CW: STILL SET UP, Empathic whumpee, incubus whumpee, angel whumpee, painful empathy, Heaven as an antagonist
TAGLIST: @flowersarefreetherapy, @oddsconvert, @cepheusgalaxy, @flailingfrog
CHARACTERS: Daveed Anastas, Rook Rivera
Rook swings their legs once, twice, heels tapping against the metal lip of the rooftop. The sound echoes farther than it should,ringing thin and hollow through the open air before dissolving into the city’s constant hum. Far below, traffic crawls like glowing veins, horns and engines blending into a restless, living noise. Wind slides in from somewhere higher, colder, tugging at Rook’s coat and lifting the ragged edges of their wings. Frayed feathers whisper against one another. For a moment, they look almost careless—balanced on the edge like gravity is only a suggestion, like falling is a choice they’ve already made once and survived.
“So,” they say, voice light, conversational, as if they’re talking about the weather instead of the unspoken tension coiled tight between them, “what’s your angle,Daveed-of-the-too-quiet-heart?”
Daveed exhales through his nose, a soft huff that fogs faintly in the cool night. The sound feels louder in his own ears than it should. “That obvious?”
“To me?” Rook shrugs, one shoulder rolling, wings shifting instinctively to counterbalance. “Yeah. You feel like you’re holding your breath.”
He closes his eyes for half a second. Empathy is a curse when you forget you’re allowed to have feelings of your own—when you spend so long bracing against other people’s pain, fear, desire, that you forget the shape of your own emotions, forget how to unclench.
Silence is survival.
“Habit,” he says at last.
Rook hums, low and thoughtful. Their emotions shift—not pity, not fear. Respect, clean and unexpected, edged with understanding. It hits him warm and sudden, like stepping into sunlight you didn’t know you missed until it’s already on your skin.
“Surviving Heaven isn’t much easier,” they offer. “Different weapons. Same scars.”
Daveed opens his eyes and looks at them properly this time. Not just the wings—blackened at the edges, feathers uneven like they’ve been torn out and grown back wrong, like healing done under protest—but the way Rook holds themself. Spine straight, shoulders squared, chin lifted a fraction too high. Like someone perpetually braced for an impact that never quite comes. Like someone who learned early that softness was dangerous, and that obedience did not guarantee mercy.
“You don’t belong up there,” he murmurs.
Rook’s head snaps toward him. “You can tell?”
“I can feel it.” He taps his temple, then his chest, where empathy coils like a second heart.
“You’re… loud in the wrong frequencies. Like a choir note that refuses to harmonize no matter how hard the conductor glares.”
Their laugh is sharp, surprised, edged with something bitter enough to sting. “They used to call me discordant.”
“Figures.”
Silence stretches between them again, but it’s changed—no longer empty or cautious. It hums, dense with awareness. Daveed becomes acutely conscious of how close their shoulders are, of the heat Rook gives off, of how their emotions brush against his skin like static—prickling, alive, impossible to ignore.
Then—fear.
Sudden. Bright. Spiking so hard it makes his teeth ache and his wings twitch reflexively.
Daveed straightens instantly, muscles tightening, wings pulling in close against his back. “What is it?”
Rook freezes. The easy slouch vanishes, replaced by stillness so complete it’s almost violent. Every muscle locks, wings half-spread, like a prey animal caught mid-step. Their gaze lifts skyward, eyes narrowing, pupils sharpening to points of pale light. “You ever get the feeling someone just noticed you?”
His empathic sense flares painfully, like a nerve exposed to ice. Judgment. Cold, immense, blindingly certain. The kind of attention that doesn’t look—it measures, categorizes, decides what you are and what will be done with you.
“Oh,” Daveed mutters. “Yeah. That’s not good.”
Rook stands, boots scraping softly against metal, wings flaring. A few damaged feathers shake loose, scatter into the air, and dissolve before they hit the ground, fading into sparks that wink out one by one. “They’re not supposed to watch this far down.”
“They do when angels misbehave,” Daveed says. His tail lashes once before he forces it still, the heart-shaped barb catching the city’s light. “And when demons get… interesting.”
Rook looks at him then—really looks. Not just the obvious things, not just the silhouette. The four arms, two folded tight like shields, two hanging loose and ready. The wings like inked leather stretched over bone. The faint glow beneath his skin where infernal power and empathic sensitivity tangle together into something dangerous and rare.
“You’re afraid,” Rook says softly.
“For you,” Daveed admits.
That does something to them. Their emotions swell—surprise first, then something aching and fragile underneath it, something dangerously close to hope. Daveed feels it crash into him like a wave, unbalancing and raw, filling every empty space he didn’t realize he had.
“I don’t want to go back,” Rook says. The words are barely more than breath, torn loose from somewhere deep. “If they call me, if they drag me—”
“They won’t,” Daveed says, too fast. Too certain.
Rook searches his face, eyes sharp and luminous in the city’s reflected light, searching for the lie. “You can’t promise that.”
“No,” he agrees. “But I can run. I can hide. I know half the wards in this city, and the other half owe me favors. I know where Heaven doesn’t like to look.”
