing your fingers over similar ones every night.

Infernal script.

Thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. I'm forever thankful for the support. I love reading your comments ❤️

Chapters Master List - Shadows of the Past

AO3: Crossposted

If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Small Notes:

Shadowheart is the best ❤️

Infernal script - rarely a good sign.

Still wanna know your thoughts on Hecat!

#astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion x you #bg3 astarion #astarion x mc #astarion #astarion smut #astarion romance #astarion ancunin #baldurs gate astarion #shadows of the past #astarion bg3 #astarion baldurs gate #astarion x oc #astarion x named tav

62 notes · View notes

palomahasenteredthechat · 3 months

Text

Burn

Seems like everyone is getting in on the Geta action.

Including Caracalla's wife.

Warnings: Minors DNI, m/f het intercourse.

The ceremony was brief, due to the heat. Fulvia stood, her delicate hand held in Caracalla’s clammy one and listened to the priests intone blessings on their union. Behind them, their families stood in a tight circle. Her father Plautinanus was smiling; Septimius Severus, Rome’s Emperor and Caracalla’s father, held a stern countenance.

Fulvia resisted the urge to wiggle, for her wool tunica was itchy, and the heavy flammeum veil made it hard to hear. Caracalla’s toga was swimming on him. He had not sprouted up like his younger brother, and Fulvia almost surpassed him in height. But no matter; he was technically the eldest by a few minutes, and hence the heir to Rome’s empire. The one that every girl in Rome would be thrilled to have as her husband. Until they saw Geta.

Out of the corner of her eye, Fulvia stole a glance at the taller twin. He appeared bored, slouching in his toga as much as he could get away with. His long fingers twiddled with an errant gold thread.

Turning her head back to the priest, Fulvia wondered if Geta would also be married soon. Though not currently in line to supplant his father, he was still a prince and would undoubtedly hold power at the imperial palace. He would be considered a grand prize for a wealthy family or provincial governor with a daughter to marry off. Yet he frightened Fulvia even more than her soon to be wed husband. Geta’s tiger eyes saw much but revealed little. His soft voice was rarely heard above a whisper. Fulvia wondered if his hands were cold, if his alabaster skin ever felt the heat of the sun.

Just then, Caracalla’s hand slithered out of Fulvia’s as he fumbled to untie the knotted cingulum around her waist, symbolizing their union. Normally, this would occur in their bedchamber, but the families were eager to have this moment witnessed out in the open, almost as if they were worried it would not occur otherwise. Once the cord fell to the floor, Caracalla smiled, and Fulvia smelled his rank breath.

—--

The deed was quick and painful. Fulvia stared at the ornate tiles on the ceiling, imagining a spider crawling between the brightly colored paint. Caracalla finished quickly, and signaled to his servants to carry his toga as he rolled off the bed toward his bath. Fulvia did not conceive on that night, nor on the few nights afterward. After a mere fortnight, Caracalla seemed to lose interest, retreating to his own chambers. While feeling shame, Fulvia was relieved that her husband did not care to visit their marriage bed for the foreseeable future. She would have taken her pleasures elsewhere, but her father had arranged for only eunuchs to be her servants, and she had little contact with the city outside the imperial gates.

Months passed, then a year. The emperor traveled to far provinces, dealing with various conflicts. His sons accompanied him. Occasionally they would return, but Caracalla did not call upon her.

One night, the imperial chariot returned, and a lone figure emerged. Fulvia had been unable to sleep and had spied the figure from her portico. The glint of his gold armor reflected in the moonlight. On the chance that Caracalla would seek her out, she hurried to her cubicula and pinched her cheeks as best she could before arranging herself in a presentable fashion for her husband. She strained to catch the sound of approaching footsteps, but heard nothing.

Fulvia sagged against the bolster, humiliated yet again, and resisted the urge to sob. From somewhere in the palace, the sound of male laughter reverberated. As if struck by a thunderbolt, Fulvia sat up, throwing the quilt off her legs. Snatching her shawl, she burst through the door of her bedchamber, startling her slaves.

“Where is he?” she demanded, chest heaving. “Where is that brat of a prince?”

The women stared at her, uncomprehending. Finally one of them timidly spoke.

“He is in the great hall, Principissa,” she said, bowing her head.

Fulvia nodded and stomped past them barefoot, hair in disarray as her tunic flounced in the cool night air. When she approached the hall, the sounds of laughter grew louder. Silently, she crept forward next to the fountain, seeing the laurel crown upon a ginger head from behind. Propelled by her anger, Fulvia silently picked up a cup of wine and approached stealthily. One of the servants saw her and his eyes widened but it was too late. Fulvia flung the wine over the back of the chair, soaking the occupant, before flouncing to confront him.

