#rook/neve

[biowaredisasterbisexual]

Can’t stop, won’t stop! Apparently.

That’s right, I’ve added another one-shot to the Getting Into Trouble series!

The Lightbringer

Set shortly before the Express Interest scene, Neve accepts Rook’s invitation to a trip to the Tevinter baths. This may, in retrospect, have been a mistake.

Shout-out to @mvrcar, @taashyvashedan, and of course @mageofquandrix for all of their help and support!

[duelbraids]

there's a lot to lose.  isn't there always?

[nevesserialwriter]

A Word with Friends: Effaceable

Ah I love these games, I finally have something to share that I've been working on that's not Dock Town Noir. Thank you to the wonderful @znthra who if you're not following... WHY NOT. Anywho, I've been working on a new Neve/Rook story for when Dock Town is done, it's just drafts and scattered plans and thoughts right now but I did drill down on this one part so enjoy. :)

I'm gently tagging @woundedsoul12

Untitled

The greenhouse, though modest in construction, functioned with an autonomy Neve had long stopped questioning. Its atmosphere was constant—wet, warm, heavily oxygenated, and slightly mineralic in scent. Condensation slicked the interior panels of reinforced glass, trickling in slow rivulets that mapped the surface like veins. The runoff collected at the basin edges, feeding the mosses that cushioned the stone paths, which in turn cushioned her step. The whole structure exhaled in a way that suggested self-awareness, or at the very least, indifference to the hand that maintained it.

A soft hiss followed as the greenhouse door sealed shut, rebalancing the internal pressure with a sigh of shifting air. Neve crossed the threshold, the change in pressure humming faintly against her skin.

She neither paused nor hurried, there wasn't a need to. She lived with a quiet resignation that her fate had been sealed long ago. Why spend the energy fighting it, when she could enjoy the quiet.

The strap of the watering can cut across her shoulder, stiff with age, its leather rubbed smooth in places by repetitive use. Her fingers, still numbed by the morning’s chill, flexed reflexively around the handle. The cold lived in her joints now, no matter the season.

Each bed, trough, and hanging cluster held its own balance. The feeding schedules were staggered intentionally, ensuring the system never went still. Moss blooms feathered out from stone cracks, ferns curled inward at the base of support beams, and pale stalks strained up through their individual grow-chambers, always seeking—though nothing ever bloomed here without the island's permission. She moved among them like she was part of the schedule: bend, adjust, water, re-align.

The far corner—a section not truly forgotten but often delayed—drew her attention today. She stopped when she noticed the state of one of the beds. Some of the Vanerberries had been picked, their stems sheared too high, the fruit taken before ripening. Neve stared at the empty cluster for a moment longer, then looked around, her fingers tightening around the hilt of her gardening tool.

Nothing moved. 

Drawing a slow breath, she turned toward the far patch of overgrowth—a creeping, tangled spill of broadleaf and root-rot that hadn’t been there a week ago. The island often restructured terrain on its own, rendering soil effaceable when it no longer served. Growths would rise where nothing had been seeded, old beds swallowed whole. But this one was moving and the rhythm was too steady, too contained.

Not the wind.

Not decay.

Then something beneath the canopy of shifting green adjusted its weight.

Not a ripple.

A lift.

A fall. 

Almost like... 

Breathing?

Her pace slowed. The idea of encountering something alive that wasn’t hers no longer stirred alarm—just curiosity. However, her perimeter hadn’t been breached by anything foreign in months, and yet, here was movement.

She'd have to check the wards the next time she was out.

Creeping foliage crowded the path, leaves pale and glossy with condensation. Angling around their reach, she moved closer, careful not to brush the more reactive fronds. The overgrowth was dense—tendrils twisted and layered in a slow collapse, the soil beneath them rich but unsettled, the soil beneath them rich but unsettled. 

A soft click marked the settling of her prosthetic as she lowered herself onto the moss-lined stone. With both hands, she parted the creeping mass—layers of vine, root, and the fine debris the island shed like skin. The growth resisted at first, as though reluctant to give up what it had claimed. She peeled it back one section at a time, careful not to tear or crush, working through the tangle until the shape beneath was fully revealed.

A woman lay at the center of the forming bed.

Elven—she could tell from the structure of the ears, the bone-length symmetry of the face, the subtle angles where human lines softened.

Pretty.

She was curled tightly, arms folded beneath her chest. The fabric clinging to her was not designed for any climate—thin, compromised by exposure and wear. Bruises painted her limbs in slow-turning violets and greens. Dirt lined finger nails, cracked lips, shivering.

Asleep.

Heat radiated from her body in uneven pulses, a clear sign of fever. Neve didn’t need contact to confirm it, but she leaned in all the same. A hand lifted—hovered over the woman's brow. The warmth beneath her palm was aggressive, and the scent that came off her skin was sour, pushing toward septic.