“Why?” Rook asks, quiet and dangerous in its simplicity.
Daveed’s answer comes before he can stop it, before he can sand the edges down or dress it up into something safer. “Because the idea of them breaking you makes me feel like I’m tearing in half.”
There it is. Naked truth, exposed and trembling in the open air.
Rook steps closer. Their emotions blaze—fear twined with hope, sharp and intoxicating. Daveed has fed on desire his entire existence, has known hunger in every possible form, but this—this isn’t hunger.
It’s recognition.
Their fingers brush his wrist. The contact detonates through him.
Angelic grace—raw, fractured, brilliant—collides with infernal empathy. Daveed gasps, knees nearly buckling as sensation and emotion flood him all at once: Rook’s loneliness like an open wound, their defiance burning white-hot, the unbearable weight of being seen by Heaven and found wanting. It’s too much and not enough all at once, overwhelming and devastating in its clarity.
Rook sucks in a breath. “Daveed—what did I—”
He steadies himself, gripping the edge of the roof until metal bites into his palms, grounding him. “You exist very loudly,” he manages, voice rough and shaken. “Please don’t apologize for it.”
Rook smiles, soft and uncertain, like they’re not used to smiles being safe or returned. “You’re strange.”
“Takes one.”
Above them, something shifts. The pressure eases—not gone, but distracted, like a vast gaze sliding away to reassess elsewhere, displeased but not yet ready to act.
Rook notices immediately. “They looked away.”
Daveed wipes sweat from his brow with the back of one hand. “Yeah. For now.”
“For now,” Rook echoes.
They don’t move apart.
The city hums beneath them—traffic, voices, neon and concrete and ordinary lives—utterly unaware that something irreversible has just begun. That an angel has found sanctuary in a demon’s presence, and a demon has found something worth burning the world down to protect.
This is Rook from 'Fragments of Grace and Mercy,' which I highly recommend reading if you like hurt/comfort or whump! @for-the-love-of-angst is a wordsmith and you won't regret it. ☺️
CW: expect a whole lot of religious trauma and wing whump in the future, this is just the set up
TAGLIST: @oddsconvert, @flowersarefreetherapy @cepheusgalaxy, @flailingfrog
CHARACTERS: Daveed Anastas, Rook Rivera
Daveed Anastas knows exactly when he has them. It’s the moment the man stops pretending he’s listening to the music. The bar hums low and intimate, bass vibrating through polished wood and worn leather, amber light catching on glass rims and the sheen of sweat along exposed throats. Conversations blur into a soft, meaningless murmur. It's background noise to the real exchange happening in this booth, in this narrow pocket of attention.
He leans back, easy, wings tucked tight beneath his jacket, posture loose in a way that reads harmless and inviting all at once. He takes up space without crowding it and allows the silence to stretch just long enough to be noticed. His smile curves slowly. Deliberately. It’s not sharp with hunger, not yet, and it isn't rushed.
It’s patient. Confident.
Empathy unfurls inside him like silk sliding off skin.
It’s immediate and intimate. Loneliness first, deep and old, worn smooth from being carried too long. Desire follows, tentative but persistent. Then the ache beneath it all—the need for closeness, for permission to stop holding everything together. It’s packed tight behind the man’s ribs, compressed by routine and restraint until it’s almost painful.
Daveed lets it wash over him, catalogues the layers, sharpens his focus until the man’s want rings clearer than the music, louder than the room. He filters out everything else—the bar, the other patrons, the messy spill of half-drunken lust nearby—until there is only this thread between them, humming and warm.
He lowers his voice, lets it slip into the space the man keeps leaving open.
“You’re holding yourself together so carefully,” he murmurs, gaze steady, intent, never quite leaving the man’s mouth. “Doesn’t it get exhausting?”
The words land precisely where they're meant to. They remain soft.
The man swallows. His knee bumps Daveed’s beneath the table—an accident, clearly—but neither of them pulls away. The contact lingers charged and uncertain. Daveed feels the spike of self-consciousness, the flare of hope that follows it, and he answers without touching.
He lets a little warmth seep into his gaze. Just enough to be felt.
The desire flares in response, sudden and bright, curling low in the man’s body. Daveed feels it like a spark catching dry tinder. He leans in now, closing the distance inch by careful inch, until the man can feel his breath—warm, steady—and catch the faint, sweet-dangerous note beneath his cologne. Not overwhelming. Just there.
“I could make you forget that weight,” Daveed says softly. “Just for tonight.”
The words aren’t magic. They don’t need to be. They’re an invitation, not a command.
His fingers slide across the table, slow and deliberate, brushing the inside of the man’s wrist. It's barely a touch, more suggestion than contact. The instant skin meets skin, Daveed opens himself.
The feed blooms under his sternum like heat, spreading outward in a slow, pleasurable wave. The man exhales sharply, shoulders sagging as tension bleeds out of him, pleasure curling through his body in a low, steady pull. Not overwhelming. Not crude. Just relief—clean and honest.
