Because I promised, and because Frikadeller always delivers.
It doesn’t matter who was writing it down this time, or if it was being written down at all. Nor did it matter how or why it happened; whether it took a bottle of really, really good wine, or some kind of magic no doubt forbidden by the Chantry or contained in some ancient relic to get him to show up.
What mattered, was that Isabela has the sort of desires that demand kneeling obedience, and what Isabela wants, Isabela gets.
So when Isabela wants both a corsair and a champion, the universe takes notice, cracks its knuckles, and sends him into the Hanged Man with the sort of smirk on his lips that makes it seems as though he were created just for her.
It doesn’t even take words, just three sets of eyes and three pairs of lips spreading slow into smiles like they’d been waiting for this, like they’d known it was coming. Then she’s between them, gold and bronze glinting in the firelight, wrapping fingers in hair and watching with utter, unbearable glee when Hawke moves from her neck to kiss him before kissing her.
Nobody sleeps in the Hanged Man that night.
By morning he’s off on whatever tailwind blew him in. There’s an incomparable satisfaction in the exhaustion that plants Isabela and her champion into bed, and Hawke trails his fingers down her, finding the places that her corsair touched. When she wants another round all he can do is oblige.
Because what Isabela wants, Isabela gets.