Chapter Text
“Of course she is, look at how she carries herself!” Isabela’s laughing argument with Merrill could be heard across half the tavern.
“You mean that bit of swagger she has sometimes? It’s not always though. Oh, does that make you walk funny?” The elf’s eyes widened, shy about specifics but clearly spellbound by every word coming out of her salacious friend’s mouth.
“If you know what you’re doing,” Isabela grinned, enjoying her protégée’s blush, “But I meant the way she moves. All that confidence and command, like she knows the whole world will bend around her. She doesn’t just swagger, kitten, she struts.”
The Rivaini sailor’s eyes sliced through the noisy crowd to spot the subject of their conversation moving towards their table now. Not exactly strutting, but then, that’s much harder to do when weaving through a mass of drunks with half a dozen mugs of ale. It was always a miracle if she could cross the Hanged Man without getting into a fistfight over a misplaced pinch. Hawke set the drinks down, eyeing the two women with genial suspicion.
“What are you two talking about now?” The rogue could hazard a guess. By the flush of color on Merrill’s face and the coy dart of Isabela’s tongue over her lip, there could be no doubt they were talking about sex in some form.
“You, sweet thing,” the pirate purred, grabbing a mug and shooting her a wink, “More specifically, what you have between your legs.”
Hawke immediately looked down, as if she expected to see a small dragonling gnawing on her boot. A split second passed before her brain caught up and her friends could actually see light dawning as the red blush rose in her cheeks.
“Shit, Hawke, you really need to keep up!” Varric laughed, slapping the Fereldan’s shoulder hard enough to make the top inch of her ale spill out of the mug.
“I need to keep these two apart. Honestly, Isabela, must you fill her head with nonsense?” Hawke rolled her eyes but dropped easily into the empty spot beside the pirate. The dark skinned sailor all too happily slid in close, resting a palm flat on one thigh much higher than appropriate.
“A little imagination never hurt anyone, sweets. That’s what role-playing is all about.” Isabela leaned close to purr against Hawke’s ear, delighting in the shudder that followed her breath on the sensitive skin. The Fereldan laughed, snaking her arm around the sailor’s waist to pull her into her lap. Isabela chuckled as she received a chiding look, followed by a playful kiss. Hawke always surprised her; never embarrassed for long and—much to Aveline’s horror—she was anything but shy about the new and intensely physical side of their relationship. She’d even accepted the ‘no feelings’ rule with only minimal protest and fell quite happily into their constant, impulsive and downright scandalous routine of sex games.
“Good thing you don’t mind the reality.” Hawke finally pulled back from the kiss but didn’t release her hold on the woman’s supple curves. “Besides, if there’s an alpha woman in Kirkwall it’s definitely Aveline. Ow!”
“Don’t drag me into your whore’s disgusting conversation.” The guard captain flexed her sore fingers. Hawke was grateful that her armor took most of the blow but she could feel that her shoulder would still be bruised.
“The battering ram certainly has enough muscles and armor for a small garrison but underneath all that body hair she’s still just a big girl. An utter romantic too. You saw her pining away over Donnic, just dying for him to sweep her off her feet,” Isabela took a sip of her ale, allowing for a dramatic pause before her punchline, “And then put her on all fours.”
“Really, Hawke? You had to pick her?” Aveline didn’t even bother responding to the pirate’s lewd comment; and she was doing her best to ignore the demonic twist of the woman’s smirk. The warrior could’ve dealt with her friend choosing anything—up to and including a threesome with Meredith and Orsino—better than the mutual molestation that went on between her and the exotic sailor.
“Is that what happened? I don’t remember it that way at all. I rather thought she chose me.” Even with the playful lilt in Hawke’s voice, she couldn’t quite conceal the note of pride beneath those words. It was hardly a secret amongst her companions; the two rogues had been dancing around each other for bloody years before finally falling into bed together. Varric had made and lost a fortune several times, betting with Fenris about when they would succumb to their incendiary attraction.
“Personally, Big Girl,” Isabela rolled the nickname around her mouth, enjoying the shape, “I’ve found it’s no fun picking and choosing. The best bits of life fall into your lap. Don’t they, sweet thing?” The pirate gave a deliberate grind of her hips, relishing both Hawke’s choked gasp and Aveline’s noise of disgust.