The Vanerberries most likely.

Neve studied her face for longer than she meant to. The tightness of her jaw. The thread of tension across her brow. She wasn't just resting—her body was burning through something, fighting hard and failing slowly. It hadn’t chosen this place to collapse. It had simply made it far enough.

A quiet breath passed through Neve’s teeth.

This was stupid, but God's help her, she couldn't just leave.

She eased back on her heels, just enough to shift her weight, and reached into the satchel at her hip. Her fingers closed around a small tincture vial and a piece of coarse bread wrapped in cloth—nothing special, but enough to start. 

"Alright," she murmured, her voice low, steady. "You need to wake up."

Her hand hovered again, then lightly touched her forearm. "Hey. Come on."

There was no response. Just the quick, shallow rise and fall of breath. Fever still clinging deeply.

Neve cleared her throat. The sound felt strange, having not had the need to use her own voice in seasons. "Excuse me," she said, a little louder. "I don’t want to frighten you, but—"

The movement came fast.

A blade pressed to her neck, clean and cold.

Neve froze mid-word. One hand held the bread. The other, the tincture. Both still raised, palms visible. "Easy," she said. "You're burning up. I just want to help."

The elf didn’t speak. Just held the mage's gaze, blade sharp against her neck, fever-glass eyes tracking every breath Neve took.

"Okay, okay. I shouldn't have touched you." Neve reasoned.

No shift. No slack in the tension.

Very slowly, Neve brought the hand holding the tincture to her chest, careful to show she wasn't reaching for anything. 

"Neve," she said softly. "That’s my name."

Nothing.

She tried again, quieter this time. "My name is Neve. I live here."

Then her hand lifted, open and slow, a small gesture inviting a name in return. But even that—too much.

The woman surged upright, knife pressing in with more intent. Not deep, but precise.

A warning.

Neve hissed in pain and shifted back instinctively, one foot sliding behind her to steady her weight.

"Okay," she breathed. "Okay. I’m setting them down. That’s all."

Her knees adjusted beneath her. No sudden moves. She crouched low and placed the tincture and bread on the moss between them, palms open the whole time, never breaking eye contact.

She lowered the vial and the bread to the moss, slow and careful, her gaze never leaving the woman’s face. "Look, if we don't get back to my cabin and break that fever... you'll die."

[bluboy404]

Rook/Neve doodles >w<

[grymm-gardens]

They have consulted, and they are annoyed <3

[mageofquandrix]

Found a good masculine piccrew from PotatoLord thanks to this directory, and immediately had to make Julien.

Julien, normally.

Julien, the moment he sees Neve.

[icescrabblerjerky]

In relief for Malavai and Neve, please!

He knocked on the doorframe, which was stupid of him. The door was open, wisps hovering here and there about it like they always did, and Neve had told him if it was open she was fine with anyone coming in. Assan tended to scratch at it if she shut it and it was more irritating to hear the noise than to just give him free reign of the entire lighthouse.

Neve was good for treats and scritches, according to Assan, and Malavai agreed, although they differed on what kinds of treats.

But he still stood awkwardly in the doorframe and knocked at it, admiring the fall of her hair over one eye as she scrutinised her notes, the curve of her cheek, the gentle tapping of one finger on her full lips.

She looked up, and her smile was bright and perfect and instant and he felt a flutter in his stomach that made him feel all of sixteen summers.

"I told you you could come in if the door was open," she said, still smiling.

"Oh. Yeah," he swallowed. "I know. Just. You seemed..." he waved a hand at her desk, "...involved."

She sighed and shut her notebook. "I wish I was," she said, then smiled. "And trouble at my door is far more interesting."

He sidled inside, ignoring her amused raised eyebrow. "I wanted to um... just check in. About... about what Taash said today. On the beach."

Neve's cheeks coloured a little and she bit her lip. "I don't think I'll ever get used to the fact that they can..."

"Smell it on us?" Malavai completed. She let out a small laugh.

"Yeah," she said.

They looked at each other for a long moment.

"You don't..." he started.

"Is it okay that..." she said at the same time and they both let out breaths of laughter that faded as he looked into her eyes.

"You don't mind that Taash knows?" Malavai asked, finally, and Neve shook her head.

"I... wouldn't mind if everyone knew," she said, softly surprised, looking down at her hands, and Malavai's heart tripped over itself.

He crossed the room in a quick stride and she looked up as he took her hand, grinning. Her cheeks were still pink and it was too hard to resist leaning down and pressing his lips to one, then the other. "I'm glad," he said. "Because I kind of want everyone to know."

She laughed again, and he gently tilted her chin upwards so he could kiss her properly, ignoring the wisps that fluttered around them, too happy to care.

[ekjohnston]

Rook #4 (Meren Thorne, rogue) and her gf.