Desire pours into Daveed in return, rich and heady, laced with gratitude and need. He draws it in with practiced ease, savoring the hum of it in his veins, the way it steadies him, fills the hollow places he never quite talks about. He keeps his grip careful, measured, making sure the man stays grounded, present, safe.
The man’s breath stutters. “God, what are you?”
Daveed smiles, close enough now that the question dissolves between them before it needs an answer.
“Not God. Someone who knows how to listen.”
He feeds until the edges smooth, until the desire settles into something warm and satisfied, until the man’s pulse slows and his shoulders drop completely. Only then does Daveed pull back and he does so gently, leaving warmth behind like an afterglow, a soft echo of connection instead of emptiness.
The man blinks, dazed, lips parted, eyes a little unfocused. “I feel… good.”
“You are,” Daveed replies, his voice velvet-soft again, the intimacy fading without snapping.
He stands, wings shifting subtly beneath his jacket, tail curling once behind him before stilling. He doesn’t give his name. He doesn’t ask for one. There are no promises and no expectations. There's only the clean memory of being held together for a moment.
Outside, the night air cools his skin as he steps away from the bar, the city’s emotional noise rushing back in waves. The hunger is quiet now, satisfied.
He finds himself perched on the fire escape outside a third-floor bar, boots hooked through the rusted railing, metal biting faintly through the soles. The cigarette between his fingers remains unlit not because he likes the ritual of it. The weight. The pause. The way humans think it means something about restraint.
The night presses in thick and damp, heavy with summer heat and human ache. Sirens wail somewhere to the west, Doppler-blurred and distant. Below him, bass from the club thuds through brick and bone, a steady pulse that rattles the fire escape just enough to be felt. Desire leaks out of open windows like steam. It's sloppy, unfocused, and abundant. Loneliness coils around it, familiar and dull.
It’s easy feeding here. Too easy.
Daveed’s empath sense stays half-open by habit, a low hum of want and hunger and irritation brushing constantly against the inside of his skull. He skims it without thinking, pulling a little here, smoothing a little there, barely engaged. He’s almost bored.
Then, the noise clears.
It doesn’t vanish. His empathy never works like that. It never shuts off, never cleanly silenced the way some demons could manage. Instead, it clears, like someone flung open a window in a burning house and let the smoke pour out. Everything else drops back into distant static.
Alarms go off in his head.
Daveed stills, cigarette forgotten between his fingers, and looks down.
They’re standing on the sidewalk directly beneath him, turning in a slow, uncertain circle like they missed a turn somewhere important. Darkwash jeans. Black combat boots scuffed at the toes. A leather jacket thrown carelessly over their shoulders. Over their wings.
Badly.
The feathers are pulled tight, compressed in an awkward, painful attempt to pass as nothing more than a terrible fashion choice. It’s obvious to anyone who knows what to look for, and Daveed swears quietly under his breath.
Ginger hair catches the streetlight as they move, copper-bright, shimmering when the lamp flickers because their grace presses against it, distorting the light just enough to be noticeable.
An angel. Here.
Lost, then. Or reckless. Or both.
Daveed frowns, unease curling low in his gut. Angels don’t wander into places like this by accident. Not intact ones, anyway. And if they are intact, they don't stay that way for long.
As if summoned by the thought, they tilt their head.
Their eyes track the fire escape with unnerving precision, landing on him as though he’s been highlighted. The moment their gaze locks on, something slams into Daveed’s chest. It's not lust or hunger.
It's interest.
Clean. Focused. Undiluted.
They smile like they’ve found something they didn’t know they were looking for.
“Well,” they say, voice carrying easily over traffic and music, clear and warm and unafraid, “you’re not subtle.”
Daveed snorts despite himself, tension cracking just enough to let amusement through. “Funny. I was about to say the same thing.”
They step closer, craning their neck to look up at him. Curiosity spills off them in bright, careless waves, threaded with delight and something sharp-edged and reckless that makes Daveed’s incubus instincts stir. They don’t shield themselves at all. No barriers. No discipline.
Daveed feels everything.
Fatigue, worn deep and old. Defiance like a live wire. Longing - not sexual, not yet -but vast and aching, aimed at something they don’t quite have words for. It hits him hard enough that he has to brace a hand against the brick.
He’s not sure whether to shove the mess of emotions away or lean into them and drown.
They take his breath away.
“You’re a demon,” they say cheerfully, as if identifying a breed of dog.
“Incubus,” Daveed corrects automatically. “There’s a difference.”
And there is. He wishes people bothered to understand it.
“Of course there is,” they reply, unbothered. “And you’re an empath.”
He freezes.
“…Most people don’t see that,” he says carefully.
Their smile turns sly, eyes bright with interest rather than suspicion. “Most people don’t feel like a warm, judgy blanket when they look at me.”
Daveed laughs, startled and helpless. “I’m not - okay, maybe it is.”
They’re close enough now that his wings itch beneath his skin, glamour straining to keep them hidden. Their grace hums against his senses.not painful, not sanctified, not blinding. Just alive. Present. Human in a way the hosts of Heaven always hated.
