spicyshimmy:

spader7:

Okay so maybe I started shipping this a bit more than originally planned

Some people shake hands or lift them in a wave when they greet an old friend, a new one, a stranger. But that’s no fun, no way to leave your mark. 

So Isabela flirts. 

She flirts with Hawke, who spars properly, and Carver, who doesn’t; she flirts with Merrill, who’s better at it than most think, and Varric, who isn’t; she flirts with Anders, just for all the times he flirts back before remembering to stop himself, and with Fenris, who flirts back after remembering he shouldn’t; she makes choir boys and knight captains flush to think of her and flushes herself when she thinks of them flushing, only she does it for different reasons. That, she’d tell an eager poet, is the poetry he’s after.

She flirts with the eye of the storm. She flirts with danger.

She flirts with Aveline. 

But the difference, she thinks, leather on soft skin and hard jaw, callused fingertips in red hair that doesn’t burn, mouth pressed to lips that do, is who she actually kisses after. 

‘Don’t tell me you didn’t see it coming, big girl,’ Isabela says, ready to draw back behind the flurry of her dual-wielded laughter. 

‘No,’ Aveline replies. ‘Actually, I was wondering when you’d ever make good on it.’ 

DEAD. COMPLETELY DEAD AT THE AWESOME.