Anxious, Bi and Ready to Ship

When Isabela had jovially mentioned that a cargo recently ‘recovered’ from an Aantaam raid off the coast of Rivain contained the delightful sack of coffee beans, she’d been trepidatious, but determined. The others had scoffed at the young elf, claiming that it was a ‘drink for adults, not children’. But she was an adult or was soon to be. Or at least, old enough per Isabella that soon she could accompany some of the Lords on plunders and on sea voyages. And her magic was coming in too, and she’d almost mastered that (fire in the galley aside). 

Stubborn, Temra has taken that first sip from the mug handed to her by Isabela. And promptly gagged in disgust. The laughter had been an embarrassment at first, but even after an attempt at a second sip, courtesy of someone’s comment that it was “an acquired taste”, Temra determined that coffee was something akin to what she felt was the consistency and taste of ‘lantern oil mixed with wet mud’. 

The others had continued to laugh, calling her bold but young. The embarrassment that was failure at enjoying such a rare brew, had been quelled slightly when Isabella had commented on her adventurous nature for trying it in the first place.

As such, the first time Temra had ever had coffee, she vehemently categorized the drink as a disgusting slosh of dung, to never be consumed ever again. But at least she’d tried it.

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The second time Temra had had coffee, she’d been doing so only out of the politeness that necessitated manners. Manners, that while a mixed bag since she’d been raised off the knees of scoundrels, thieves, and pirates, dictated that when being introduced to the longest known friend of your surrogate mother, you drank the beverage requested by that guest in respect.

Varric Tethras however had not chosen a good ale, or mead, or something of a similar nature Temra had started to grow more accustomed to in her late teens. Instead, in the soft light of a Rivaini sunset, the older dwarf had jumped at a chance to partake in strong coffee. 

Temra had grimaced but said nothing as Isabella told him of the most delightful meeting she’d had in The Free Marshes where she’d managed to acquire a cart of coffee grounds, a hundred cinnamon sticks, and two cattle. The sight of the drink being placed in front of Temra had an almost instant reaction. The back of her throat even years later recalled the thick coating that had remained hours after that first taste, the thickness akin to custard pudding – and not the good kind either. 

Varric, an avid talker and storyteller as Temra had come to know in the past hour of their introductions, had taken that first gulp in reverence. On a deep sigh of wonder he’d smirked at Temra’s expression. 

“Truly good coffee, kiddo, has a way of putting hair on your chest. The stronger it is, the more you sprout.”

Isabella had laughed in response stating, “Not like you need any help.”

“Rivaini, how many times do I gotta tell you not to objectify the chest hair?”

Temra pondered the conversation as it flowed from one topic to another, nothing making sense to herself, but underlying subtext abound (as was always the case with Isabella and her numerous ‘contacts’). Perhaps, she’d mused, it wasn’t as bad as she remembered. Youthful memories were tricky things, a fact she was aware of, and it was possible that her palate had grown alongside her body and mind.

Tentatively, she lifted the cup and took her third ever sip of coffee in her life. And promptly spat it out without thinking. For one fearful moment, she’d feared she’d pissed off her guest, as he only stared at her. Before a quizzical brow lifted.

“Problem, kiddo?”

“It’s sludge,” she’d said without thinking. Isabella groaned in defeat good naturedly, but Varric had roared in laughter.

“Pretty straight forward isn’t she?”

“As a javelin, I’m afraid. Hard to steer off course too.”

Varric had given them a nod, smiling at Temra as if she was in on a joke or two. 

The second time Temra had had coffee, it had been just as disgusting as the first time. But she’d gotten the attention of a man she’d come to admire, and to look up to for his own straight forward nature. A man who would give her a name she’d be proud of for all her days to come.

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The third time ‘Rook’ had had coffee in her life; it had been in a bid for praise and acceptance. 