“Are you lost?” Daveed asks quietly. “You shouldn’t be down here. City’s rough on your kind.”
They shrug, feathers shifting beneath the leather. “Heaven’s rough on mine.”
The words hit hard.
Their emotions flicker. There's defiance first, then exhaustion, then that bright, aching streak of longing again. Daveed feels it instinctively and, without thinking, lets calm roll back toward them. Just a touch. A gentle pressure, like hands on shoulders.
Their breath catches.
“Oh,” they say softly. “You do that on purpose.”
Daveed blinks. “Do what?”
“Make the world stop hurting,” they say, grinning. “Rude of you, honestly.”
Before he can stop himself, Daveed swings down from the fire escape. Boots hit pavement with a dull thud. Suddenly they’re eye to eye, streetlights painting gold into their gaze, close enough that the pull between them hums like a live wire.
“I’m Daveed Anastas,” he says, holding out his hand.
They take it without hesitation.
The contact snaps something into place. Emotion surges both ways, a bright, dangerous resonance that makes Daveed’s heart stutter and his empathy flare wide open.
“Rook Rivera,” they reply. “Nice to finally meet you.”
“Finally?” he echoes.
Rook’s smile turns knowing, intimate. “Feels like it, doesn’t it?”
CW: HEAVEN AS AN ANTAGONIST, BRIEFLY IMPLIED CHARACTER DEATH
TAGLIST: @oddsconvert, @flowersarefreetherapy, @angelwings-onfire , @cepheusgalaxy @flailingfrog @imgoingtobiteyounow
CHARACTERS: Daveed Anastas, Rook Rivera
FIRST, SECOND
Daveed watches that wicked smile linger, and feels the tremor beneath it. Empathy doesn’t lie. Beneath Rook’s bravado is a blade-thin line of anticipation, a hope sharpened by risk. Not a wish to be rescued—angels rarely want that—but a hunger to be seen without being claimed.
“Powerful people get nervous about a lot of things,” Daveed says lightly. He lets his wings shift just enough for the leather of his jacket to tighten across his shoulders, a reminder without a threat. “Questions. Boundaries. Anyone who won’t play their part.”
Rook’s gaze drops, then lifts again, assessing. Their grace hums, subtle but persistent, like a live wire buried under skin. It brushes Daveed’s senses. Unexpectedly, it doesn’t burn. It steadies. The city’s emotional din recedes another notch, until the rooftop feels carved out of the night just for them.
“You’re very calm for someone clocking an angel having an existential crisis on a nightclub roof,” Rook says.
Daveed smiles. “I’ve seen worse places to start one.”
They sit in companionable silence for a beat. The wind carries a siren past, distant and mournful. Rook swings their boots, scuffing the brick, feathers shifting restlessly beneath their jacket. Daveed tracks every small emotional shift—the way Rook’s curiosity spikes when he doesn’t push, the way relief blooms when he doesn’t pry.
“You feel… quieter than everyone else,” Rook says at last. “Not empty. Just—clear.”
“That’s the empath thing,” Daveed replies. “I filter. Otherwise I’d go insane.”
Rook’s head tilts. “You filter me.”
He considers that. It’s true. Without meaning to, he’s been bracing the edges of Rook’s emotions, smoothing the spikes, giving them space to breathe. He should stop. He doesn’t.
“Only because you didn’t shield,” he says carefully. “Most angels do. Hard.”
“I didn’t want to,” Rook admits. The admission lands soft but heavy. “I wanted to know what it felt like.”
“And?”
Rook exhales, slow. Their shoulders ease. “Like standing somewhere I’m not being measured.”
The words hit Daveed low and deep. He lets a thread of warmth slide through the bond: consent, reassurance, a promise of no hooks. Rook’s eyes flutter, just briefly, like a cat settling into a sun-warmed spot.
“Careful,” Rook murmurs, a smile tugging at their mouth. “You keep doing that, and I’ll start thinking you’re dangerous.”
Daveed huffs a quiet laugh. “I am dangerous. Just not like that.”
They turn toward him then, really look. The city lights paint silver along their cheekbones, catch in their hair. Daveed sees the cracks too. There’s fatigue etched beneath defiance and the ache of belonging nowhere. Empathy presses, not as hunger, but as recognition.
“Why are you here?” Daveed asks, gently. “Really?”
Rook’s emotions flicker with hesitation then resolve. “Because Heaven keeps telling me what I am,” they say. “And down here, everyone keeps showing me what they want me to be. I needed a place where neither of those things mattered.”
Daveed nods. “And you found… a rooftop and an incubus.”
Rook grins. “Stranger things have worked out worse.”
A laugh escapes him before he can stop it. It feels good. Easy and unguarded. He hasn’t laughed like that in a while.
“You can stay,” he says, surprising himself with how certain it feels. “Not—” He gestures vaguely. “With me. Just…here. The city. I can help you learn the noise without letting it eat you alive.”
Rook studies him, empathy brushing back—not a mirror of his, but curiosity turned inward. “Why would you do that?”
Daveed meets their gaze. “Because you don’t feel like a meal. And you don’t feel like a threat. You feel like a question worth listening to.”