“Definitely.” Hawke looked up at her with that one expression that made her nervous, the one that was naked awe and affection and not nearly enough lust to be comfortable. That look tended to follow nights of debauchery and days of violence in equal measure, sneaking into her eyes without warning and threatening to slip past Isabela’s guard.
“And that’s where the best parts happen too. Eventually. I’m sure you’re hiding more than a few daggers in your pants, Hawke.” Isabela slid off the Fereldan’s lap, covering over her unease with a familiar, suggestive defense. No one noticed that her salacious smirk was a trifle forced around the edges.
“There you go again,” Hawke rolled her eyes as she reached for her drink, “No matter what she tries to tell you, Merrill, I’m not some rare hybrid. I’m the same as everyone else. Nothing special.”
Isabela took a moment to soak in Hawke’s glittering sapphire eyes, her melodious, easy laugh, the wild hair that defied control like it was expressing her very thoughts and that lovely, soft, talented mouth, glistening and curled into a cocky grin.
Oh, sweet thing, you are so wrong.
Handcuffs, whipped cream, always be on top. The first two were preferences, the last was a rule. Always. Isabela had very few rules (more a fan of breaking those that existed rather than bothering to invent her own) but that had been her one and only for years now. Stay in control, stay on top, don’t let anyone get the upper hand, even in bed. But in this moment, straddling Hawke’s sinuous body, hands alternating between gripping slick muscle and tousled hair, wet sounds and her own building moans filling the heavy air, a tiny part of her knew she wasn’t in control.
She didn’t even know when she’d lost it. Somewhere between tumbling in her scratchy sheets at the Hanged Man and these silky linens beneath her knees, from fumbling drunkenly at each other to this sober, deliberate, sensual war that was a silent battle of wills. Isabela was losing the fight. Every time she let Hawke get more of her clothing stripped away, each night that her curses turned into pleas, she was losing the war in inches and sighs and had never been more terrified or tempted by the surrender.
“Sucking Andraste! Don’t stop,” Isabela gasped, fingers releasing Hawke’s hair to splay across her ribs, clinging to balance as her quivering legs threatened to give in.
The woman was on some kind of damned mission!
Isabela’s legs ached, throat burning and lips dry from ragged breathing and screams that seemed to have dragged on the whole night. She’d lost track of the number of times her body had coiled and burst, waves of pleasure carrying away sense for minutes, the world fading from blinding white to pure black as her own cries echoed back at her. But the moment her soul returned from riding the storm, there was Hawke, gently easing her landing and then pushing her back towards oblivion.
“Fuck, Hawke! I-I,” the pirate groaned, the muscles of her stomach clenching as the heat built to explosive levels, melting out into her blood, “I can’t.”
“One more, Bela.” Hawke lifted herself halfway off the mattress, rising close enough to press hot open-mouthed kisses along her breasts, lavishing attention against her collar and throat, luring her closer until she could suck and nip just below the sailor’s massive golden earrings.
The scrape of teeth against her pulse point, echoing an instinct long forgotten, was more than she could take. Isabela felt a shudder course through every sinew of her body, unconsciously arching into the touch, pressing closer even as her inner walls clamped greedily down on the fingers that were driving her to new heights. It had been so, so long since anyone had pushed her this far, tested the limits of her body, driven her beyond the boundaries of her control so completely.
“Hawke!” Isabela’s final sound was more sob than groan and she crumbled, collapsing forward against the strong body holding her up. She gave into the relief, letting the cacophony of carnal pleasures rip her senses in every possible direction and not caring anymore that someone saw her unguarded, saw her break.
The undulating rhythms of her climax coasted along the crest and fall of Hawke’s fingers, following the slowing touch, savoring each final, languid caress. She was panting for breath long before she began to realize that she was pressed completely against her lover’s body. The intensity of her release had pitched them both flat against the mattress and her cheek was pressed to the other woman’s shoulder, nose and lips full of the taste of Hawke’s throat, the pulse of her racing heart enticing just beneath skin.
