#ouchies.

[Loop goes rigid for a few moments, then breathes in and out.]

Loop: ...No. I don't... want to. It'd...

[They go silent, staring intently at the ground.]

“ in the class system for angels, WINGS were a huge symbol of status. An angel removed of their wings will forever live ashamed among their own kind. Most Fallen had theirs removed so they could never enter Heaven again. Without wings, we are nothing. No status, no pride.

It’s even worse the higher up the totem pole you go.

Most are destroyed, burned, when removed. However, some are valued so HIGHLY they’re kept as trophies. There are a few sought after individuals for this unconventional hobby. LUCIFER IS ONE OF THESE INDIVIDUALS.

In his fall I could only bear to remove one of the three sets of wings in his back. To take the rest...

“There will be no running this time. Not from me.”

EARTH :: No amount of blankets is going to change the fact that you’re still falling apart inside, that it feels like everything you’ve ever done wrong is crawling underneath your skin, that you feel like there’s something wrong with you but everyone says that it’s fine, you’re fine, it’s all going to end up okay but you can’t change anything, no, it’s not in your control, they say. They’re wrong. You deserve to get better. Don’t you? Aren’t you tired of the bags under your eyes, of the weight on your shoulders? You have a hard time figuring out which relationships are toxic because they’re so fundamentally ingrained into your personality - or so you think - and you don’t know quite how to take care of yourself. You want to touch the stars but you’re so stuck in your problems rather than your dreams it feels like drowning, not flying, and it’s hard to tell the difference between the two feelings of weightlessness.

KISS ROULETTE // accepting

#41 A kiss out of spite for @ncverdie ‘s Marc Spector

She’s underground, again. The irregular dripping of water overhead, the incessant hum of the computers reverberating off the walls, the quick tapping of her foot claws against the carved out concrete. Her knee won’t stop jumping.

Flashbacks of her and Joseph running through the sewers for their lives, everything crumbling around them. No friends, no help. William in her belly — she hasn’t decided yet what she’s gonna do.

“Greer — ” Marc’s voice cuts through the maddening static. It should be a balm, it shouldn’t be a call for help. He brought her here, all of them here. He dragged her back down beneath the dirt & away from her kid. The kid she fought so hard for, to bring into this world, to make it a better place.

For the first time in a while, she wishes she never heeded the call.

“When is this gonna stop?” she asks, turning her head up to look at him.

He doesn’t even pretend to think about her before he answers. “When the mission’s complete.”

secrecy curdles into spectacle under the bare bulb hum of the wheeler basement and the soft and treacherous creak of a window frame pushed too far, too fast. the night had cooperated with his plan at first, thick with suburban quietude and then suddenly there he is: backpack half-zipped, one foot already committed to the escape plan, the other still stalled on suburban furniture. a boy mid-flight who's gotten pretty good running. eddie munson has always been motion. not grace or anything akin to such a trait motion. a constant forward lurch, propelled by noise and bravado and the sacred refusal to ever depend on anyone. never had, so why now? why here, in the wheeler basement of all godforsaken sanctuaries, caught red-handed by the one person whose eyes cut straight through the theatrics and land on the marrow beneath it? “ i don't know, nance. ” it's tossed off with ease, flippant like a cigarette flicked into the dark. eddie climbs down from the table. “ ideally? somethin' real inspiring. go get 'em, tiger. hoo-rah. confetti. the works. ” blooming with sarcasm, a parade of mock-heroics designed to drown out the truth clanging around inside of his skull: HE IS TERRIFIED. the truth that hiding like this has begun to feel almost worse than running, that stir-craze might actually kill him faster than whatever's hunting him.

“ you don't have to stick your neck out for me, alright? but if they're askin'? you don't know. ” hands lift, palms up, presenting the idea like a blinking marquee. “ which, by the way ” a wink, a finger gun cocked with such ridiculous ceremony. “ isn't a lie. loophole. ” and the word is heavy and ironic, almost reverent. how he slips between the cracks, how he has convinced himself that leaving isn't the same as yielding.