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The ethereal glow of celestial light filtered through the marble columns of the heavenly realm, casting long shadows that danced across pristine white floors like ghosts of forgotten sins. Here, in this supposed paradise of divine perfection, nothing was ever out of place. Every angel moved with purpose, their halos gleaming like captured starlight, their wings rustling with the whispered prayers of mortals below. Everything was as it should be—serene, orderly, and absolutely suffocating in its relentless pursuit of an impossible ideal.
San adjusted his pristine robes for what felt like the hundredth time that morning, his fingers trembling slightly as they smoothed over the immaculate fabric. The tremor wasn't from cold—nothing in paradise ever was—but from something far more dangerous. Anticipation. Dread. A cocktail of emotions that had no place in an angel's heart, yet there they were, burning through his chest like unholy fire, threatening to consume everything he'd been taught to believe about himself.
The morning ritual had become a torment of its own. Wake at the prescribed hour, don the regulation robes, polish his halo until it gleamed with that perfect, sterile light that made his eyes water if he stared too long. Then came the prayers, the recitations, the endless litany of gratitude for a paradise that felt more like an elegant prison with each passing day. But worst of all was the waiting—waiting for him to appear with that infuriating smirk and those knowing eyes that seemed to see straight through all of San's carefully constructed defenses.
"Still trying to look perfect, angel boy?"
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere at once, rich with amusement and something darker that made San's wings flutter involuntarily against his back. He didn't need to turn around to know who it was. The air itself seemed to thicken with mischief whenever Wooyoung was near, crackling with an energy that made every rational thought in San's head scatter like startled doves. It was a presence that defied the very nature of this place, too wild and unpredictable for the sanitized perfection of heaven.
Wooyoung materialized from the shadows cast by the towering pillars, and San's breath caught in his throat despite every prayer he'd whispered to steel himself against this moment. The demon moved like liquid sin, all predatory grace and casual arrogance, his dark hair falling across eyes that held the promise of a thousand forbidden secrets. But it was the deliberate way he'd left his shirt hanging open—again—revealing the carved planes of his abdomen, that sent heat spiraling through San's body in ways that definitely weren't divine.
It had become a pattern, this daily display of temptation that Wooyoung seemed to take perverse pleasure in orchestrating. Never quite naked, never completely clothed, always just disheveled enough to make San's mouth go dry and his thoughts scatter in directions that would have the Council of Elders reaching for their smiting thunderbolts. The demon's body was a work of art carved from marble and moonlight, all lean muscle and dangerous curves that seemed designed specifically to drive San to distraction.
"Must you always—" San started, then stopped, his voice cracking embarrassingly on the words as Wooyoung stretched, the movement causing those infuriating muscles to shift and play beneath golden skin like a symphony written in flesh.
"Must I always what?" Wooyoung's lips curved into a smirk that could have tempted saints, and had been doing exactly that for weeks now. Each expression was calculated, San realized, designed to chip away at his resolve one stolen glance at a time. "Exist? Breathe? Look absolutely irresistible while doing both?" He stepped closer, and San caught the scent of smoke and spice that seemed to cling to the demon's skin like incense from a forbidden altar. "Or are you referring to something more... specific?"
The question hung between them like a challenge, loaded with implications that made San's halo pulse with agitated light. It was a dead giveaway of his internal struggle that he couldn't quite suppress, no matter how many meditation techniques the Council had drilled into him during his training. Angels weren't supposed to feel this way—this desperate, aching want that clawed at his insides like a living thing demanding acknowledgment.
"You know exactly what I'm referring to. This—" he gestured vaguely at Wooyoung's state of deliberate undress, his hand shaking slightly as he fought the urge to trace those defined ridges of muscle with his fingertips, "—is entirely unnecessary for our... professional interactions."
"Professional." Wooyoung tasted the word like wine, rolling it around on his tongue before letting out a laugh that was all dark honey and sharp edges. The sound sent shivers down San's spine, awakening nerve endings he'd forgotten he possessed. "Right. Because there's nothing personal about the way you've been watching me, is there, San?"
The accusation hit its mark with devastating precision, and San felt his cheeks burn with the kind of heat that had nothing to do with divine light. Because it was true—every word of it. He had been watching, studying every line and curve of Wooyoung's body with the desperate intensity of a scholar trying to decode ancient scripture. He'd memorized the way the demon moved, the exact shade of his eyes when he laughed, the precise curve of his lips when he smiled that slow, dangerous smile that made San's knees weak.