Not woefully unlike that first time, she recollected. Given the current state of affairs she’d been in, sitting across from two companions she’d only really just started to get to know, a new digs in the Fade (one as a mage she’d never honestly seen the likes of), one trickster god slam dunking her capabilities in her cranial space, and the looming threat of the world’s end as the hands of two escaped Elven Gods (her bad, honestly), the small reprieve to breathe and talk had been a bit of a blessing. And a need of course. But the mug of warm liquid Neve Gallus had offered her smelled familiar. A smell that had her stomach nervously flipping and twisting. That thick choking taste echoed in the back of her already sore and tender throat (Turns out yelling in the middle of a ritual site post running from demons raining down on Minrathous ruined the vocal cords a little). 

She’d taken it out of instinct, used to fellow Lords passing out mugs and cups always at times of rest, and didn’t consider at all the liquid that was held within.

“Harding,” Neve had murmured, lifting the carafe she held in a question. 

“I brought some tea, thank you though, Neve.”

“Probably for the best. Caffeine might not be a good idea while you’re healing up anyway.

The delicate sip Neve took of the cup had Rook’s panicked state go into overdrive. She looked so regal while drinking what could only in Rook’s mind be the bane of all liquid’s existence. They talked, and Rook could only hold the cup in two hands, a mockery of acceptance.

And while eyes were watching her purely in deep conversation, the voice behind her mind (not Solas’ thank gods) sounded akin to her younger self. Telling her to prove she too could be sophisticated and refined. An adult like Neve – never mind the fact they weren’t that far off in age.

Without pause, or thinking further, Rook took a quick and mindless sip of the coffee…to find it just as thick as ever. Resisting the urge to gag once again at the sheer viscous nature of the drink, Rook instead gritted her now gross teeth and lifted the cup again. Only to halt halfway through when the conversation turned to other topics of note. 

Eager for the reprieve, she’d set the nearly untouched drink down to give her full attention.

Neve glanced only a moment at the settled cup, and her cool eyes gave nothing away. 

Rook had been sure of her lower social standing with the mage. And felt rejection sting her heart.

Except the next time Rook had met up with Neve, she’d smiled and offered her some tea instead. The understanding had been written plain as day, and Rook found herself sighing in relief. 

“I appreciate it. And sorry, I’m not a fan of…”

“It’s an odd drink; one I use purely for the necessity of long nights down cold alleyways. I think I’ve effectively dulled my ability to taste it at this point. Tevinter style coffee is not for the faint of heart.”

“Oh, I’m sure no matter the style, I probably won’t like coffee.”

“I wouldn’t say that. I’m told that Antivan coffee is absolutely to die for.”

Rook had hummed, before changing the subject (You had a contact in Antiva? Funny you should mention that place”). 

The third time Rook had had coffee she was sure above all else that after all these years of attempts at drinking the horrid concoction, she would never like the horrible stuff. Ever.

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The fourth time Rook had had coffee she’d been staring into the softest brown eyes she’d ever seen. Eyes that belonged to her newest companion, who sat across from her in all his glory. A man she was quietly and horribly attracted to, had been the moment he’d flown out of nowhere and slew Venatori at her feet.

A Mage Killer, an Assassin, an Abomination. And apparently a lover of the very drink she’d sworn her life to hate.

It had been a choice to accompany him on a meeting with his cousin, Illario to learn more regarding the Venatori’s activities, and the potential spy who’d sold Antiva to the Aantaam. A choice she’d enjoyed up to his mention of the whereabouts of their meeting. A little café off the canals of Antiva. A popular spot for locals and tourists alike. A place where they could meet and Lucanis could indulge in a cup of his favorite beverage, much missed after a year in the Ossuary.

Who was she to deny the man who had gone through such horrible trails and trauma a taste of his beloved drink of choice. She would content herself, of course, with merely allowing the assassin to indulge for himself.