“That’s what you get for ignoring me! I am no mere servant girl or one of your filthy whores. I am your w-”

The word died on Fulvia’s tongue as she came face to face with Geta, whose own mouth was open in shock.

“-ife,” she finished faintly.

Geta stared at her, his kohl-lined eyes wide in anger, before suddenly throwing his head back and bursting into laughter. Fulvia looked away, humiliated, and pulled her shawl around herself more tightly. She flung the cup at Geta’s feet and marched off, attempting to salvage what little dignity she had left.

She was moving through the main courtyard almost at a run when he caught up with her. Geta’s hand snaked forward, grabbing her wrist and spinning her around. Caught off-balance, Fulvia slammed into his chest as Geta grabbed her by her arms.

“Well, I don’t have to ask if my brother is satisfying you,” he said softly. “For it is clear for all to see that he is not.”

All of the pent-up emotion that had been buried in Fulvia’s chest came forth in that moment, and she burst into tears, burying her face in her hands. Geta watched her with fascination. Eventually, Fulvia wiped her eyes with her shawl and looked up at him. “I am sorry, Caesar, for my impetuous behavior. I was not myself. I trust-that you will not speak to my husband of it.”

“What would it matter if I did,” Geta whispered, his fingers rising to lift her chin. “He hates you.”

Fulvia sighed. She knew the truth of this but his words still stung. “You are too cruel, Geta,” she said quietly. “Have pity. I am so tired of this gilded cage.”

“Are you now,” Geta purred, leaning forward to whisper in her ear. “Are you indeed.” Fulvia’s eyes fluttered. What was he doing? She pulled back, taking in the smug expression on his face.

Geta smiled before leaning forward and nibbling her bottom lip with his teeth. Fulvia gasped at the sensation as his soft lips pressed against hers and his tongue probed her mouth. Closing her eyes, she gave into the kiss, feeling the press of his body against her breasts. He smelled like cheap wine and musk.

Coming to her senses, she pushed him away. “We cannot do this,” she murmured, but her beating heart betrayed her. With one motion, Geta reached down and lifted her into his arms.

“Watch me,” he said.

—--

His quarters were on the far side of the imperial palace. Fulvia had never seen his chambers, never felt a mattress so soft. Geta’s fingers gave her goosebumps as his soft hands ghosted over her shoulders, tracing her breasts with his fingertips. His gold rings grew warm against her skin. Fulvia found it hard to breathe as he studied her nude figure intently, lightly tracing every curve and crevice, until he slowly spread her legs before him.

“Let me see you,” she whispered, and Geta looked up, startled from his reverie. Slowly, he shed the caracallus he was wearing onto the bed behind him, allowing his shoulders to become visible. Fulvia reached forward to push the heavy fabric of his tunic further down his arms until his chest was revealed. She leaned forward and began to kiss his nipples, lightly tracing her fingers against the freckles on his chest.

Geta stilled, breathing heavily, as Fulvia licked the delicious valley between his pectorals. She gripped his shoulders with her hands as he pushed her back against his pillows once again.

“You deserve more than you have been given,” he whispered, shedding his tunic and crawling over her, his manhood in his hands. “You deserve to carry an heir of the Severan dynasty, as my father intended.”

Fulvia bit her lip as he entered her, bracing his hands against the bedpost. She curled her fingers around the gold cuffs on his wrists. Geta began to thrust in a slow but steady rhythm, allowing the heat to crescendo between their bodies. Fulvia arched her back against the bolster, reveling in the sensation of him filling her so completely. She felt flushed and dizzy, not knowing what to do with the intense feelings growing in the pit of her belly.

Opening her eyes, she met Geta’s gaze. They stared at each other as he began to speed up. Fulvia slid her fingers up the muscles of his arms and wrapped her arms around his neck, drawing him closer. Geta fell forward, pulling her flush against him as he began to pummel her in earnest. The bed creaked and Fulvia gasped, feeling pleasure from coupling for the first time in her life. Geta’s hand found her face and he cupped her chin roughly in his hand. “Look at me. Look at me, Fulvia.”

She watched as he grimaced and thrust savagely one more time, his eyes dark with lust, never leaving hers.

Fulvia bit her lip as Geta continued to gaze upon her, his chest red from the exertion. Slowly, he pulled himself out and lay down. Fulvia curled up next to him. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you, Geta.”

