#ramazith tower

They'd come earlier in the day looking for ideas for Halsin's gift. The shop was bursting with all manner of figurines, dining ware, and tools for aspiring woodworkers, the air heavy with the scent of wood and sawdust and wood shavings crunching beneath their boots with every step. At the center of it all stood a ruddy-cheeked mustachioed man in a well-worn apron greeting everyone with a warm smile.

They'd originally planned to nip a small trinket for Halsin. That plan changed when a young shop assistant—the owner's son, by the looks of it—came bustling in and dropped a tray of wooden bowls, sending them clattering and rolling every which way. Miss Fortune had scrambled to help with the intention of tucking something away in the process, but they were stopped mid-stoop by the shopkeeper's insistence that his son fix his own mistake.

Gone was the jolly voice for greeting customers; instead, his voice bit and tore into the boy. The moment the last bowl was stacked, the owner wrenched his son into the back room and slammed the door. Eavesdropping was not necessary; Miss Fortune heard every insult hurled, every bit of abusive vitriol spewed. While other shoppers continued browsing as if this were commonplace, Miss Fortune left, nausea roiling in their gut.

This heist would extra sweet. Already, Astarion was making progress with the lock, the rhythmic clicks and scrapes sending tingles of satisfaction along Miss Fortune's scalp. They chanced a backward glance to watch him work and their heart skipped a beat seeing the way their lover teased at his lower lip while his brow furrowed in concentration.

"I love watching your fingers work their magic," Miss Fortune whispered with a smirk.

"I'm just getting started, darling," the vampire replied, a searing hot smile electrifying Miss Fortune's core. The doorknob clicked with a sense of finality, and Astarion exhaled deeply. "Easy. Go on then, be quick. I'll stand watch."

There hadn't been enough time before to select something, but Miss Fortune had thought about it all afternoon. Heading straight for the workshop in the back, they felt a smug satisfaction to see the elder carpenter had left his carving tools right on the long shavings-covered workbench. The leather case was so old it had worn smooth and dark in places; probably handed down through a few generations. The tools within proved Miss Fortune's hunch; they were well-seasoned and cared for—but now they belonged to Halsin.

With a grim smile, the rogue swiped every last tool in the case and slapped a piece of paper down in their place that read:

Treat your son better, miserable wretch, or I'll be back. And next time, it won't be your tools I take. —The Weaver

Something else caught their eye on the way out of the workshop: a bottle of oil next to what appeared to be a polishing cloth. Miss Fortune unstoppered the bottle and a nutty, earthy scent wafted out—Linseed oil. The finished works, polished and gleaming, smelled similarly: it must be used for sealing the wood. After swiping a full bottle, one last thought crept into their mind: why not add insult to injury and nick a new tool case from the front? Give Halsin something time-honored wrapped in new potential, just like him.

Astarion

Miss Fortune had been teasing Astarion from the moment they stepped into Sorcerous Sundries to con their way into Rolan's private study to steal a gift for Gale. Their fingers had brushed against his as they both reached for the same book; they'd floated in and out of reach while the vampire perused for anything that screamed "Halsin," their breath hot against his neck and their body pressing in all the right places, driving Astarion slowly to the brink of madness.

He already had precious little motivation to seek a gift for the druid; Astarion had put zero thought into what he might like. After all, he had yet to forgive Halsin after recently discovering he had professed his feelings for Miss Fortune and offered to worship their body under the starlight while Astarion was still sorting his feelings on sex.

What good were material gifts to a druid, anyway? Surely Astarion could just pretend to name a star after him and call it a night. He could name it something like "Lonely Bear" to remind him that Miss Fortune would never warm his bed. Too bad his darling wouldn't approve of such a clear slap in the face. And besides, it wouldn't count for their competition. He wasn't too proud to admit that he really wanted to win that date. It would be ever so twee, pretending to be a normal couple living in normal times.

By the time they reached the collection of scrolls, Astarion was barely hanging on by a thread, the tangle of desire urging him to abandon this fool's errand entirely. But he persevered. Astarion rifled through the druidic section while Miss Fortune continued casually brushing up against him in ways that made their blood in his ruined veins—still coursing through him from his morning feeding—simmer. Eventually they ducked between his arms to stand in front of him and began to "accidentally" rub their rear against his crotch as they plucked at various scrolls.

The vampire's fingers curled around a Conjure Woodland Being spell and a razor-thin smirk sliced its way across Astarion's face. Perhaps Halsin could conjure up a voluptuous tree to ogle at instead of his darling.

The hollow bonk of a scroll hitting the floor reverberated at Astarion's feet. "Oopsie," Miss Fortune giggled softly.

Wholly unconvincing seeing as Astarion had seen them swat it off the shelf. Astarion's head swam with lascivious thoughts when Miss Fortune swept down into a crouch in such a way that their body brushed against the entire length of his. The dizziness intensified the longer they fumbled around for the runaway scroll, hair trailing back and forth across his crotch until eventually, Astarion cleared his throat.

"Yes, my star?" The tone was innocent, but when Miss Fortune tilted their head back so the top of their head nestled fully into the front of his trousers, their smile burned with all the sins of the hells. Heat began to pool there, and their grin widened when they felt the shift.

"You're playing a dangerous game, darling," Astarion gulped, the motivation for finding a gift for Halsin quickly extinguishing.

"I know."

Gripping the scroll, Miss Fortune rose just the way they'd descended, and the moment the scroll returned home Astarion spun them, pressing their bodies together with the full force of his need. Their hips were quickly enveloped by his trembling hands and he devoured their mouth with such ferocity that the shelves rattled. No less than three of Rolan's newly recruited novices cried out at the impropriety, ordering the rogues to stand down.

"To hells with Halsin, he's getting whatever I lay my hands on first—and then I'm taking you upstairs," Astarion growled. Jealousy wriggled within him the moment the words left his mouth and he realized his hands were currently on Miss Fortune. "The first object I lay my hands on."

One last kiss that left his darling breathless before he adjusted himself, turned on his heel, and stalked towards a display of blank journals. It was almost too perfect; standing front and center in the display was a leather-bound journal embossed with oak leaves and acorns. Desperate to get back to the flirtations he'd left behind, Astarion rushed the checkout counter and waved the journal in front of the novice manning the sales counter.

"I'm taking this, and you're going to let me," he said matter-of-factly.

The corner of the novice's mouth twitched as they tried to maintain their service smile. "I'm sorry, sir, but that's not how businesses work."

"Tch, I don't have time for this! I know the owner, and good old Rolan would let me take this without question."

The novice blinked slowly. "Funny, I know the owner too! Big deal."

Irritation flared within Astarion. "Look here. This scroll gives me permission." Astarion set the journal down on the counter and reached into his pack to pull out an official looking scroll he had bullied Gale into forging for him. The plan had been to use it if anyone stopped them upstairs, but now was as good a time as any. He handed it smugly to the cashier and watched the glow of sygils flash purple across their face purple as they unrolled it and began to read. They laughed incredulously.

"What?"

They turned it around, shoulders shaking with mirth. "This literally just says 'I can do what I want.' But you know what? If you want the journal so bad just take it. I've gotten a good look at your face; if Rolan gives me shit for this I'll use my divination spells to hunt you down. Get out of my sight before I change my mind."

Astarion did not need to be told twice. With a victorious smolder he threw the journal into his pack and glided over to where Miss Fortune now waited by the stairs leading to the second floor.

"Get that tight ass upstairs, darling," he whispered in their ear, following with a lick along their cartilage. "As soon as we break into Rolan's office we're picking up where we left off."

Divider by @/madamesocs