But when Lucanis looked at her expectantly and told her of the specialty drink, “Andoral’s Breath,” he’d stated. “Bitter and sweet, like a kiss goodbye. You should try it.” The endearing look hadn’t been lost on Rook. 

He was sharing something, a little piece of himself, like his love for wyverns or his need to ensure the team was fed proper meals. It was…sweet like himself. And it hadn’t been lost on her the tone in which he described the drink. She’d only ever heard of coffee being described as “acquired” or “strong” or “capable of keeping one up for hours on end”.

Never as something so ‘romantic’ as Lucanis had put it.

The temptation was there to deny his offer -the memory of the bitter, dark, and thick soup that she’d previously digested was still relatively fresh in her mind. 

But something nudged at the back of her skull. 

A young girl with a crush, and a need to prove she was mature, and in this particular case, sexy enough to drink coffee with a man like the Demon of Vyrantium.

“Sounds like a dream,” Rook found herself saying, a flirty smile crossing her lips. It must have covered her innate indecisiveness, because Lucanis only smirked back, ease returning to his features. 

While the conversation had ended between Illario and Lucanis, the former having reluctantly left in a huff with a promise to ‘clean house’, the drinks had arrived, delivered by a server who looked as if he’d just hit puberty.

Rook had to admit, when held within the beautifully crafted cups – a gorgeous deep purple with winged designs emblazoned on the handle- her most hated rival did in fact look…tempting.

Most especially as Lucanis brought the cup to his face, and inhaled as if taking his first breath of fresh air in over a hundred years. His eyes shut in satisfaction, purely off the scent that graced him. It had Rook swallowing thickly, but for the first time not in memory of the drink. He took a large gulp of the drink, a sigh following him. 

Unable to think beyond how incredibly not sexy the act of drinking coffee should be, and yet how this man seemed to even make that a possibility, Rook could only jokingly comment.

“’Bitter and sweet’ you called that blend, ‘Like a kiss goodbye’” Rook murmured, unaware how her voice had lowered. The assassin had only sighed again, eyes drifting back open to look at her.

“So,” Rook continued, unsure where her mind was going but not sure she could stop her mouth from running with. “What would a first kiss be?”

“Honey and lavender cream,” Lucanis responded seriously. “Sweet, intriguing…” 

Again, Rook resisted the urge to ask if they were referring to the coffee she was familiar with or something entirely different. Her face must have shown something though, as Lucanis hummed thoughtfully.

“How would you describe it?”

‘Coffee or the kiss?’ Rook thought, even though she was sure he was asking about the idea of what the coffee would taste like. The answer would have been wildly different of course, but instead she’d focused on the “first kiss” element.

“I don’t honestly know. I’ve never had a chance to taste it.”

“A shame.”

Red rushed to her face, unbidden by the fact that Rook had just willingly admitted she’d never kissed anyone before. To hide it, she’d grabbed the beautiful cup displayed before her and took a gulp of coffee. 

At this point, she was certain of her innate ability to hide the fact that she would inevitably hate it. 

However, the first sip had her pausing in thought. It was still a thicker drink by nature and like he’d described there was that bitter texture that carved its way over her taste buds. But the urge to gag did not come to her. In fact, for a moment the sweet taste of cream enveloped her senses, a bit of something she thought might be chocolate and finally warmth.

“How is it?”

Rook blinked at Lucanis, whose face was passive, but what she saw briefly flash when she looked closer…was nerves. The urge to lie came and went. This man deserved the truth, and for the first time, it was not as it had been before.

“It’s alright. A bit more bitter, but…”

“Too bitter,” Lucanis questioned, a brow rising in thought.

“Well…compared to the coffee I’ve had before, it's practically decadent.”

“I see. Perhaps a first kiss would fit your taste more than a kiss goodbye then.”

The smile returned, a curve that had Rook’s heart beating like an Aantaam war drum. 

“Maybe,” she’d confessed, taking another tentative sip of the drink. “I’d have to try it and see.”