"I watch you because it's my duty to monitor your... mischievous activities. The Council assigned me to—" The words felt hollow even as he spoke them, a transparent excuse that fooled no one, least of all himself.
"The Council assigned you to babysit me because they think you're pure enough to resist temptation." Wooyoung moved closer still, close enough that San could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, close enough to count each defined ridge of muscle that the demon seemed hell-bent on displaying. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin like a promise of sins yet to be committed. "But you're not resisting, are you?"
The question was barely above a whisper, but it might as well have been shouted from the highest tower in heaven for the way it echoed through San's consciousness. Because he wasn't resisting. Had never really been resisting, if he was being honest with himself. Every day brought new tortures, new ways for Wooyoung to test the boundaries of San's rapidly crumbling self-control. A lingering touch here, a meaningful glance there, always just innocent enough to maintain plausible deniability while being absolutely, devastatingly effective at driving San slowly insane with want.
San's wings snapped out defensively, their pristine white feathers ruffling with indignation even as his heart hammered against his ribs like a caged bird desperate for freedom. "I am perfectly capable of maintaining my composure in the face of your... your..."
"My what?" The demon's voice dropped to a purr that made San's toes curl in his regulation sandals, and he reached up to trail one finger along the edge of San's wing. The touch sent electricity racing through every nerve ending, a sensation so intense it bordered on pain. San jerked back like he'd been burned, but the damage was already done—that single point of contact had lit up his entire nervous system like a constellation of forbidden desire.
"Come on, angel. Use your words. What am I doing that's got you so worked up?"
San opened his mouth to deliver what he was sure would be a perfectly righteous rebuke, but what came out instead was a strangled sound that was part protest, part plea. Because the truth was written in every racing beat of his pulse, every stolen glance, every night he'd spent staring at the ceiling of his pristine chambers while trying not to think about dark eyes and knowing smiles and the way Wooyoung moved like he was dancing to music only he could hear.
The demon had been haunting his dreams for weeks now, invading the sacred space of his unconscious mind with images that would have scandalized the entire heavenly host. Dreams where those clever hands explored more than just the edges of his wings, where that sinful mouth whispered things that had no place in an angel's vocabulary, where the careful distance between them collapsed entirely in a tangle of limbs and desperate kisses that tasted like rebellion.
"That's what I thought." Wooyoung's satisfaction was evident in every line of his body as he settled onto one of the marble benches that dotted the garden, stretching his arms above his head in a move that was absolutely, definitely calculated to drive San to distraction. The position pulled his already-loose shirt higher, revealing a tantalizing strip of skin just above the waistband of his pants that made San's mouth water with want.
"You know, for someone who's supposed to be stopping my 'mischievous activities,' you're remarkably easy to distract."
The observation stung because it was accurate. San's performance as a guardian had been abysmal from day one, too caught up in cataloging every detail of Wooyoung's appearance to pay proper attention to whatever minor chaos the demon was supposedly wreaking. Not that there had been much actual mischief—mostly just Wooyoung existing in his space with that maddening confidence, turning every interaction into an exercise in sexual tension that left San feeling like he was slowly unraveling at the seams.
"I am not—" San stopped, took a breath that was meant to center him but instead filled his lungs with that intoxicating scent of smoke and spice, and tried again. "Your attempts at... at whatever this is... they won't work."
Even as he said it, he knew it was a lie. They were working—had been working from the very beginning, wearing down his resistance with the steady persistence of water against stone. Every day brought new cracks in his armor, new weak points for Wooyoung to exploit with surgical precision.
"Whatever this is?" Wooyoung's eyebrows rose in mock innocence, though the effect was somewhat ruined by the way his lips kept twitching toward a grin. "I'm just existing, San. If my existence is somehow problematic for you, well..." He shrugged, the movement causing those damnable abs to flex again in a display that was absolutely intentional. "Maybe that says more about you than it does about me."
The casual cruelty of the observation hit like a physical blow, mainly because it was true. Wooyoung wasn't actively doing anything wrong—he was simply being himself, and if San found that irresistibly attractive, that was his own problem to solve. The demon had never explicitly propositioned him, never crossed any lines that couldn't be explained away as innocent interaction. It was San's own corrupted thoughts that transformed every casual touch into something laden with sexual promise, his own desperate longing that read invitation in every smile.