Hawke smelled like whiskey tonight, like most nights. But there were also traces of leather and iron, copper and salt. There was also—for some reason—bergamot, or something like it; a smell that was herbal, floral, aromatic and medicinal all at once. Isabela had always assumed it was something to do with being rich and getting to bathe daily but even when they spent whole weeks on Sundermount or the Wounded Coast, the scent never left Hawke’s skin.
The pirate felt fingers slowly slipping free from between her legs, a wet noise echoing the sucking hollow beneath her ribs. Slowly, hesitantly, Hawke wrapped both her arms around Isabela, each touch as careful and frightened as an artisan repairing some broken vase. She wasn’t sure if Hawke was worried about hurting her or terrified of damaging the fragile something that existed, unspoken, between them. Isabela’s common sense recoiled at the embrace, the tenderness and comfort of it, the weakness of wanting that warm security. Fortunately, her body was too wrecked to move just yet. For a few minutes she could lay still and collect herself. She was still on top. Technically.
Isabela felt herself fading towards sleep and the last of her survival instincts rallied. She pushed herself away from the tantalizing relaxation of Hawke’s arms, trying to ignore the miniscule sigh of disappointment that slipped past the other woman’s lips. Hawke knew the arrangement, knew better than to try to make Isabela stay. The Fereldan rogue had gotten very good at suppressing the instinct to keep her lover in bed after their fun had ended. Only the smallest of tells betrayed that desire, like the way her fingers twitched to reach for Isabela when she retreated, or the sigh she could never restrain, or the hope that the pirate could see breaking apart in her eyes and fading away like a shipwreck getting swept out to sea. Isabela turned away, allowing Hawke whatever seconds of privacy she needed to put her mask back in place. When she looked back there was nothing but languid pleasure and tired pride on the rogue’s face; even half-asleep she was smirking.
“What got into you tonight?” Isabela slid off the bed and began the slow process of trying to find all her clothing. “Besides me, of course.”
“Just felt like making sure you were thoroughly satisfied.” There was that typical, nonchalant confidence that Hawke wore like weathered greaves.
“Is that so? Because it felt like you were trying to make sure I wouldn’t be able to walk out of here.” Isabela looked over her shoulder at the Fereldan, finding blue eyes unapologetically tracing every inch of her skin as it disappeared into clothing. The sheer intensity of that gaze was enough to make her fingers briefly fumble as she laced her corset, damn her.
“That would have been a bonus,” Hawke didn’t bother to deny the playful accusation, “But I was more interested in proving that I don’t have to be some mythic dual-gendered fantasy lover to fill your needs.”
Isabela paused in the middle of doing up her boots. She turned completely around, taking in the sight of Hawke sprawled unabashedly across the rumpled sheets. The riveting blue of her eyes had vanished beneath long lashes, hiding behind the guise of exhaustion, but Isabela could see the slight twitches at the corners, the line trying not to form between her eyebrows. Most of all, she could see that the deep, regular rise and fall of her chest had completely stopped, breath held in suspense. This was Hawke when she was worried, uncertain, momentarily stripped of all her bravado and cheek.
“Oh, sweet thing.” Isabela felt a stab of guilt, realizing the root of Hawke’s sudden insecurity. She moved back to the bed, sitting on the edge and stroking one thumb over the other rogue’s ravaged lips. The touch released a tremulous breath caught in Hawke’s throat and her lashes fluttered, eyes opening once more.
“You don’t ever have to worry about that. I was just having fun with Merrill. You don’t need to be an alpha,” you’re absolutely perfect, Isabela bit back the dangerous words before they could spill out. “If I get that desperate for a cock I’ll just bring Fenris into bed with us.”
“Maker’s morning breath! Don’t I get any say in that?” Hawke groaned, throwing an arm over her face as if she could block off the thought like a blow.
“Naturally, you can say whose name you want to be screaming first,” Isabela’s reply purred with soft laughter.
The sound rapidly turned into a startled cry when Hawke jerked upright, catching hold of the pirate and pressing her into the mattress. The two rogues wrestled across the bed, further destroying the already wrecked linens and filling the room with cursing laughter. When Hawke emerged on top they both knew it was because Isabela let her. She was willing to tolerate being pinned only because it was a game, because she was mostly clothed and fully armed and because, well, sod it, because it was Hawke.