Geta nodded, staring at the ceiling. He pulled her close to his chest and stroked her hair. “Such a pretty creature,” he said softly. “Such a pity my brother wastes the opportunity to have you at his leisure.” He turned and drank deeply from a goblet placed next to the bed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“And what will you do with yours?” Fulvia asked quietly. Geta smiled in the darkness.

“Is that an invitation?”

Fulvia closed her eyes, knowing she was risking her life with her answer. But she felt a sense of freedom she hadn’t felt in years. “Yes,” she breathed.

#joseph quinn #geta #gladiator 2 #geta x fulvia #make way for the emperor

53 notes · View notes

majestativa · 5 months

Text

Herod’s palace rose up like some Alhambra on slender columns iridescent with Moresque tiles, which appeared to be bedded in silver mortar and gold cement; arabesques started from lozenges of lapis lazuli to wind their way right across the cupolas, whose mother-of-pearl marquetry gleamed with rainbow lights and flashed with prismatic fires. The murder had been done; now the executioner stood impassive, his hands resting on the pommel of his long, bloodstained sword. The Saint’s decapitated head had left the charger where it lay on the flagstones and risen into the air, the eyes staring out from the livid face, the colourless lips parted, the crimson neck dripping tears of blood. A mosaic encircled the face, and also a halo of light whose rays darted out under the porticoes, emphasized the awful elevation of the head, and kindled a fire in the glassy eyeballs, which were fixed in what happened to be agonized concentration on the dancer. With a gesture of horror, Salome tries to thrust away the terrifying vision which holds her nailed to the spot, balanced on the tips of her toes, her eyes dilated, her right hand clawing convulsively at her throat. [...] The dreadful head glows eerily, bleeding all the while, so that clots of dark red form at the ends of hair and beard. Visible to Salome alone, it embraces in its sinister gaze neither Herodias, musing over the ultimate satisfaction of her hatred, nor the Tetrarch, who, bending forward a little with his hands on his knees, is still panting with emotion, maddened by the sight and smell of the woman’s naked body, steeped in musky scents, anointed with aromatic balms, impregnated with incense and myrrh. Like the old King, Des Esseintes invariably felt overwhelmed, subjugated, stunned when he looked at this dancing-girl, who was less majestic, less haughty, but more seductive than the Salome of the oil-painting. In the unfeeling and unpitying statue, in the innocent and deadly idol, the lusts and fears of common humanity had been awakened; the great lotus-blossom had disappeared, the goddess vanished; a hideous nightmare now held in its choking grip an entertainer, intoxicated by the whirling movement of the dance, a courtesan, petrified and hypnotized by terror. Here she was a true harlot, obedient to her passionate and cruel female temperament; here she came to life, more refined yet more savage, more hateful yet more exquisite than before; here she roused the sleeping senses of the male more powerfully, subjugated his will more surely with her charms – the charms of a great venereal flower, grown in a bed of sacrilege, reared in a hot-house of impiety.

— Joris-Karl Huysmans, Against Nature, transl by Robert Baldick, (2003)

#Canvas of the Soul #French #Joris-Karl Huysmans #Against Nature #Robert Baldick #(2003)#Gustave Moreau #The Apparition #Salome #Salome III #John the Baptist #Herod Antipas #Thorough Analyses

24 notes · View notes

hapan-in-exile · 1 year

Text

Volume 2 - Post #3: Downward Spiral

Another installment in this ongoing serialized fanfic

Genre: Mandalorian x Fem Reader

Total word count: 1.8K (of 21K total in Volume 2)

Rating: Explicit - smut, language, +18 *NSFW*

______________________________________________

III. Apparently, it was naive to assume that the Mandalorian would naturally step in to take control once you were in the field. Ugh, you are the farthest thing from leadership material—why did he insist on doing this?

“I–eeeeeeee…like to lead by consensus?” You shrug.

“This is supposed to be about whether I can trust your judgment, Thuli." Mando’s staticky sigh hisses through the modulator as he cracked several knuckles. Always a warning sign. "So start making some decisions.”

Hearing him say your name galvanizes your resolve. You check the time.

“I don’t think we can afford to wait for them to clear our route inside.”

The guard had mentioned a path through the kitchens, but that felt too exposed. You pull the comlink out of your sleeve and turn the speaker back on.

Thank the gods you had it on mute during the live sex show! You are not ready to have ‘the talk’ with Nito.

“Hey, is there...I don’t know; do you see some kind of service entry or secret tunnel?”