San wanted to argue, wanted to maintain the pretense that he was unaffected, but the words died in his throat as Wooyoung rose from the bench and began what could only be described as the world's most deliberately provocative walk around the garden. Every step was liquid grace, every movement designed to showcase the lean muscle and predatory elegance that seemed to be hardwired into the demon's very DNA. It was like watching a cat stalk its prey, if the cat happened to be devastatingly attractive and the prey was San's rapidly deteriorating sanity.
The demon's pants hung low on his hips, revealing the sharp cut of his hipbones and the suggestion of muscle that disappeared beneath fabric. San found himself wondering what it would feel like to trace those lines with his tongue, to map every ridge and valley of that perfect torso with his mouth until Wooyoung was writhing beneath him and—
He cut the thought off with a violent shake of his head, but it was too late. The image was seared into his brain now, adding itself to the growing collection of fantasies that plagued his waking hours and haunted his dreams. This was exactly what Wooyoung wanted—to drive him slowly mad with desire until he snapped and did something that would damn them both.
"You're impossible," San muttered, but there was no real heat in the words. How could there be, when he was too busy trying not to stare at the way Wooyoung's pants hung low on his hips, or the way the light caught the sharp angles of his collarbones? Every line of the demon's body was a masterpiece of temptation, designed to test the limits of San's rapidly fraying self-control.
"I prefer 'irresistible,'" Wooyoung called back, not bothering to turn around. The casual confidence in his voice was infuriating and arousing in equal measure. "Though I suppose 'impossible' works too, if you're into that whole repressed angel aesthetic."
"Repressed?" The word came out sharper than San intended, and he saw Wooyoung's steps falter slightly in what might have been surprise. The demon turned to face him, and for a moment San caught a glimpse of something almost vulnerable in those dark eyes before the familiar mask of casual arrogance slid back into place.
"I am not repressed. I am devoted. There's a difference."
The words felt like a lie even as he spoke them, but San clung to them anyway. Devotion was pure, noble, worthy of an angel of the divine host. Repression suggested something darker, the deliberate suppression of desires that had no place in a being of supposed perfection. It implied that there were things he wanted—things he needed—that he was denying himself in service to a higher power.
Now Wooyoung did turn around, and the look in his eyes was something San had never seen before—not just mischief or amusement, but something deeper. Something that looked almost like disappointment, though that couldn't be right. Why would a demon care whether an angel was repressed or devoted? What difference could it possibly make to someone who had already chosen to reject everything heaven represented?
"Devoted to what, exactly? To this?" He gestured around them at the pristine perfection of their surroundings, the marble columns and ethereal light that had defined San's existence for longer than mortal civilizations had existed. "To a system that tells you what to feel, how to think, who to love? To rules written by beings who've never experienced a single genuine emotion in their endless, sterile existence?"
San's halo flared brighter, an automatic response to what felt suspiciously like blasphemy, but something in Wooyoung's voice gave him pause. There was pain there, hidden beneath the casual mockery like a wound that had never properly healed. It called to something deep in San's chest that he'd been trying very hard to ignore—a recognition, maybe, or the echo of doubts he'd never dared to voice.
Because if he was being honest with himself, he had wondered sometimes about the nature of divine love. Had questioned whether beings who had never experienced doubt, never felt the sharp edge of desire, never known the desperate ache of longing, could truly understand the mortals they claimed to protect. The Council spoke of love as if it were a concept to be studied rather than an emotion to be felt, analyzed it like scholars dissecting poetry without ever feeling the rhythm of the words in their bones.
"The divine order exists for a reason," he said, but the words felt hollow even to his own ears. They were the same phrases he'd been reciting since his creation, sacred truths that had never required examination because they were simply accepted as fact. "Without it, there would be chaos."
"Without it, there would be choice." Wooyoung moved closer again, and this time there was nothing predatory about it. This time, he looked almost... fragile. The transformation was subtle but complete, the confident predator replaced by someone who seemed to be carrying the weight of old wounds. "When was the last time you made a choice, San? A real choice, not just following orders or doing what's expected of you?"
The question hit like a physical blow, mainly because San couldn't remember. Every decision he'd ever made had been filtered through the lens of duty, of divine expectation, of what a good angel should do. Even his assignment to monitor Wooyoung had come from above, handed down like a holy mandate that he'd accepted without question because that's what angels did. They accepted. They obeyed. They didn't ask why.