The Fereldan’s warm breath was stuttering in chuckles and small gasps for air, absolute delight curling the corners of her mouth. The sparkling azure that gazed down at Isabela was dancing with an infectious lightness, like bright waves catching the sun. She loved it when Hawke looked like this. All freedom and swagger, adventure and fun rolled into one beautiful, dangerous package. The pirate unconsciously reached up to brush strands of hair away from Hawke’s face, fingers tracing the shape of her cheek, the curve of her smile.
“Stay.” The demand burst out so suddenly that, for a moment, neither woman believed it had happened. That word should’ve been like a bucket of ice water thrown over fire, a plea that would send Isabela running faster than a horde of darkspawn on her heels. Except it wasn’t. Isabela’s breath hitched, a sensation like a trapped bird fluttering beneath her ribs. It wasn’t just Hawke’s body pressed along the length of her own that made the invitation so tempting, or the nearness of her lips already parted and simply begging to be kissed. It was the heat in her eyes, the darkening color that melted together a dozen silent confessions, promises and desires.
Stay.
That word on Hawke’s lips wasn’t a request, it was a command. Isabela could feel the way the Fereldan’s hands were shaking against her skin, straining to keep her touch relaxed when she clearly wanted to clench tight enough to leave bruises. There was such a thread of conviction behind the sultry breathiness of the demand, like Hawke knew that Isabela would eventually give in. Perhaps not tonight or tomorrow or the next thousand tomorrows but she would, one day. Terrifyingly, the pirate knew she was right. She could feel it in the warmth that was building in her chest instead of between her legs; her fingers were already twitching to catch hold of the slick skin pressed against her, to thread into that wild hair and pull her down into a bruising kiss until there was nothing left between them but the air they shared.
“Stay.” The word repeated against her ear, nothing but a whisper as Hawke planted soft kisses against tender skin, working down the column of her throat. Isabela let out a sigh that cracked into a moan when the rogue shifted above her, slipping her thigh into just the right spot and pressing and—Maker—Isabela hadn’t thought her body could take anymore but a surge of heat bloomed between her legs and she was already rocking forward against the touch, whimpering at the agonized sensitivity, pleasure and pain rising in turn and coaxing each other on. She had been utterly spent but now there was an urgency in the roll of her hips, responding to the breath against her ear, the tickle of hair brushing her cheek, the smell of Hawke’s skin overwhelming her senses even as her shoulder tingled beneath the assault of lips and teeth.
Stay.
Isabela pushed up, rolling Hawke over onto the bed and shivering at the soft growl that accompanied the unexpected attack. The Fereldan hadn’t let go of her, moving her grip to her hips instead, urging the sailor’s body to continue the rhythm that was pushing her to the edge. Isabela could feel the impending explosion, in the quiver of her thighs and the clench of her stomach she knew that she was about to break and this time she wouldn’t have the strength to pull herself back together again. If she gave in then she really would surrender, she’d yield herself completely and fall into the power and comfort Hawke offered and never be able to pull back, like diving into the deepest currents of the sea and knowing you would never touch land again. She would stay. And staying once meant staying forever.
With a final burst of will, Isabela ripped herself away from Hawke. She rose so swiftly that she heard the hem of her tunic tear in Hawke’s startled fingers. Her inner walls fluttered in protest and positively throbbed at the strangled groan that broke from her lover’s throat, an echo of her own frustration.
“Not tonight, Hawke.” The pirate hoped her voice sounded calm and confident, despite the strain in her throat and thickness of her tongue. She needed to leave before Hawke saw past her easy smirk and teasing wink.
“Shit, Bela,” Hawke’s curse was half a sigh as she accepted the inevitable, “See you tomorrow.”
“Sweet dreams.” Isabela was halfway out the window before she turned and allowed herself one last glimpse. Hawke was already drifting away to sleep, sprawled out like she’d been washed onto the beaches by a storm. She didn’t care that she was utterly naked or that her head was hanging halfway off the foot of the bed. Awake or asleep, Hawke dominated her space, filled the world around her and occupied it on her own terms.
Such an alpha. Isabela chuckled, dragging her eyes one last time over the familiar, naked curves before slipping out the window and into the night.