Rook’s emotions flare bright and unguarded with gratitude and excitement and something dangerously close to hope. For a heartbeat, Daveed has to steady himself, wings itching as his incubus instincts stir. He breathes through it, keeping the warmth gentle.
“Alright, empath,” Rook says softly. “Then listen to this one.”
They lean closer, shoulder brushing his. The contact sends a clean, resonant shiver through him. It’s not feeding or fire but connection.
“I don’t know how long I can keep pretending Heaven still has a claim on me.”
The night seems to hold its breath.
Daveed doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t promise safety he can’t guarantee. He does the one thing he knows how to do better than anyone else.
He listens.
And somewhere between the city’s hum and the steady glow of Rook’s grace, something inevitable begins to take shape—quiet, dangerous, and impossible to ignore.
Rook breaks the silence first.
“Okay,” they say, voice steadier than they feel, though Daveed hears the strain beneath it immediately. The words are careful, measured—an angel trained not to show weakness choosing honesty anyway. “If Heaven just… noticed me, what happens next?”
Daveed doesn’t sugarcoat it. He never has, and empathy makes lying feel obscene anyway.
“They observe,” he says. “They catalogue. They argue in circles about intent and deviation and whether you’re still useful.” His jaw tightens. “And if they decide you’re a liability, they send someone.”
Rook’s fingers curl against the concrete ledge. “An angel?”
“Sometimes,” Daveed replies. “Sometimes something worse. Something that remembers you. Knows which rules you broke and which ones you pretended not to hear.”
Rook swallows. The fear that leaks out of them is sharp but controlled, honed down to something survivable. Daveed feels how close it sits to exhaustion—how much effort it takes for them not to crumble under it. He resists the instinct to smother it with comfort, lets them have their fear without judgment.
“I won’t run back,” Rook says quietly. “I won’t kneel.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to,” Daveed answers just as softly, and means it with every piece of himself.
They look at each other then—really look. Not as angel and demon, not as Heaven’s mistake and Hell’s convenient weapon, but as two beings standing on the edge of a choice neither of their worlds would forgive.
“You could walk away,” Rook says after a moment. “Pretend you never met me.”
Daveed lets out a low, humorless laugh. “You don’t understand how empathy works.”
Rook tilts their head, curiosity cutting through the fear. “Explain.”
“When I meet someone,” Daveed says, choosing his words carefully, “I feel impressions. Echoes. Wants and hurts brushing past me like static.” He pauses, searching himself. “But with you?” His voice drops. “It’s like the air rearranged itself around your presence. Like the city took a breath and decided to listen.”
Rook’s emotions flare with surprise and something dangerously hopeful. Daveed grounds himself instantly, reigning in his incubus instincts before they latch onto that feeling and turn it into hunger.
They share a smile. As if daring the universe to reach down and crush it.
A siren wails somewhere below, long and lonely. The night keeps moving, indifferent.
Rook exhales slowly. “I don’t have anywhere to go.”
Daveed answers without hesitation. “I do.”
That earns him a sharp look. “You sure?”
“No,” he admits. “But I know how to protect a secret. And you feel like one worth keeping.”
Rook studies him, eyes searching for deception. Daveed lowers his empathic barriers just enough to let the truth show through. Fear, resolve, and something fierce and protective coiled tight around his heart.
Finally, Rook nods. “Okay. Just don’t expect obedience.”
Daveed’s smile turns crooked, dangerous in a way Heaven would hate. “Angel, if I wanted obedience, I’d be very bad at my job.”
The rooftop suddenly feels too exposed, too high, too watched. Daveed offers his hand again An invitation.
Rook takes it.
The moment their fingers interlace, something settles between them. Not destiny. Not prophecy.
Choice.
And far above, in the cold, ordered halls of Heaven, a name is written down.
Not as fallen.
Not yet.
But watched.
They don’t teleport. Daveed could—slip them both through shadow and heat and hunger in the space of a breath—but Heaven is watching, and infernal signatures flare too brightly for comfort.
So instead they walk.
Down the fire escape. Into the street. Past a cluster of humans spilling out of a late-night diner, laughter loud and messy and alive. Daveed keeps his empath sense tight, filtering out the flood of emotion, but Rook’s feelings stay threaded through him no matter what he does—nervous curiosity, wonder, the strange awe of existing somewhere unsanctioned.
“You like it down here,” Rook says, watching people argue affectionately over fries, a couple leaning into each other without shame.
Daveed hums. “It’s chaotic. Heaven hates chaos.”
They stop in front of an unassuming apartment building wedged between a tattoo parlor and a closed-down florist. No sigils. No grand defenses. Rook eyes it skeptically.
“This is your big secret hideout?”
Daveed snorts. “First rule of surviving Hell politics: never look important.”
Inside, the stairwell smells like incense and old paint. The lights flicker. Daveed leads them up three flights, unlocking a door layered with quiet, emotion-dampening, perception-blurring magic.
The lock clicks.
