Cousland, a female rogue with brown skin and a long black braid, irritably pulls Morrigan close, saying "What's your game, Morrigan?" Morrigan smirks, and puts her hand under Cousland's skirt, saying "Wouldn't you like to know?"

Originally posted to AO3, but since the fic is short I'll put it here too.

“You’re not very subtle, are you, Warden?”

Cousland kept cleaning her weapons and did not look up at Morrigan’s approach. “Would you rather I’d shown them mercy?”

“Indeed not,” said Morrigan with a smile. Oh, how the bard had squawked when the Warden shot the bandit leader mid surrender! It had been most amusing.

“Didn’t think so.” Cousland was doing her usual stoic noble act, but Morrigan could see the hint of a smile playing around her lips. Cousland liked Morrigan, for all that she claimed not to trust her. And not just because they both had minds unclouded by sentiment, Morrigan had noticed the way Cousland’s eyes widened whenever they fell upon Morrigan’s breasts, the way her breath quickened whenever they touched.

This could be interesting. Morrigan had never seduced a woman before, but it would certainly be more pleasant than trying to win over that idiot Alistair. And the Warden was the one who actually made the decisions, Morrigan was sure she could get Alistair to do what was needed when the time was right.

Morrigan sidled up to the Warden and gently placed her hand on Cousland’s hip.

The Warden turned to face her, a wary look in her shadowed eyes. She really was quite attractive, in her way. Morrigan smiled and leaned closer, her fingers sliding between the stiff strips of Cousland’s skirt to touch her skin, smooth and slick and warm. The Warden breathed in and raised her hand towards Morrigan, her fingers a light pressure against Morrigan’s back. “These skirts certainly are short aren’t they?” Morrigan breathed.

Cousland’s arm tightened around Morrigan, pulling her close. Morrigan could feel the Warden’s heart beating, the pressure of her leather bound breasts against Morrigan’s bare skin, could smell a heady mix of blood and leather and sweat.

“What’s your game, Morrigan?” asked the Warden harshly, her breath hot against Morrigan’s ear.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” smirked Morrigan in as seductive a voice as she could manage.

Cousland’s other hand ran up Morrigan’s side to rest on her cheek, then she grabbed her chin with her hand and pushed back her head to look Morrigan in the eye. “Well stop all this teasing bullshit. You want to tumble? Then let’s tumble. But piss or get off the pot.”

Morrigan laughed. “That has got to be the bluntest proposition I have ever heard.”

Cousland shrugged. “You want poetry, go talk to Leliana.” She trailed her hand down Morrigan’s chest to rest lightly on her breast, and then squeezed. Her glove was stiff and scratchy, the tips of her fingers calloused and cold through the thin fabric of Morrigan’s smallclothes. Morrigan found the sensation very distracting. “But you don’t want poetry, do you?”

“Uh,” said Morrigan.

Cousland gently extracted her hand from Morrigan’s shirt and patted her condescendingly on the cheek. “You ever make up your mind, let me know. Until then, some of us have important things to do.” She let Morrigan go and turned away, walking off towards the other end of camp. “Hey, Leliana!” she shouted. “Want to do some target practice? I feel like shooting something.”

Yes. Definitely interesting.