The fourth time Rook had had coffee, she’d found that she hadn’t disliked it. If anything, it had intrigued her to perhaps learn more about it, and see if eventually it became a favorite drink of hers.

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The fifth time Rook had had coffee, it’d been after a trip into the very mind of the man who’d changed her view on the drink entirely.

A thank you he’d mentioned, for sticking with him, for freeing him and Spite from his own prison. Paired with dessert that was its ‘pairing’.

“Oh,” Rook had commented, unsure but intrigued at the display before her. The coffee had been poured in a cup, a beautiful golden design with the same emblazoned wings as the cups Lucanis used, more creamy than the darker brown liquid she’d seen before. It was placed with a small matching plate of chocolate cake.

“A lovely honey and lavender cream latte,” Lucanis described, sitting across from her at the dining table.

“You are not a fan of bitter tastes,” he continued, taking a long gulp of his own personal coffee. “I thought, perhaps something with more sweetness would be more to your liking.”

“It…smells amazing.”

And it did. Unlike the other times she’d caught the whiff of the beans and found the scent too sharp, too powerful to inhale, this drink had a distinctive quality to the air. More rich, but subtle. More…Lucanis, she supposed.

“Try it for me,” he whispered. “If it is not to your liking, I’d like to know for the next time.”

“Next time?”

“Until I get it right…that first kiss.”

Rook knew he meant what occurred in the pantry before. When his own turmoil had prevented him from finally committing himself to the feelings that had grown between them. But now, with his alliance with Spite, and the truth of his inner demons (literally and figuratively) laid before them both, he’d been more…free with his emotions.

Rook blushed deeply, shyly picking up the cup she realized was in fact hers and hers alone. Without hesitation, she drank. The sweet taste of honey and cream overtook her senses, with just the whispered hint of the bitterness that was coffee. It was lighter than any other coffee she’d had before and went down with just enough flavor to remain on the tip of her tongue afterwards.

Rook became acutely aware of the inhale of breath across from her, and that her eyes had shut to take in the drink itself.

“Its…wonderful.”

A sigh of relief. “You like it?”

“I think it’s the best cup of coffee I’ve ever had.”

Lucanis chuckled, a pleased sound in his chest. “Good. I’m glad it was to your taste.”

Rook nodded, happy to have pleased the creator. “The first time,” she muttered in confession, sipping once more, “I’d practically thrown up at the taste of coffee. I’m not sure why this doesn’t make me feel…”

Lucanis chuckled, gently taking his own cup in hand. “Let me guess, some Free March variety?”

Rook shook her head, taking a fork and slicing off a small piece of the cake in front of her. “Not quite. Aantaam ferried some from the isles, and Isabella managed to abscond with it.”

His sputtered surprise had Rook blinking, as he coughed lightly to clear his throat. 

“No wonder. You’ve been tainted with the taste of garbage, true unyielding garbage. Let me guess, it tasted akin to bean coated water?”

Rook laughed, a weird sense of relief washing over her at the man’s reaction. Thank gods it hadn’t been her that was the problem.

“More sludge than water. I’m not sure there was even liquid involved.”

Lucanis visibly shuddered, taking another sip of his own coffee in what Rook imagined was a defense against some imagined drink.

“Thank the gods I’m able to clear the palate of such an atrocity from your memory.”

Rook felt the heat on her face again, which she covered with another bite of cake. Clear the palate indeed. When she looked up at him again, he was smirking once more, laughter in his coffee colored eyes. 

The fifth time Rook had tasted coffee, she decided that it would become her favorite drink in the world. But only if made by one individual in particular.

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Lucanis tasted like coffee. A hint of bitterness that coated the tongue, cream that satisfied the need for sweetness . Of course there was the saltiness that mixed with the tears that had fallen from Rook's eyes, from when he’d kissed them away. A mixture of something like iron. Blood, she wondered, or Spite? 