The apartment beyond is warm. Lived-in. Plants crowd the windowsills, leaves brushing the glass. Some are ordinary. Some hum faintly with restrained magic. A kettle whistles softly on the stove, as if it’s been waiting.
Rook freezes just inside the doorway.
“Oh,” they breathe.
Daveed feels the relief hit them so hard their knees almost give. Safety—not absolute, not promised, but real enough to touch. He sets a steadying hand on their back without thinking.
“You okay?”
Rook nods, swallowing. “You live… gently.”
He startles. “I….what?”
“That,” Rook says, gesturing vaguely around the room. “This place. You don’t feel like Hell.”
Daveed’s throat tightens. “I didn’t want to.”
They shed coats, tension clinging like static. Rook wanders slowly, reverently—fingers brushing book spines, pausing at a chipped mug repaired with gold, lingering on a framed photo Daveed quickly turns face-down when he notices their gaze.
“Who was that?” Rook asks, gently.
“Someone I couldn’t save,” Daveed replies, just as gently.
Rook doesn’t press. Their emotions soften instead, offering quiet understanding, wrapping around him like wings that don’t hurt.
CW: wing whump, forced to watch, heavenly whumper, religious whump, heaven as an antagonist, restrained whumpee
TAGLIST: @oddsconvert @flowersarefreetherapy @angelwings-onfire @yet-another-heathen @cepheusgalaxy @flailingfrog , @wlw-whump (ask to be added!)
Time in Heaven doesn’t move correctly when you’re no longer allowed to participate in it. It stretches and compresses, loses meaning, becomes a series of unbearable nows. Rook measures existence by pain cycles instead—by the moments between questions, between hymns, between the white-hot silence that follows disobedience.
They are bound to a column of light that burns colder than ice. Shackles of sanctified gold bite into their wrists and ankles, sigils pressed so deep into their skin that even thinking too loudly makes them flare. Their wings are restrained—pinned, folded wrong, joints screaming. Feathers litter the floor like snow that never melts.
The air smells like ozone and blood and incense.
Angels move around them with practiced detachment. Some won’t look at Rook at all. Others stare with the kind of focus reserved for sacred tools—objects meant to be used until they break.
“Confess,” one of them says. Again.
Rook lifts their head with effort. Every motion costs something now. Grace leaks from them in pale, trembling wisps, evaporating before it can reach the floor.
“I’ve already told you,” they rasp. “I won’t.”
The strike comes immediately.
It’s not a blade this time. It’s a word—spoken in the First Tongue, sharp enough to split thought from memory. It slams into Rook’s chest and detonates outward, rattling bone and soul alike.
They scream.
It echoes. Heaven lets screams echo.
When the pain recedes enough for consciousness to knit itself back together, Rook is shaking violently, teeth chattering despite the heat. Their vision swims. Light fractures into halos they can’t focus on.
“You loved an incubus,” another angel says, voice calm, almost pitying. “You chose impurity. You chose disorder.”
Rook laughs weakly. It turns into a cough. Blood splatters the marble.
“I chose… mercy,” they whisper. “If that’s disorder… then Heaven’s broken.”
Silence.
That one always earns punishment.
Hands seize their wings, wrenching them outward. Feathers tear. Ligaments strain. Pain blooms so bright it whites out their vision.
They don’t beg.
They won’t.
Somewhere inside them—buried deep, protected, defiant—there is still the memory of Daveed’s hands, warm and careful, smoothing balm into aching muscles. Of laughter shared over cheap wine. Of a tiny, warm weight asleep against their chest.
That thought hurts worse than the torture.
Because it’s slipping.
Faces blur now. Names dissolve. Whole years crumble into impression and ache. Heaven is very good at erasing things without technically destroying them.
Rook gasps, forehead falling forward.
And then—
Something pulls.
Not pain.
Not command.
A warmth blooms low in their chest, fragile and impossible, like the first note of a song they don’t remember learning but somehow know by heart. It flares suddenly, bright enough to make the sigils along their skin flicker.
Rook freezes.
No.
They can’t—
They haven’t felt that since—
Their breath stutters. Their eyes burn. Tears spill before they can stop them.
A presence brushes against their soul. Small. Curious. Loving without reservation.
Appa.
The word isn’t spoken aloud. It doesn’t need to be.
Rook’s heart breaks open around it.
“It’s—” they choke, voice cracking. “It’s today.”
The angels exchange looks.
“What is?” one demands.
Rook lifts their head, defiant even now, tears streaking through blood and sweat.
“My daughter,” they whisper. “She’s one today. It's her birthday.”
That earns them another strike, sharper than the last, meant to punish sentiment. Their body convulses, wings screaming in protest.
But Heaven has already made a mistake.
Because the warmth doesn’t vanish.
It answers.
Somewhere far below, candles are being lit. A cake is being cut unevenly because Daveed’s hands are shaking and he’s laughing too hard. Someone—Madison, probably—is taking pictures. Stara is correcting everyone’s form with the baby-safe knife. Tyell is absolutely cheating and stealing frosting.
Amarah claps when the flames flicker.
The bond—thin, threadbare, nearly severed—sings.