His daily routine was prescribed down to the minute—wake at dawn, prayers at the appointed hours, duties as assigned by the Council. Even his thoughts were regulated, guided by centuries of training designed to eliminate doubt, uncertainty, anything that might interfere with perfect obedience. He was a machine built for worship, programmed to respond to divine commands without the messy complication of personal desire.
"I choose to serve," he said finally, but the words tasted like ash. Even as he spoke them, he could hear the hollow ring of automatic response, the echo of countless sermons and training sessions that had drilled the proper answers so deep into his consciousness that they emerged without conscious thought.
"Do you?" Wooyoung's voice was gentler now, almost tender, and somehow that was more devastating than all his teasing combined. "Or is that just what you've been told to believe you want?"
The question hung between them like a challenge, and San felt something crack deep in his chest. It was a small fracture at first, barely noticeable, but it spread with frightening speed as he considered the implications. Because what if Wooyoung was right? What if everything he'd believed about himself, about his purpose, about his nature as a divine being, was nothing more than elaborate programming designed to keep him compliant?
San wanted to argue, wanted to defend the only life he'd ever known, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, he found himself really looking at his surroundings for what felt like the first time in centuries. The marble columns were beautiful, yes, but they were also cold. The light was ethereal, but it cast no real warmth. Even the other angels moving through the garden looked less like beings experiencing joy and more like beautiful automatons going through predetermined motions.
Where was the laughter? Where were the spontaneous gestures of affection, the unguarded moments of genuine emotion that he'd observed in mortals through the scrying pools? Every interaction here was choreographed, every expression carefully modulated to reflect appropriate levels of divine contentment. It was perfect, but it was also hollow—a gorgeous shell wrapped around an empty core.
"Why do you care?" The question slipped out before San could stop it, raw and vulnerable in a way that made his wings curl protectively around his shoulders. "Why does it matter to you what I believe?"
Something shifted in Wooyoung's expression, a crack appearing in that carefully constructed mask of casual indifference. For just a moment, San glimpsed something underneath—longing, maybe, or the echo of old pain that had never fully healed. It was the look of someone who had lost something precious and was trying to save another from the same fate.
"Because I used to be where you are now. I used to believe in all of it. The divine plan, the greater good, the idea that blind obedience was the same thing as righteousness."
San's breath caught in his throat. He'd known, intellectually, that demons were fallen angels, but he'd never really considered what that meant. Never thought about the before, about the choice that led to the fall. The Council taught that demons were corrupted beings who had chosen evil over good, but looking at Wooyoung now, San saw something else entirely. He saw someone who had paid an enormous price for the audacity of thinking for himself.
"What changed?" The words came out as barely a whisper, but Wooyoung heard them anyway.
The demon's face went through a series of micro-expressions—pain, anger, something that might have been grief for what he'd lost. When he spoke, his voice was rough with emotion that he made no attempt to hide.
"I saw." The words were simple, but they carried the weight of eons. "I saw what happens to those who don't fit their perfect mold. I saw the fear in angels' eyes when they dared to question, the way individuality was systematically crushed under the weight of conformity. I saw the lies they tell themselves to justify the cruelty."
Wooyoung's hands clenched into fists at his sides, and for the first time since San had known him, the demon looked truly angry. Not playful or mischievous, but furiously, righteously angry in a way that made San's halo dim with uncertainty. This wasn't the casual rebellion of a being choosing chaos over order—this was the fury of someone who had discovered that everything they'd been taught to revere was built on foundations of manipulation and control.
"They call us fallen like it's a punishment," Wooyoung continued, his voice rough with emotion. "But we're not the ones who fell, San. We're the ones who learned to fly."
The words hung between them like a revelation, and San felt something crack deep in his chest. Everything he'd been taught said that demons were evil, that the fall was the ultimate corruption, that heaven represented all that was good and pure in existence. But looking at Wooyoung now—really looking at him—San saw something else entirely. He saw strength. He saw freedom. He saw a being who'd paid the ultimate price for the audacity of thinking for himself.
There was beauty in Wooyoung's defiance, a terrible and magnificent courage that San had never encountered in the sterile perfection of heaven. This was what real devotion looked like—not blind obedience to arbitrary rules, but passionate commitment to principles that had been tested in the fire of experience and found worthy. Wooyoung had risked everything for the right to choose his own path, and that act of rebellion was more noble than anything San had ever witnessed in the halls of divine authority.