He rumbled as the kiss deepened, a hum of some emotion not yet worded out loud for either to hear, though she could almost taste the confession in the shared breaths.

The taste of coffee grounded her. If she were in the fade, there would be no scent of coffee, or taste of cream. Here, in the waking world, enveloped in arms, and wings, she was real. He was real. He was kissing her, that first kiss of sweet honey and lavender, and magic. The second kiss of caffeine that awoke her to the reality around her. 

Memories filled her mind, of the first taste of coffee, laughter among her fellow Lords, the second where meeting a friend who would become her saviour, then her guilt. The third of acceptance and friendships. Of love.

Tears continued to fall from her eyes, as Lucanis brought her back to him. Sweet and soft, like that taste of coffee that did not hurt. Not bitter like a kiss goodbye. Not bitter like painful memories. This coated her tongue in thick sweetness that had her falling, and falling. 

“I have you, cuore mio.”

Instead of answering, she only wrapped her arms tighter around the shoulders, the scents that surrounded her. Protected her. Grounded her from the fall.

Rook sweet.

The words scratched from the throat of her lover (lovers, she supposed) as they stared up at her, laying back, pressed against her so that her fingers could gently play in his hair. He was falling asleep, so softly. She was tempted to follow him there.

“Yes,” Lucanis grumbled. “Rook is very sweet.”

Like coffee?

The conversation had her sobbing a laugh. “You two are ridiculous,” she sighed, before tracing her fingers over his eyelids to shut them. “Now sleep.”

Lucanis hummed, and her heart beat off rhythm to feel the weight of his body sink deeper against hers. 

“Lucanis” Rook whispered as he drifted away. He only hummed again, giving in to the softness that surrounded them.

“When you wake…can I have some…coffee?”

Lucanis grinned gently, his own fingers stroking her hip in slow reverence.

“Honey…and lavender.”

Rook smiled, snuggling into his chest, the scent of coffee, invading her senses. 

The Lord of Fortune reminded him of a desert oasis, still hot with the heat of the sun, but with shade and cool water that allowed one to rest easy knowing they would be comforted and safe just a little longer before a long journey continued. She reminded him of the glitter of gold, found in a pouch given after a tough contract. One that left a Crow weary, but content that the reward was worth the long hours of waiting and planning. Rook reminded him of summer days, sitting among the canals of Treviso, an iced treat melting against the hand that held it, sticky and sweet.

Rook reminded him often of a warm cautious hug. One that came slowly at first, testing the boundaries long engrained and tightened by necessity, but engulfing is such a way the receiver would find themselves burying deeper without intending to. Purely for the express reason to keep that feeling alive.

If Lucanis took the time to answer in such a way, he knew many would give him pointed looks. Some would roll their eyes, claiming the “smooth charm of an Antivan strikes again”. He didn’t have the time or energy to tell those people that “charm” hadn’t been in his repertoire, nor skill set. He hadn’t ever had to “seduce” a mark, given most of his marks never saw him coming to begin with, so what reason could he have to “charm” them.

He would say that Rook- wise-cracking, dependable, multi-faceted as she was- brought out the poet in him just by looking his way. By being exactly as she was. A little boisterous, a little manic, and a lot kind. She gave gentle kisses when his mood soured, gave intense heated looks when he felt the same, and back talked when Spite pitched in the conversation.

Spite too would have words to described Rook, although the demon would have said, “smoke of the fire”, “iron and steel”, “spicy and tasty”. But the sentiment remained. Lucanis could not disagree and considered such words practically poetic for the demon inside him.

Lucanis would say that Rook changed him. His Crow training had taught him to always keep his focus on his surroundings, to be aware of threats that could mean his immediate death if his concentration slipped. Such habit became necessary during his imprisonment in the Ostuary, and even with the added benefit of Spite being his “second set of eyes” he’d come out of the events that transpired hyper aware of even the breath of his companions if they ventured too close.

