The Viscount's Keep always made Isabela antsy. Entirely too much Law and Order about the place, between the guard barracks and the city officials. Outside the barracks, people spoke in low "civilized" tones, respectful silences, and (in her presence at least) haughty denial of your existence. Inside the barracks, it was a bit more lively, but with enthusiasm dedicated to obliterating all the things Isabela liked best: smuggling, thievery, obscenity, public drunkenness - all of the good things in life. It was impossible to breathe in there for all the pompous self-righteousness congesting the air.
Even Hawke was no fun in the Viscount's Keep. Ever since she met the Viscount and became his special problem-solving buddy, Marian had gotten the idea that she had responsibilities that she should take seriously. While she was still up for any sort of trouble that Isabela could come up with the rest of the time, in the Viscount's Keep she was strictly on Good Behavior these days. And she was visiting the Keep more and more, recently, because of her dealings with the Qunari.
Blasted Qunari. If Isabela could never hear the word Qunari again, she'd recite the sodding Chant of Light in a modest habit and she would even wear underwear and refrain from flashing Sebastian her knickers, for a full afternoon, in a fit of gratitude.
Hawke had bounced into the Hanged Man just that morning, and she had a wonderful glint in her eye and that winning smile - the one that meant Isabela could not deny her anything. So she had let her bring her to the Viscount's Keep for yet another discussion about the rotted sodding Qunari. Damn that smile.
But they had brought Fenris along, and he was good for a bit of fun.
Oh, he played stern and forbidding, but Isabela knew he was not nearly so serious as he pretended. The elf was the one reliable audience for her jokes and stories, no matter how inappropriate the situation. Always good for a comment or a smile, or at least a smirk. When even Hawke turned into a stick-in-the-mud, Isabela could always entertain herself by trying to make Fenris laugh.
There were times when Isabela wanted, even more than to bed him, just to make Fenris laugh, it was so rare and so delightful.
On that afternoon in the Viscount's office, Hawke was deeply immersed in conversation with the Viscount - something to do with the Viscount's fool son and his fool father's inability to keep him away from the Qunari camp - and Isabela grew bored. Dangerously bored.
For the first time in weeks, she managed to catch Fenris's eye. Isabela yawned largely and she was rewarded with a ghost of a smile.
Nobody else noticed. So the pirate took the opportunity to slip out of the room.
The sitting room was equally boring, so Isabela turned straight into Seneschal Bran's empty office. Like the man himself, the room was obsessively neat and almost rudely unrevealing. Casually, Isabela ran her fingers along the shelves that lined his wall. There wasn't even dust! The books were real, but completely uninformative - atlases and dry historical collections of municipal records.
"He just has to have a dungeon entrance in here, I know it," Isabela complained. "If any man needs to be chained to a wall for a fun time, Bran is that man."
"I don't recommend it," Fenris said dryly from the doorway. "It's terrible for your arms. You lose all feeling after a few minutes."
Isabela continued her stroll around the administrator's pristine office, poking at objects that might yield something interesting.
"You should probably not be in here," he warned her.
"Oh, the ginger won't be back for ages. I saw him lecturing a scribe on the proper notation for architectural measurements, or something equally dull."
Isabela sat on the Seneschal's desk and flipped through the book she found there. A History of Grain Taxation, Volume 6. She thought surely a more interesting reading material would be concealed inside, but the notes scribbled in the book's margins indicated otherwise.
"We should probably go back to Hawke."
"Oh, let's not. The Viscount can go on for days talking about what's wrong with Kirkwall, and Hawke will let him. I do adore her, but she's frightfully boring when she's being serious."
Isabela looked up at him over the book, as he finally shrugged and came into the office. She watched him cross the room in that slouchy, wary way he had. He paid minimal attention to the bookshelves and ornaments, and stopped at the window to look out. Unlike her, he took care not to disturb any objects in the room, and wasn't a bit interested in nosing through his papers.
He had really only joined her in case the Seneschal returned, she knew very well.
Fenris was the only man, or elf, she'd ever met whose courtly manner was not a façade. He didn't do it to impress anyone, or for politeness' sake. Isabela knew with confidence that he truly did not care what anyone thought of him. After all, he wore his Imperial armor to this very day, the same armor he had worn as a magister's slave. He may as well have "runaway slave" tattooed across his forehead, so strongly did his appearance speak to the Imperium and its atrocities. What steps did he take to put people at ease, to blend in, to disguise himself as just another elf in Kirkwall? None whatsoever. He was what he was. Take it or leave it.
Isabela loved that. Loved it.
Even in his most annoying moments, Isabela had to respect that kind of honesty.
Which made it all the more maddening, the fact that he resisted all attempts at seduction, from any parties, so far as she could tell. It couldn't be for any appearance of propriety, or for silly moral compunctions about chastity and purity. Fenris was no Sebastian; surely he had no vows to prevent physical pleasure.
An alarmingly handsome specimen like Fenris sleeping alone was a shame. That he resisted all her own efforts to entice him, when it was perfectly plain that he was attracted to her, was a tragedy. Isabela knew very well when someone wanted her, and he wanted her. It was something you learned to pick up, like the scent of the coming rain. In his case, it was more like a hurricane. Suppressing that kind of passion was a crime against nature. One that Isabela was bound and determined to rectify.
