CHARACTERS: Daveed Anastas, Rook Rivera, Stara Emrys
MASTERPOST
Daveed doesn’t cry loudly.
There is no dramatic break, no shuddering collapse that announces itself. What comes instead is quieter and somehow worse—a tight, uneven sound dragged from his chest, like his body is still unsure it’s allowed to fall apart. His wings tremble once, feathers ruffling in a way that speaks of pain rather than threat, and then they go slack again, heavy with exhaustion.
Rook does not let go.
They shift carefully, easing Daveed more fully into their lap, one arm braced behind his shoulders, the other curled protectively over his ribs. Their grace hums low and steady, not flaring, not reaching upward—just present. A guardian’s warmth rather than Heaven’s glare.
“I’m here,” Rook repeats, not because Daveed needs reminding, but because repetition matters. Anchors are built from consistency. “You’re home.”
Home.
The word lands deep. Daveed’s empathic field stirs in response, fragile and aching, like a muscle unused to stretching. Pain flares briefly—too many emotions waking at once—but it doesn’t overwhelm him this time. It rolls outward instead, brushing against Rook’s awareness like a plea for permission.
Rook accepts it without hesitation.
They let themself feel him.
The aftershocks of Hell still cling to Daveed’s emotions—anger burned down to embers, humiliation wrapped tight around his spine, grief pressed so hard it aches. Underneath it all is a deep, bone-tired love that has nowhere to go, coiled and restrained for far too long.
Daveed inhales sharply, eyes still closed. “It hurts,” he admits hoarsely. “Everything feels too loud. Like… like I’m bleeding feelings.”
Stara clears her throat softly from where she stands near the window, arms folded, eyes sharp but not unkind. “That tracks. Your empathy’s coming back online without filters.” She tilts her head. “It’ll hurt less if you don’t fight it.”
Daveed huffs a weak, humorless breath. “That’s terrible advice.”
“It’s accurate advice,” she counters. “Terrible comes standard.”
Rook’s mouth twitches despite the tension. They adjust their grip slightly, careful of Daveed’s wings. “You don’t have to take it all at once,” they murmur. “You can lean on me.”
Daveed hesitates.
That hesitation is loud to Rook’s senses—not fear of closeness, but fear of burdening. The reflex runs deep, carved into him by centuries of being useful only when he gives and gives and gives.
Rook tightens their hold just a fraction. “Daveed,” they say, gentle but firm. “Guardians exist to carry weight. Let me.”
Something in him finally gives.
Daveed nods once, barely perceptible, and allows his empathy to bleed outward instead of inward. The pressure eases almost immediately, emotions redistributing between them. Pain shared becomes pain survivable.
His breathing evens.
“There,” Stara murmurs. “That’s better.”
Daveed opens his eyes at last. They’re unfocused at first, pupils blown wide with sensory overload, but they settle quickly on Rook’s face. Recognition floods him, followed by something softer—relief edged with awe, as if he still can’t quite believe Rook stayed.
“You didn’t leave,” he whispers.
Rook’s brows knit. “Why would I?”
“Because I’m… like this.” Daveed gestures weakly at himself. “Because Hell keeps pulling me apart. Because Heaven’s watching you. Because—”
“Stop,” Rook interrupts, not harshly, but decisively. “None of that makes you disposable.”
Daveed swallows. Tears sting again, but this time they don’t fall.
Stara steps closer, crouching to Daveed’s level. “You’re going to need rest,” she says. “Real rest. Emotional rest. No feeding. No Hell assignments. No heroic self-sacrifice.”
Daveed winces. “I’m terrible at that.”
“I know,” she says flatly. “That’s why I’m saying it.”
Rook lifts their gaze to her. “How long?”
Stara considers. “Days. Maybe longer. Empathic burnout this severe isn’t linear.”
Rook nods. “Then he won’t be alone.”
Something unreadable flickers across Stara’s face—respect, maybe. Or concern. She straightens, wings rustling. “I’ll check in tomorrow. Call me if he spikes again. Or if Heaven does something stupid.”
“When,” Daveed mutters.
Stara snorts. “Fair.”
She pauses at the door, glancing back once. “You’re not broken,” she adds quietly. “You’re injured. There’s a difference.”
Then she’s gone, the apartment settling into a hush that feels earned.
Daveed sags further into Rook’s hold now that the tension of being observed has lifted. His head tucks instinctively beneath Rook’s chin, seeking shelter the way his body always seems to know before his mind does.
“I thought I was going to lose you,” he admits, voice muffled. “When Hell summoned me… I felt Heaven tugging at you. Like a hook.”
Rook stiffens slightly. “I felt it too.”
That gets his attention. Daveed lifts his head just enough to look at them. “Did they say anything?”
“Not yet,” Rook replies. “But it wasn’t a request.”
Daveed’s jaw tightens, anger sparking briefly through the fatigue. “They don’t get to take you.”
Rook meets his gaze steadily. “They don’t own me.”
The words are quiet, but resolute. Daveed feels their truth resonate through him, grounding and fierce. It steadies something inside his chest that Hell tried very hard to break.
He exhales slowly. “You’re still a guardian,” he says, half-question, half-reverence.
“Yes,” Rook answers. “And I’m choosing to guard you.”
Daveed’s breath catches.
He laughs once, wet and shaky. “Heaven’s going to hate that.”
Daveed lets his eyes fall shut again, exhaustion reclaiming him now that it’s safe. His empathic field hums softly, painful but no longer suffocating, held steady by Rook’s presence.
As sleep takes him, his fingers curl weakly into the fabric of Rook’s shirt, clinging.
Rook stays perfectly still.
Outside, the city moves on. Heaven watches. Hell plots.
Inside the apartment, a guardian angel keeps vigil over an incubus who feels too much—and refuses, finally, to face it alone.
I gotta go to bed. I can't take much more of this. My heart is broken and I'm utterly demoralized.
Friends, I love you, and I care about you, even if we've never met, whether or not I follow you, whether or not we've ever once spoken. I want you to be safe. I want justice for you and for everyone, in equal and swift measure. I am only one person and it hurts, sometimes, to know I cannot change the world through sheer force of will alone. I gotta keep trying. It's all I can do.
I feel ashamed for consigning myself to bed at a time like this but I know I will only make myself sick if I don't.