“I’m posted in the northwest corner of the courtyard. It looks like there’s a stairwell that should connect to the roof? You can use the entry on the ground floor, but you’ll need to get past the biometric scanner."

Mando eyes the guard and reaches down for the knife in his boot.

“Retina scan? Or do we need fingerprints?”

“Whoa! We’re going to refrain from maiming and dismemberment tonight, ok?”

“Your call,” he says, pocketing the blade and grabbing the guard roughly by the collar. Striding confidently toward Nito’s coordinates, he drags the guy behind him into the inky blackness of night.

“Wait, Mando! We’re not all equipped with infrared.”

“Why aren’t you wearing your visor?”

“Would you be shocked to learn that Miralukan formalwear is not designed for visibility?”

While Mando was less than pleased to find you’d been lying to him for months about your identity, he agreed that 'Miralukan healer' was a good disguise. A disguise worth maintaining. But, the gilded band encircling your eyes was more decorative than tactical.

“What’s shocking is that you’d wear those shoes when you can’t see one foot in front of the other."

The first portico you walk down is empty. The second is not.

Rounding a corner, Mando throws out a hand to press you back into a shadowed nook, narrowly missing the eyes of another guard posted between you and the stairwell’s access panel.

Mando deposits his haul on the tiled floor and unholsters his blaster. You shake your head vigorously, mouthing the word, ‘please.’

“Have it your way,” he whispers before slipping into the darkness.

There’s a prolonged silence in which nothing happens, and you begin to feel a creeping surge of panicked abandonment. Suddenly, the guard near the stairwell splutters, grabbing desperately at the arm wrapped around her neck. Her legs kick out wildly before she sinks to the ground, unconscious.

“What do you want to do with this one?” Mando asks.

“We can hide them both in the stairwell,” you suggest.

“We?” He snorts. “You planning to carry one of them?”

“Fine. As field commander, I order you, Mandalorian, to hide the comatose guards in the stairwell.”

At that, Mando lets out a laugh—like a real one—and you almost forget about the mission entirely.

“Well, I know you’re telling the truth about being a veteran. It’s a job, not a mission,” he says, as though reading your thoughts. “And being in charge doesn’t mean you have a rank.”

“I know," you say, taunting. "If this was the military, I’d punish you for insubordination.”

As soon as the words are out of your mouth, you wish you could swallow them back. This is neither the time nor place to say that in such a suggestive tone. You clear your throat and recover your focus. “Hey, Nito? Can you search for an entry code?”

“He must know it,” Mando says, holding up the guard by his flack vest. “Can't you take a look inside their head?”

“That’s not how it works. I can’t just scroll through his brain like an entry log to pick and choose.”

“I thought you were going to erase the guards' memories? Wasn’t that the plan?”

“By preventing their brain from converting this encounter into a lasting memory. I can’t isolate just ‘me.’ I have to erase everything.” On that note, you place a hand over the guard’s wrist.

“Which, incidentally, is a lot harder than I made that sound…if I overshoot this, it will be a matter of days, not minutes.”

“Waking up to lose a week of your life?" Choosing between the two guards, he yanks the big one over toward the access panel. "That’s gotta be disorienting.”

“Well, if we did this your way, one of them would be missing an eye….so let them count their blessings."

Hopefully, this guy will wake up to decide this was simply the inevitable result of using whatever growth hormone he’s clearly addicted to.

“I’ve got that access code if you guys are done bickering.” Nito snickers.

Wordlessly, Mando enters the code and smashes the guy’s hand onto the keypad. “After you.”

Nito had set himself up in a utility room where he could slice into the palace's systemwide network. The problem was there were about three flights of narrow, corrugated stairs between you.

Hiking up your trailing hem, you take each and every—very steep, very shallow—step down at an agonizing pace since you can’t see shit.

“Come here.” The suddenness of his hands gripping your waist takes you by surprise, and you utter the most embarrassing little “w-w-whoa,” as Mando lifts you off the staircase.

“This really isn’t necessary.”

“Put your arms around my neck,” he says. “I’d rather you didn’t roll an ankle before we’re thirty minutes into the job.”

With one hand clutching your midriff, he slides his other arm under the crease of your hamstrings to carry you down the stairs.

His fingers dig painfully into the soft curves of your waist—but you like the sensation, this contrast of how solid and firm he is while you are all supple silk and velvet. The fact that your coy teasing immediately dissipates into a stunned silence whenever he touches you is probably the most straightforward evidence that you're falling in love with him.