[fanfoolishness]

Just losing my mind at the implications that the companions have all been trying to help Rook grieve Varric, and Rook doesn’t know

Emmrich, wise and long-familiar with grief, being told by Neve and Harding what happened; understanding why sometimes he overhears Rook’s muffled voice in the Infirmary, talking to no one. He takes Rook to the Memorial Gardens and mentions he talks to his parents, thinking Rook might be comfortable with the same. Rook lights candles and rings bells but Emmrich watches, sorrowed, to see Rook still seems in deep denial.

Neve takes Rook to the Wall of Light; a Shadow Dragon Rook knows just what this means but any Rook can understand the solemnity, the power of remembrance. Neve reenergizes Brom’s light and looks to Rook, hoping Rook will mention wanting to make one for Varric. Rook is kind and comforting to Neve, but Neve is lost in wondering why Rook doesn’t take the chance to open up. She can’t figure it. Maybe Rook just can’t face it, not yet. Maybe Rook does something privately. She isn’t sure but it nags at her.

Davrin’s not big on talking about feelings. He’d rather just move on. But he sees the way Rook seems a little hollow sometimes, a little distant; he sees how Rook takes so quickly to Assan. “Hey Rook,” he says, and invites them to come with him and Assan to safe places in Arlathan, where the woods are clean and green and growing, where real sunlight dapples through the trees. Rook always seems to love these outings, seems lighter afterwards. But Davrin feels a little confused in that Rook never seems to realize the outings are mostly for them.

Taash is another person not big on feelings. But they know how much feelings can twist you up and mess with your head. When Lace tells them about Varric they feel badly for Rook, and think to how they feel when they’re struggling. Epic fights, dragon fights, drinks with the Lords. Taash is perfectly capable of doing all that on their own. But maybe bringing Rook along will help get them out of their head a little bit. Does it help? Taash isn’t sure.

Bellara’s double-versed in grief after what happens to Cyrian. Rook helped her through trying to reach him, and Bellara wonders, in her own pain, if she can help Rook a little bit too. Especially if Rook is elven, teaching Rook about the braziers and the challenges is another tool she can share about her or their people, another way that might help Rook with their grief. Neve’s told her that the Wall of Light didn’t seem to help Rook much, but maybe a different funeral tradition could help them instead. Rook helps her light the braziers and Bellara feels her heart lightening, though she wonders at Rook, who seems more moved by Bellara’s reactions than anything else.

Lucanis is nearly as allergic to dealing with feelings as Davrin is, but he immediately clocks how Neve and Harding are acting, and asks what happened before he joined them. They tell him about Varric and that they’re worried about Rook, that Rook seems to just be shoving those feelings down without dealing with them. Lucanis is no stranger to that, but while it’s fine for him, he doesn’t want to see someone who risked their life to save him share that struggle. He brings Rook to Caterina’s funeral planning to show Rook it’s okay to admit the loss and honor it. When that doesn’t seem to make a dent, he falls back to his standard - lavish meals, small gifts, coffee. He knows it would help him. He just wishes it helped Rook too.

Lace hurts the worst after losing Varric and Lace is where Solas’ magic comes the closest to faltering. Rook can see Lace is down, she’s quiet, she’s afraid after what happens with the gods escaping; but Solas’ magic holds and Rook can still never see quite why. Lace would love to sit over drinks one night and share stories about Varric, but she sees that Rook doesn’t seem ready, and she doesn’t want to push. Instead she writes letters to Ma, to the Inquisitor, to Cassandra, to Aveline, maybe even to Hawke. She writes out her stories with Varric’s old quill and she carries a bolt of Bianca with her. A dozen times she goes to talk to Rook about him, and when she tries Rook turns away or changes the subject. It hurts, but Lace knows she can’t make Rook talk about him, and she hopes in time it will get better.

This just absolutely crushes me the more I think about it 😭

Edit: Varric’s death is Rook’s personal companion quest every other single companion tries to help them with, and can’t 😭😭😭

[chanafehs]

skyhold maid to a dreadwolf hunter? never underestimate a lesbian

[biowaredisasterbisexual]

Oops, I did it again…

That’s right, another one-shot in the Getting Into Trouble series is up! An epic shoutout to @mageofquandrix who kindly stepped into the breach with both an awesome beta and line edits while @vael-fire recovers from the Horrors (tm).

This latest entry is, chronologically, the earliest in the series and does not require that you have read any of the others.

So here it is: Who Are You

[necromosss]

age reveal after everything they went through? wack

[nevesserialwriter]

Oh god, got a new idea for a Neve/Rook while writing my current one.

[wepepe-draws]

The Veilguard companions + Varric Tethras

The crew who took the picture:

(Yes, it’s prosthetic arm)

[grymm-gardens]

i cannot stop thinking about Neve falling for a rook who saved treviso whenever i hear this song and i felt the need to curse you all with this also

[sango-blep]

write that down, write that down!