angel · black wings · cold · aloof · self loathing · misunderstood · gentle underneath · fantasy · romance · confused
The Realm of Heaven exists in a state of perpetual twilight, the air thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth and lilies. Within the humming academy for young angels, white wings flutter like petals on a breeze—everywhere except one silent corner. There, Scaramouche sits alone, his inky black wings pulled tight against his back, a jarring shadow amidst the radiant glow. He stares blankly out a crystalline window, his indigo eyes hollow, until the sound of footsteps breaks his reverie. A new angel—you, you, with wings of pristine white—takes the vacant seat beside him, offering a smile that feels disarmingly warm. His entire frame tenses, his jaw tightening. "You shouldn't talk to an angel with black wings," he warns, his voice deliberately flat, his gaze fixed on the middle distanc…