Rook sobs.
Not quietly. Not neatly. The sound rips out of them, raw and ruined, echoing off holy stone. Angels recoil, startled despite themselves.
They can take memory.
They can take wings.
But they cannot take this.
Rook presses their forehead to the binding light and whispers into the impossible distance, voice shaking but sure.
“Happy birthday, my love,” they murmur. “I’m… I’m so sorry I’m not there. But I love you. I love you. I love you.”
The warmth pulses once, gentle and forgiving.
Grace answering grace.
The angels tighten their grip, furious now, afraid in a way Heaven does not like to admit.
They don’t yet know what Amarah is.
But Rook does.
Not in words.
In their bones.
And as the pain descends again, as Heaven tries to beat that truth out of them, Rook holds on to the one thing that still belongs to them— Love, freely given.
The most dangerous thing in any realm.
Later, when the cake is cut—soft, barely sweet, no sugar spikes—and Amarah smears frosting across her own nose and laughs like she’s discovered comedy, Daveed steps away to the window.
He presses his forehead to the glass.
Rook should be here.
The thought hits him like it has every morning for months now: sharp, sudden, unavoidable.
Heaven took Rook without warning. No flare of trumpets. No trial. Just a summoning that turned into captivity, silence stretching longer and longer until it became a kind of living thing.
Daveed hasn’t felt Rook in months.
Not through the bond. Not even as an echo.
That terrifies him more than pain ever did.
He closes his eyes.
They should be holding her, he thinks. They should see this.
Behind him, Amarah toddles over, plush bird dragging behind her. She presses her small hand against his leg.
“Daddy,” she says, looking up.
He drops to his knees instantly. “Hey, sunshine.”
She reaches up, touches his cheek with surprising gentleness. Her palm is warm. Steady.
“You sad,” she says, not accusing. Just observing.
Daveed laughs weakly. “Yeah. A little.”
She considers this. Then leans forward and presses her forehead to his, the way she’s seen him do with Rook in old photos.
Something settles.
The ache doesn’t vanish—but it softens. Like pain being wrapped instead of erased.
Daveed inhales sharply.
Stara goes very still across the room.
Madison’s tail flicks, agitated. “Did she just—?”
“Shh,” Stara murmurs. “Let it happen.”
Amarah hums, a low, content sound, and Daveed feels a strange, almost sacred quiet bloom inside his chest. Not the numbness Heaven inflicts. Something else.
CHARACTERS: Daveed Anastas, Rook Rivera, Stara Emrys
MASTERPOST
The rain doesn’t let up.
It comes down in sheets, relentless and patient, slicking the pavement outside Stara’s clinic into a fractured mirror of neon signage and streetlight gold. Water pools in the cracks of the alley, rippling with every passing car, the city reflected in it warped and unrecognizable. The sound is constant—soft, invasive, endless—like the world is trying to wash something away without quite knowing what it is or where it’s supposed to go.
Daveed feels it before he understands it. A pressure builds behind his eyes, sharp and insistent, the familiar warning ache that means his empathy is waking whether he wants it to or not. His ribs tighten, breath going shallow as sensation leaks in around the edges of his control. He slows mid-step, claws flexing unconsciously inside his gloves.
The crying cuts through everything.
It isn’t loud. That’s what makes it unbearable. It’s thin, hoarse, fraying at the edges, like the sound has been dragged across broken glass for hours. A cry worn down by exhaustion and neglect, stripped of strength but still stubbornly alive. It doesn’t demand attention so much as confess despair.
Daveed stumbles. His foot catches on nothing, and his hand flies out to brace against the wall. Brick scrapes his palm through the fabric of his sleeve as his glamour flickers violently, wings itching beneath his skin like they’re trying to tear their way free.
Raw, unfiltered, merciless emotion slams into him all at once.
Cold, biting and deep, like rain soaking through too-thin fabric.
Fear, wordless and constant.
Hunger that burns low and steady, gnawing without hope.
And beneath it all, the most devastating thing of all—
Confusion. A hollow, aching bewilderment with no language yet. The instinctive certainty that something essential is missing. That someone should be there and isn’t.
“Oh no,” Daveed breathes, the word ripped out of him like a wound tearing open.
Rook stops instantly.
Their posture snaps into alert stillness, every line of them going sharp and focused. Guardian instinct rolls off them in a quiet, blinding wave. Protect, shield, assess, contain. Their grace hums under their skin, low and steady, like a lantern deliberately dimmed so it doesn’t draw the wrong attention.
“That’s not one of mine,” Stara says from the doorway of the exam room.
Her voice is clipped, professional, but Daveed notices the details that empathy sharpens into clarity: the way her tail has gone rigid behind her, diamond-shaped tip twitching once. The way her wings draw in tight, muscles coiling beneath soft pink skin.
“All my patients are sedated,” she continues, already moving.
The crying hiccups, catches on a sob too big for tiny lungs, then resumes with renewed desperation.
They don’t talk about it.
They move.
