For this meme. delicate pleasures, temptation, desire.
“Ah,” the little ambassador says, “how do you two know one another?”
Cullen, who surely remembers Isabela’s reputation from Kirkwall, clears his throat loudly. The Nightingale clasps her hands behind her back, squares her shoulders, trying her damnedest to look enigmatic. The hood does most of the work, really. Didn’t take much at all to make you sing, Isabela thinks, as Leliana says, “I’ve had dealings with the Raiders in the past–”
“We had sex in a Denerim brothel,” Isabela cuts in, kicking one boot up on their war table, “during the Blight. We didn’t get back in touch until a few years ago.”
Ambassador Montilyet isn’t outwardly offended by Isabela’s boots on the table, or shocked, or interested in the innuendo. She moves on to asking after the health of one of Leliana’s agents. Whether the Inquisitor’s mercenary compatriots are finding their accommodations at Skyhold pleasant. Cullen’s recent budgetary concerns. The perfect lady, the consummate professional. That, Isabela decides, is a challenge.
“What,” she says to Leliana, after the meeting, “no threats? No ‘toy with her heart, and you’ll get a nuggalope’s head in your bed’?”
“If you know of Josie,” Leliana says, “then you know that I am not the one you need worry about.”
It’s the moments like these, when he’s curled up in the corner of the bed in the captain’s quarters, wrapped in that dark blue coat that swishes vacantly around his bony frame as he struts about the deck, that Killian truly looks to Liam as small and helpless as he did when they were children.
He had protested fiercely against being in Liam’s quarters at all. Blustering about “earning his place” and “nepotism”–where in all the realms had he learned such a word?–Killian had insisted on sleeping with the rest of the men below deck. But an invitation to go over some navigational charts had made short work of those shouts of protest. He had been asleep before Liam could unroll the first map.