"Is your palace as big as this one?"

"Hmmm?"

With the helmet on, it's impossible to know if he's looking at you. Yet you can't seem to turn your gaze away from the black view plate.

"You mean, the palace...on Hapes?" It takes you a minute to realize Mando's asking about your childhood. He'd been doing more of that lately—seeking to learn things about you.

"Ha!" You snort. "It's not my palace. But, yeah, it's sort of like this—built into an ocean cliffside. But immense. Many times, the size of this place. I used to get lost all the time."

"Why is this the first I've heard about your terrible sense of direction?"

"I was a child!" You cry in mock indignation, thumping a fist on his chest.

"What's it like growing up in a palace?"

"Lonely," you reply honestly.

Mando pauses, clearly surprised by your answer. While he doesn't say anything else in response, he continues to watch you thoughtfully.

Hopefully, he's enjoying the way your cleavage bounces each time his boots hit the stair tread.

“Why is he carrying you?” Nito looks up from his boards and buttons, genuinely confused.

“Because it would have taken twice as long to let her hobble down here in those shoes.”

You smile broadly over the Mandalorian's shoulder, kicking your feet up obligingly so Nito can appreciate the intricate embroidery covering every inch of your very tall heels. “I hope there’s a way back into the palace that doesn’t involve stairs.”

“Couldn’t she have just…taken them off?”

Mando's body tenses beneath you as though he'd been accused of something. In hindsight, it was the obvious solution, but you don’t think the bounty hunter should have to justify putting his hands all over you.

“Where’s the fun in that?” You say cheerfully while he bends down to place you back on unsteady feet. Nito shoots Mando a worried glance, clearly alarmed by your giddiness.

Time to suit up, so to speak. Opening your clutch, you pull out a pair of lace gloves and the tracking fob. You offer Nito the fob and slip the cape off your shoulders.

“Maker!” Nito puts two furry hands over his chest, mocking a heart attack. “I thought the purpose of reconnaissance was to blend in?”

“Trust me, I look like any other woman on the hunt for a rich keeper. I’ll fit right in.” A memory of thrusting hips and keening moans flashes behind your eyes. “Don’t ask me to explain that, Nito.”

“I wasn’t born under a rock, you know.” He rolls his eyes with such youthful condescension. “We just got here this morning. Where did you even get a dress like that? Same place that did your hair?”

The braid had taken hours, but it was worth it, cascading down your back in messy, gorgeous knots studded with gleaming pearls.

“Believe it or not, I had this lying around.”

“Liar.”

“That’s the dress you were wearing the first time I saw you.”

You almost snap your neck, turning around to look at Mando.

“Yeah? At Ingtar’s place?"

He nods.

"That’s so funny,” you demure. “I didn’t think you noticed me that night.”

“Isn’t that why you wore the dress? To be noticed?”

A familiar stirring churns low in your belly. “With that helmet on, it’s hard to know what catches your eye.”

You blush spectacularly, hearing that suggestiveness in your voice again, a little too sincere this time. It’s just the dress putting you in a flirtatious mood. You're getting into character. It was nerves bubbling up before the mission. Job.

You clear your throat and laugh, “Never would have guessed you’d be on my operating table by the end of the week, did you?”

Mando doesn’t have an answer for that, but fortunately, Nito interjects to reset the energy in the room. “Should the fob be silent?”

All three of you stare down at the stubbornly inert indicator light.

“Surely we're near enough in range for it to register?” You ask the bounty hunter.

“He could be using some device to block the signal,” Mando considers thoughtfully. “But nothing that’ll work at close proximity.”

You look between them. Your boys. Your partners. “Ok. We keep to the plan.”

Nito places his two left hands on your shoulder. “Guard change is in two hours. I’ll have eyes on every inch of the palace. Mando and I won’t let anything take you by surprise.”

You nod, feeling oddly reassured. The Mandalorian’s pep talk is a little more dire.

“This is reconnaissance only,” he says firmly. “I will bring him in. Identify the target. Do not engage.”

But before the door slides shut, you hear him say, “Please be safe, Thuli.”

*********************

Read the next post: Post #4: Another Thrilling Tale of Emergency Medicine

Back to Volume 2 - All posts

#mando smut #mando x reader #mando x you #the mandalorian smut #sexymando #sexy mando #mandalorian x reader #mandalorian x you #din djarin #mandalorian smut #mando fanfiction #the mandalorian #mandalorian fanfic #star wars smut #din djarin smut #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader

34 notes · View notes