Cheerfully, she smacked shut the book and tossed it aside, hopping to the floor. "Well, I know how to make things more interesting," she announced, breezing back across the room.
With a quick motion, she shut the heavy door and locked it.
"What are you doing?" Fenris said from the window. This was not so much a question as a statement of long-suffering irritation.
"I prefer an audience of one for this sort of thing," she said. Her hands got to work untying the sash around her waist, letting it flutter to the ground. "Actually I usually don't, but this time is special."
"Isabela," he said warningly, without turning around.
Isabela pulled the bandana from her hair and shook her head, allowing a cloud of wild dark hair to settle alluringly around her face. The bandana floated down and joined her sash on the floor. She now got to work removing her leather gloves.
Fenris threw her a glance over his shoulder, one that was probably meant to be brief but ended up lingering there. "You can't be serious. In Bran's office? With the Viscount in the next room?"
"Door's locked. And a little danger can be very... inspiring."
He sighed and came around the desk to collect her slowly growing pile of clothing. Which was a tactical error. Isabela had begun to peel her long leather boots down from her thighs, and with the elf coming into range, she reached out and grabbed his arm for stabilization, making him jump.
"That's the trouble with these boots. You really need three hands to get them off. Care to help?"
He could not resist looking down at her shapely brown thigh, the black leather slowly revealing an expanse of muscular calf. Then he grabbed at her wrists, forcing her to put both feet on the floor.
"Isabela. Not now."
She grinned. "Then when? Tell me when and where, I'll be there with bells on. And nothing else."
Releasing her arms, he took the opportunity to back in the direction of the door. "What about Hawke?" he reminded her, as though she could have forgotten her own lover.
"She can wait her turn." Giving up on her boot, which hung open around her leg like a split banana peel, Isabela began unlacing her corset instead. "She can watch next time. She'd like that."
Another step back. "She doesn't mind you coming on to every man in Kirkwall?"
"There's plenty of me to go around." She stopped her striptease temporarily to put her hands on her hips. "And I don't proposition just anyone, I'll have you know. Yes, I like sex. I like to have sex with people that I like. Not just random people off the street. And I like you, Fenris. You're clever, you're fun, you're kind of sweet, you usually don't judge me, and you're sexy as hell. I think we would have fun together."
"Isabela.. You are very... persistent, and very tempting, and... I simply cannot."
"Can't why?" A note of frustration colored her voice. "Are you secretly married? Is there a spell on you? Did you lose your manly parts in a tragic fencing accident?"
"You don't understand."
"You're right, I don't understand! You want this! I know you want this! Everything about you absolutely screams it!"
"Oh, you're an expert on me, are you?" he snapped bitterly.
"You're obvious, you're dreadfully obvious." Isabela refastened her boot, to keep it from flapping about.
"Just..." he trailed off and looked at the floor. "Just dress yourself, so I can open the door."
Generally Isabela preferred to entice her lovers rather than throw herself at them, so she would never be quite sure what came over her at this moment. She looked at Fenris, really looked at him. His face was downcast and his body was positively rigid with unease. She could see that a part of him was very far away. She wanted suddenly to bring him back to this room. Back to her.
What the hell, she thought.
And in a quick stride she closed the space between them, brought her hands to his face, and kissed him.
She brought such force to the kiss that her body fully crashed into his armored plate, and it was rather like stumbling into a brick wall that did not yield, that held her upright. She could feel herself being propelled backwards, actually, as though he were pushing her away. But his lips did not agree. He kissed her back with a startling ferocity, artless and savage.
He smelled of leather and tasted like wine, exactly as she expected but so, so much better.
Her world was upended, and suddenly her back was crashing into a hard, flat surface and he was pressing her into it relentlessly. He possessed her mouth, invading with his tongue, his teeth. Her upper body was pinioned; she had forgotten how strong he was, and the reminder lit a fire in her belly. Her legs parted, embraced him as he ground his hips, and the insistent bulge between them, against her. His hands were wandering all along her body, clumsy and frantic, his talons scratching and clawing at all of the things that were in the way of her skin.
She arched her back and grasped at his armor, pulling him insistently in to rest entirely against her, and relished the small hungry sound he made in return.
It was only a dizzying few seconds of this before an insistent banging at the door broke the spell.
Fenris's head jerked back at the sound, and for a moment he looked at her startled, as though he didn't know who she was or how he had gotten on top of her. Breathing hard, he pulled back.
Isabela sat up and found herself splayed on top of Seneschal Bran's desk, pens and paper scattered everywhere, with an ornate-looking paperweight jabbing her in the thigh. Her skin stung in all the places where he had scratched her, and she could feel a rent in her shirt where he had torn the fabric away.
Fenris was backing away from her, furious.
"Damn you," he swore at her. His eyes were almost entirely black with rage.
"Fenris?"
Abruptly, he turned and punched the wall. It made a loud, sharp sound that made her jump. With his metal gauntlets, he left quite an impressive dent there, and he had to grab his arm and pull to get it out.
It was the anger that shocked her. Even though she could see that he was angry mostly at himself, for giving in to her.
It was not exactly the response she was going for.