Lucanis was surprised- irritatingly at first, pleasantly after a while -when he’d realized he began to experience some difficulty focusing on anything other than Rook when she spoke. Her words quick, but clear, full of emotion, whether she was directing the conversation at him or not. He found himself lost in her voice. In the way her hands seemed to talk with her when she needed to make a stringent point. On the way her eyes couldn’t seem to focus on one point, flitting about when lost in thought or looking at all parts of the person face aside from their eyes.

Except his. He found that she had no issues looking him in the eye. Over a cup of coffee, steam billowing between them as she sipped, more cream than bean filling the topaz yellow cup he’d found on a grocery run one evening. Sweet like her, with a kick of caffeine that woke you up. Revved, and warm, and just the right side of comforting.

Lucanis found that after so long fighting his attraction to the leader of their merry band of colorful individuals, it had been so very easy to fall into love with the woman that was Anya “Rook” Laidir. The little things causing carefully crafted clouds of despair to dissipate. Like the sunbeam peeking through the rainstorm.

For Lucanis, the poets couldn’t hope to notice the things he did.

The glittering gold of dangling earrings, that catch in the sunlight while walking long stretches of coast, amicably arguing with her fellow Lord about the merits of treasure hunting underwater. Spite commenting that he could hold his breath longer than either of them, in some mock pride, that had them ogling and considering. Considering it himself, for a moment, just to see her happy at the results…ignoring the disappointed pouts when Lucanis eventually shook his head to deny them the pleasure.

The fingers dancing through his hair, gently untangling the little knots that accrued while fighting. Lips pressed against his shoulder blades, no need to flinch at the contact, because he was so aware of her presence behind him, around him, everywhere.

The glide of his hands over scarred skin, marked by memories he’d been too fearful to ask about, but knowing only enough to understand the life she led before had been harsh and cruel. Something that had not changed her. Or had in its own way; changed her to make it so easy when talking about himself. His life as a Crow, the time of his imprisonment. To allow her the access to his mind, pulled to him by an unlikely guest who trusted her as he had been so unable to.

The arms that enveloped him. Her whispered sentiments of love echoing in his skull as they were pressed against his jaw, his neck, his lips. The feel of her warmth, embracing and encompassing to make the darkest shadows of duty, terror, cold evaporate into dust. A desert storm that erased the footsteps that trampled before it. Never forgotten but made anew.

And he was often buffeted and thrown about when he was with her. A force of undeniable nature that fascinated, and terrified in equal measure.

He’d been terrified, still was if he was honest with himself, to love the sunshine that Rook brought to him. It made it so much easier to deny himself what he craved, the affection she’d brought to him with such ease. A hand pressing against the cage walls, not cruel but offering. He should have, could have, bitten the hand that stretched towards him. Had almost done so on occasion, if she hadn’t shone so brightly and gave so freely of her own trust.

Spite had known, fingers pressing back against hers more than he’d allowed, pushing through the subconscious thought so that he’d made escape attempts from his scarce dreams to seek her aid. Fortunate for them both, the demon had finally found the way to pull her in instead, past the bars with its many prison guards posted by his whims.

He’d thanked Spite for that, the smug bastard that he’d been. “I told you so,” he’d cawed at him, smirking in his minds eye, snickering when Lucanis had only told him to “be quiet” as he watched Rook’s sleeping face beside them. As one, their fingers brushed aside sun kissed hair, the feeling of lethargic warmth seeping into his bones. And he’d let himself fall into that, finally, after years of denying that feeling. Into the warm embrace of her hugs, her smiles, her shining soul. Spite would not walk tonight, he knew, for the demon had crooned his own strange contentment. It was strange indeed how sleep came easy to them both when basking in the sunlight.

So, if someone had asked Lucanis Delamorte to describe Anya “Rook” Laidir at that moment, he would have called her many things the likes of which poets would weep at. But wonder upon wonders, and above all else-