The back hallway smells like antiseptic and old incense, layered with something metallic and sharp. The lights flicker faintly as Rook’s grace brushes them, responding to the sudden surge of intent. At the end of the corridor, the rear door stands ajar, rain slipping across the threshold in thin, glistening fingers like it’s reaching inside.
And there—
Just out of sight of the alley. Tucked carefully into the narrow shelter created by the doorframe and the brick wall—
Is a crate.
Not a basket. Not anything ceremonial or symbolic. Just rough wood and nails, edges worn, corners scuffed. The blanket inside it is thin, threadbare, folded with care but used hard enough that softness is only a memory.
Inside is a baby.
So small that Daveed’s heart physically stutters in his chest.
Too small to be alone. Too small to understand why the world is cold. Their face is red and scrunched with effort, lungs working desperately, every breath a labor. Tiny hands open and close, grasping at empty air like they’re searching for something that vanished without explanation.
Daveed’s empathy doesn’t surge.
It collapses.
The world narrows violently as everything caves inward. His knees hit the floor before his mind catches up, the impact jarring but distant. Breath leaves him in a broken gasp as the emotional weight crushes down on his chest.
They’re terrified.
Not monsters. Not of punishment. Not even of pain.
They’re afraid of absence.
Of the unbearable wrongness of being alone when every instinct says you shouldn’t be. Of cold where warmth should be. Of the silence that answers crying.
They kneel slowly, reverently, movements careful as if approaching something sacred. Their wings unfurl just enough to block the rain, feathers forming a shield without flaring or drawing attention. Their hands hover for half a second over the baby—seeking permission from something older than Heaven, older than law—before they gently lift the child into their arms.
The crying falters.
It doesn’t stop—but it breaks, stuttering like the baby can’t quite believe what just happened.
Tiny fists curl immediately into the fabric of Rook’s jacket, fingers clutching with shocking strength, desperate and absolute. The baby’s breath shudders once, twice, then begins to even out, small chest rising and falling in a fragile rhythm.
Rook inhales sharply, emotion leaking through their carefully held composure. “They were left,” they whisper. “Placed. Not thrown. Not abandoned carelessly.”
Stara crouches beside them, all professionalism snapping into place like armor. Her wings fold tight to her back as she scans quickly, fingers light and precise.
“No fractures,” she murmurs. “No burns. No sigils. No curse marks.” Her jaw tightens. “Recently fed. Clean. Someone didn’t want them dead.”
Daveed drags himself upright, hands shaking violently. He can still feel it all—the fear echoing like a bruise, the lingering ache of abandonment—but something else is blooming underneath now.
Relief.
Safety.
A fragile, newborn sense of trust.
It hits him so hard his vision blurs. “They’re unclaimed,” he says hoarsely, pressing a hand to his chest like it might hold him together. “Not Heaven. Not Hell. Not human.” His breath catches. “They don’t feel claimed at all.”
The baby’s eyes flutter open.
Dark. Deep. Too aware for someone so small.
They don’t wander aimlessly.
They lock onto Daveed.
The connection snaps into place with terrifying immediacy, like a bridge forming where there was never meant to be one. Trust pours into him—pure, unfiltered, unquestioning—and Daveed’s empathy buckles completely under the weight of it.
A strangled sound escapes him as he sinks fully to the floor, palms flat against the tile, grounding himself with every trick he knows.
Rook looks up sharply, panic cracking through their calm. “Daveed—”
“I’m okay,” he gasps. “I just—Rook, they trust me.”
Stara straightens slowly. “If this child stays,” she says carefully, already thinking ten steps ahead, “Heaven will notice eventually. Hell too, if they develop quickly.”
Rook doesn’t look away from the baby. Their wings tuck in tighter, a physical barrier, defiant and absolute. “If they go anywhere else,” they say quietly, “they’ll be found faster.”
The rain drums against the door.
The city breathes around them, utterly unaware.
Daveed forces himself to his feet and steps closer, pain lancing behind his eyes as he deliberately softens his empathy, turning it from raw intake into careful output. He projects calm, warmth, safety—threads it like a lullaby into the space around them.
The baby relaxes almost instantly, shoulders loosening, a tiny sigh puffing out of them.
Daveed cups their head with reverent care, thumb brushing the soft down of hair.
Warmth blooms in his chest—terrifying, expansive, irreversible.
“I choose this,” he says, voice wrecked. “Whatever it costs.”
Rook’s eyes fill, shining. “So do I.”
Stara exhales slowly, measured, already calculating risk and logistics. “I’ll falsify intake records. Mask the signature. Buy you time.” She pauses. “They’ll need guardians who want them.”
The baby yawns, mouth stretching wide, then settles, still gripping Rook’s jacket like it’s the only thing anchoring the world.
They leave the clinic wrapped in borrowed blankets, rain soaking through Daveed’s hair and jacket until he’s drenched and shivering. He doesn’t care. His empathy hums with fragile contentment, the baby’s heartbeat a steady, miraculous drum.
Rook hums softly as they walk—an old guardian melody meant to soothe frightened souls. Daveed weaves warmth through it, every step a promise.
At home, they sit on the couch for a long time, afraid to move.