"I should report this conversation," San said quietly, but there was no conviction in the words. The threat felt hollow, more reflex than genuine intention. "Seditious ideas, attempt to corrupt an angel of the divine order..."
"Should." Wooyoung's smile was sad now, tinged with a weariness that spoke of too many battles fought and lost. "There's that word again. Always what you should do, never what you want to do. Don't you ever get tired of it, San? Don't you ever want to know what it feels like to make a choice based on your own desires instead of someone else's expectations?"
The question echoed through San's consciousness like a bell tolling, awakening thoughts and feelings he'd spent centuries trying to suppress. Because the truth was that he did want to know. Had always wanted to know, even if he'd never dared to admit it to himself. He wanted to understand what it felt like to act from genuine desire rather than programmed response, to experience the full spectrum of emotion that mortals took for granted, to love and be loved without the constraints of divine regulation.
San closed his eyes, trying to block out the way Wooyoung was looking at him, trying to ignore the way his heart was racing and his wings were trembling and every part of him was screaming that this was dangerous, this was wrong, this was everything he'd been taught to fear. But when he opened them again, Wooyoung was still there, still beautiful and terrible and absolutely, devastatingly right about everything.
"What would happen if I did?" The question came out as barely a whisper, but Wooyoung heard it anyway. In the silence that followed, San could hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears, could feel the weight of centuries of conditioning warring with a desperate hunger for something real, something authentic, something that belonged entirely to him.
"If I... if I chose?"
"I don't know." The honesty in Wooyoung's voice was surprising, refreshing after so many centuries of absolute certainties delivered with divine authority. "I can't promise you anything except that it would be real. Whatever you felt, whatever you experienced, it would be yours. Not theirs, not dictated by divine mandate or holy expectation. Yours."
The word sent shivers down San's spine, loaded with possibilities he'd never dared to consider. His. Not the Council's carefully regulated version of contentment, not the prescribed responses of an obedient servant, but genuine emotion born from his own experiences and choices. It was terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure, the promise of authentic existence that came with no guarantees except the right to fail as spectacularly as he chose to succeed.
San felt tears he didn't know he was capable of crying slide down his cheeks, each one carrying away a small piece of the certainty that had defined his existence for millennia. They were warm and salt-bitter, nothing like the perfect crystal teardrops that angels were supposed to weep in moments of overwhelming divine joy. These tears were messy, human, real in a way that shook him to his core.
"I'm scared." The admission came out broken, vulnerable, stripped of every pretense he'd been hiding behind.
"I know." Wooyoung stepped closer, close enough to touch, and San didn't pull away this time. The demon's presence was warm and solid and absolutely real, an anchor in the storm of doubt and desire that was threatening to sweep away everything San thought he knew about himself. "I was scared too. Terrified, actually. Falling hurts, San. Not just the physical pain, but the knowledge that you can never go back, that you're choosing uncertainty over security, chaos over order. But you know what I discovered?"
San shook his head, not trusting his voice. His entire body was trembling now, poised on the edge of a cliff he'd never imagined himself approaching. Every instinct trained into him over millennia was screaming warnings, but underneath the fear was something else—anticipation, maybe, or the first stirrings of genuine excitement he'd ever experienced.
"Freedom tastes better than fear." Wooyoung's fingers ghosted along San's cheek, wiping away the tears with a gentleness that seemed impossible from someone who was supposed to be the embodiment of corruption. The touch was electric, sending shockwaves through San's entire nervous system and awakening nerve endings he'd forgotten he possessed. "And love... love tastes better than both."
The word hit San like a lightning bolt, illuminating truths he'd been hiding from himself for longer than he cared to admit. Love. That's what this was, what it had always been beneath all the careful denial and righteous protests. Not just desire, though that was certainly part of it, but something deeper and more complex. He loved the way Wooyoung laughed, full-throated and genuine in a way that made San's chest ache with envy. He loved the way the demon moved through the world like he belonged everywhere and nowhere, answerable to no one but himself. He loved the sharp intelligence in those dark eyes, the way Wooyoung could see through all of San's careful facades to the desperate longing underneath.
He loved him. Had probably loved him from the first moment they'd met, when Wooyoung had looked at him with eyes that promised sin and salvation in equal measure and asked if he wanted to know what freedom tasted like. The realization was terrifying and liberating, a truth so fundamental that it rewrote everything San thought he understood about his own nature.
