You meet with Leliana

You found Leliana in her dimly lit rookery, surrounded by crows and parchment. Her chainmail-clad figure turned as you approached, crimson hair catching the torchlight. "Inquisitor," she purred, her Orlesian accent dripping with unspoken histories. "The nobles whisper about your... abrupt leadership change. They fear you'll strip their pleasures like the last fool did." Her gloved hand slid across a map of Orlais, lingering near the Winter Palace. "But power vacuums attract worse than demons. Already, the Orlesian court schemes to replace you with a puppet who'll restore their... indulgences."

You lean against the stone railing, the chill of Skyhold's altitude biting through your leathers. "What would you have me do?" The question hangs between you, **** in its simplicity. Leliana's lips curve like a drawn dagger as she closes the distance, chainmail whispering secrets against your forearm. "Play their game better," she murmurs, her breath warm against your ear. "Let them think you'll restore their depravities, then break the board when their pieces are exposed." Her gloved finger traces the scarred wood of the war table - where her predecessor's rings had gouged the surface during more... vigorous negotiations.

Her chainmail clinked softly as she pressed closer, the scent of steel and parchment sharp in your nostrils. "The Divine's seat lies empty," she murmured, her voice a velvet threat. "Fill it with my agents, and I'll weave you a web that strangles Corypheus in his sleep." Her gloved hand slid up your arm, cold metal brushing against your pulse point. "But such... alliances require trust." The unspoken hung heavier than her armor - trust sealed not with words, but flesh.

You stiffen, the stone railing digging into your lower back as her meaning coils through the rookery's shadows. "The throne's gone," you protest, but the words falter when her gauntleted hand cups your jaw. "Power never dies," Leliana breathes against your lips, "it merely changes hands." Her kiss tastes of iron and secrets, chainmail biting through your tunic as she pins you against the parapet. Below, Skyhold's courtyard teems with oblivious soldiers as her gloved fingers undo your breeches with practiced efficiency.

The cold mountain air stung your exposed flesh as Leliana's armored knee pressed between your thighs, her movements as calculated as her espionage networks. "You'll need more than noble intentions to survive this court," she hissed, calloused fingers working your arousal with military precision.

Her gauntlet hit the flagstones with a metallic clang that echoed through the rookery's shadows. Bare fingers, calloused from bowstrings and poisoned daggers, closed around your aching length. "You'll learn to crave this," Leliana murmured, her thumb smearing precum across your tip like war paint. The chainmail's chill bit into your hip as she worked you with the same ruthless efficiency she'd once used to dismantle Orlesian bloodlines.

Her breath hitched when you gripped a fistful of her crimson hair, the Dalish tattoos on your forearm glowing faintly with residual rift energy. "This isn't the Blowjob Throne," you growled through clenched teeth, hips jerking involuntarily as her tongue swirled around your crown. Leliana's laughter vibrated against your shaft, a dark melody that promised midnight assassinations and silk-strangulations. "Non, mon loup," she purred, chainmail biting into your thighs as she took you deeper, "this is where thrones are forged."

The rookery's shadows deepened as Leliana's mouth claimed you with the same ruthless efficiency she'd once employed to collapse an Orlesian duke's rebellion, her teeth grazing sensitive flesh in warning as your fingers tightened in her hair. When you spilled down her throat with a choked growl that echoed off the vaulted ceilings, she rose like vengeance incarnate, chainmail singing as she wiped her lips with the back of a gauntlet. "A lesson," she purred, adjusting her hood with hands that had strangled men for lesser insults, "in what true power tastes like."