A/N: Hello! This is my first one shot and also first attempt at smut (at the end) so I hope you all enjoy! :) Let me know what you think!
"No, no please," the curly haired boy pleads, "I'm sorry, I'll never do it again. I'll never sin again! Please." He sobs as he's forced to his knees by an angel twice his size. The other man has no sympathy for the boy in front of him. Harry had broken the rules, and now it was time for him to pay.
He can't look up, can't bear to face the man he's been serving faithfully for nearly three hundred millenia. Doesn't want to see the look of disappointment on his creator's face.
The marble is hard underneath his knees. Cold, like he imagines those things will be like when he gets there. He's one of those things now, he realizes. Bile rises in his throat.
He keeps his head down, face buried in his hands as tears roll down his cheeks freely. It may be the last time he gets to cry, they don't do that where he's going.
"Harry Styles," the voice of his creator booms throughout the large room, bouncing off the stone walls and echoing through the corridor. He shrinks in on himself, having never heard his own name come out of someone's mouth sounding like that. Like he's just betrayed them in the worst possible way, but then again, that's exactly what's happened. He's done the unthinkable, something he knew would get him into trouble, something that would get his wings taken away. It was forbidden unless assigned by his creator, and he'd done it as some sort of game.
There's no point in fighting it. He knows he's done wrong and there are no free passes here, even less where he's going, his shoulders sink even further in defeat.
He hardly listens to the spiel that he's sure every angel gets when they've done this bad. Tells him what he did wrong, and how faithful he'd been, how much potential he'd shown in moving up into a more trusted position.
He nods when he is supposed to, a futile attempt at showing his creator the respect he's owed, praying that he'll see Harry's still worth keeping around. He's a good boy, just made a mistake, is all. He wouldn't tell a soul if he let him off easy.
His heart races when that doesn't happen. His mind is in overdrive; everything they'd been taught about what would happen down there if they'd sinned plays in the front of his mind.
He doesn't even realize that the burly man behind him has placed a hand on his wing, the other grabbing his shoulder, and he doesn't have time to prepare himself before the man grits his teeth and pulls as hard as he can, the wing tearing painfully from his back.
Harry's vision goes white, and he knows he's screaming – God, does it hurt so badly – but he can't hear his own cries over the blood rushing through his ears. It's unlike anything he's ever experienced, like his heart is being ripped from his chest. He can feel the muscles tearing, bones breaking, and it seems like the pain will never end. His chest heaves as he struggles to breathe, and he wants to throw up.
There's barely a second of reprieve before his other wing is being torn from his back. He can feel the muscles knitting back together, and he knows that they'll be the ugliest of scars, tinted pink and looking ragged and raw for the rest of eternity, a constant reminder of what he'd done.
***
Harry doesn't remember the fall. He'd passed out somewhere between his second wing being ripped off and his body trying to close the wounds as quickly as it could. Angels have a very high pain tolerance, but something like having your wings ripped out feels worse than death itself. It's like ripping your soul from your body.
