Isabela was used to Merrill's home. She knew its clutter and the noise from the outside Alienage; knew the way the great tree patterned one wall when the light hit it just right, a little past noon. She was used to the strange mix of smells—food half-burned and washed linens and—yes—daisies. The bright, sharp scent made her throat itch, but never enough to complain. They always made Merrill smile. Isabela was used to the smell of solder and blood: sulfur and copper and dangerous magic, and the mirror that never showed what her friend so desperately needed to see.
She had sat on the lone bed many times, laughing over a day's work or Varric's latest offering. She had held Merrill's hands and listened to her speak of home; tried to distract her with wicked stories from her own past, each larger and more fanciful than the last. She had swaggered for her, just a little, and laughed herself to gasping tears as the elf had tripped over her own feet in imitation.
Now, Isabela was backed up against this bed, falling as Merrill pressed a leg between hers, hands busy at sash and scabbards and the slip of skin that showed through the splits in her tunic. There were lips at her throat, her shoulder. Back to her mouth. Isabela felt the muscles working in her shoulders and arms, let her own hands trail and unlace and stop, holding tight as Merrill shifted her leg again, hips rolling and a sweet, wicked smirk gracing her mouth.
Her friend drew out one of the loosened daggers, holding it carefully in one hand, watching as her dim, faintly smoky lamp light tricked over its surface.
"You'll never get them all, you know."
"Do you think so?" Merrill set the dagger aside, drawing the second duelist blade. "I don't think so."
"Sweet thing—"
"Hush." Still smiling, still leaning over the taller woman, Merrill drew Isabela's arm up towards her, pressing a kiss to the inside of her wrist, and then higher, tongue flicking beneath the worn leather of her arm sheath. "I have two already," she said. "And this is the third. Lay back, lethallan."
Sudden coldness as Merrill pulled back from her. Pressure on her ankle. The faint rasp of pulled laces and mutters of, "Oh, they do go on forever, don't they? So lovely…"
A boot was tugged free, and Isabela twitched as warm hands grasped her foot and fingers worked deftly at the strapping on her ankle. "A fourth, plus the one in your boot, so that's five. Where next?"
Isabela flushed. "You know where those are?"
"I can guess. I'm good at guessing." Merrill grinned, the hand at her ankle now moving up over calf, the inside of her thigh. The touch was smooth, relentless. Hardly sexual at all—no teasing changes in pressure or scrape of a nail, no following the path with her mouth. But it was purposeful, and Merrill's grin had faded to a look of such seriousness that Isabela shuddered, leaning in and feeling herself hot and wet and right, just for this.
She had been undressed before, but no one went for the daggers first. The small ones. The secret pieces that kept her safe even when her flashier dueling pieces were removed. Isabela jerked as Merrill found the thigh sheath.
"And six."
Isabela arched, smiling as Merrill laughed at her, very soft, her hands now pushing her back down, gentle and insistent as they moved to her waist. "Seven, but that one's easy. No need to hint, love."
"I'm just—encouraging." Isabela swallowed. Merrill's fingers were light as they slipped between her breasts, the fingertips cool and making her moan as she felt her nipples harden, felt the barely-there stimulation of fabric against skin when she wanted a stronger touch. She wanted lips and teeth and that pretty head where fingers were. "I'm a very encouraging person."
"Eight," Merrill breathed. "Do people write bad poetry about your breasts? I think they should."
"They even write good poetry."
"Mine would be bad, so I'm not going to try," Merrill said, giggling just a little. "But I still want to touch them." Again, ghosting pressure of fingertips, once the tiny paring knife was set aside. "You know that, don't you? They're just so…you'd feel so good in my mouth, and I want to know if you make pretty noises."
Her eyes were closed. Isabela felt herself straining. Felt surprise and delight mix into her heartbeat and breath. Her breasts were full, aching. "You can find out now."
"Not yet." Merril's voice was steady, and Isabela felt those hands draw away. It made her want to whine. To arch and curse and break the delicate, sweet tension that spooled out between them. "There's one more, I think. And you need to turn over for that one." Isabela opened her eyes to see a hectic flush on the other woman's face.
"On your knees, Isabela."
"What, no please, sweet thing?"
"No." Merrill eased out of her jerkin and shift, expression intent. Isabela's moth went dry. Merrill was corseted under all that gear. Not heavily, the sort that could easily be shrugged out of, the way the elf was doing now, but it was the sort of pretty underthings Isabela knew you did not find in many Lowtown shops, all black and red and setting off her pale skin in ways that told the pirate her imagination had, when it came to her friend, been sadly lacking.
"Yes," Isabela breathed. "Please." She moved, turning over on the bed, feeling herself draw up on her knees and the familiar brace of forearms, feeling wet and exposed even with her clothes still in place, The last knife felt heavy against her, near-painful against aching skin.
More rustling. A soft, wondering noise and hands moving over her back, down over her arse. Isabela had to fight to stay still, groaning as Merrill slid a hand up under her tunic at the thigh, skating over her smalls and then up to loosen the small, secret buckles that rested in her lower back. She felt the belt loosen and fall away from her skin, tugged down over her arse and falling to her bent knees. The elf left it there, but removed the blade.
"And that's nine," she said. "So very many." Her touch shifted, running back up her thigh, pulling gently at smallclothes and making her squirm as she felt those, too, gather about her knees. Fingers that had been impossibly light now pressed harder, nails scraping faintly over belly and the inside of her thigh; her arse, again.
Isabela's hips canted forward. She swallowed. "Merrill, sweet, I…"
"You're gorgeous." Merrill cupped her, palm pressing up against her, and Isabela gasped. "But you didn't say if there were any left."
Another laugh, another rocking movement from her wrist. Another hand—Maker's tits, it was sinful and glorious that people had two hands at times like this, when the obvious was surprising and everything was right—that felt cool and slick from some bottle the pirate hadn't seen or a spell she had not heard cast, and steady, teasing circles of a thumb at her arse, pressing in just a little as Merrill's other hand shifted and there was the sweet pressure of one long, fine-boned finger easing into her cunt.
"Do you think I need to check?"