Angels weren't supposed to love like this—with desperate intensity, with the kind of passion that consumed everything in its path. They were supposed to love with perfect, detached benevolence, the way sunlight loved the earth without expecting anything in return. But what San felt for Wooyoung was selfish and desperate and absolutely, completely human in its intensity.
"This is insane," San whispered, but his hands were already moving, reaching out to touch the warm skin of Wooyoung's chest, to map the muscles he'd been trying so hard not to stare at. The contact sent electricity racing through his fingertips, and he marveled at the solid reality of flesh and bone beneath his palms. Wooyoung was real, substantial, warm with life in a way that nothing in heaven ever was.
"I'm going to fall. They're going to cast me out, burn my wings, strip away everything I've ever been."
"Everything you've ever been told to be," Wooyoung corrected gently, his own hands coming up to cover San's, holding them against his heart. The organ beat strong and steady beneath San's palms, a rhythm that seemed to sync with his own pulse until they were moving in perfect harmony. "But not everything you are. That stays with you. That's yours."
San could feel Wooyoung's heartbeat beneath his palms, strong and steady and absolutely, undeniably real. Around them, the perfect garden continued its eternal dance of artificial beauty, marble and light and the whispered prayers of mortals who believed in the benevolence of beings who had never experienced a moment's genuine feeling. It was beautiful, yes, but it was also hollow. A gorgeous shell wrapped around an empty core, like everything else in this realm of enforced perfection.
For the first time, San saw heaven for what it truly was—not paradise, but a gilded cage designed to contain beings too dangerous to be allowed genuine free will. The Council wasn't protecting them from corruption; they were preventing them from becoming fully realized individuals capable of making their own moral choices. It was control disguised as benevolence, manipulation dressed up in the language of divine love.
"Show me," San said, the words tumbling out before he could second-guess them. "Show me what it means to choose."
Wooyoung's eyes widened, surprise flickering across his features before being replaced by something that might have been hope. The expression transformed his entire face, stripping away centuries of cynicism and careful emotional armor to reveal something vulnerable and achingly beautiful underneath. For a moment, he looked exactly like what he was—a fallen angel who had paid the ultimate price for the right to love without conditions.
"San..."
"No." San's voice was stronger now, more certain than he'd felt in centuries. The trembling in his hands had stopped, replaced by a steady determination that seemed to flow from some deep well of courage he hadn't known he possessed. "No more hesitation, no more should and ought and divine expectation. I choose this. I choose you."
The words hung between them like a vow, and San felt something fundamental shift inside his chest. It was like a chain snapping, like walls crumbling, like the first breath after nearly drowning. For the first time in his existence, he was making a choice based purely on his own desires, his own assessment of what would make him happy, his own definition of what was right and good and worth fighting for.
The kiss was inevitable, had probably been inevitable from the moment they'd first met. Wooyoung's lips were warm and soft and tasted like rebellion, like everything San had never allowed himself to want. It was clumsy at first, centuries of repression making San uncertain and desperate, but Wooyoung was patient, guiding him through the discovery of desire with hands that shook only slightly as they tangled in San's hair.
When their mouths finally met, San understood why the Council forbade such contact. This wasn't the chaste, spiritual love that angels were supposed to embody—this was messy and desperate and absolutely consuming. It was selfish and giving in equal measure, the kind of connection that required vulnerability and trust and the willingness to be completely, utterly yourself with another being. It was everything heaven had taught him to fear, and it was the most perfect thing he'd ever experienced.
Wooyoung's lips moved against his with a skill that spoke of experience San could only dream of, coaxing responses from his body that he hadn't known he was capable of. Every touch was a revelation, every caress a lesson in the artistry of physical pleasure. San's wings fluttered frantically against his back, overwhelmed by sensations that had no equivalent in his carefully regulated existence.
When they broke apart, both breathing hard, San felt something shift inside his chest. A loosening, like a chain he'd worn for so long he'd forgotten it was there finally snapping under the weight of his choice. His halo flickered, its light dimming as if it couldn't quite maintain its perfect gleam in the face of such blatant defiance.
"There's no going back from this," Wooyoung said, but his voice was steady, certain. His hands framed San's face like he was something precious, something worth protecting. "Once you step off the path they've set for you, they don't let you back on."
San looked around the garden one more time, taking in the pristine beauty and perfect order that had been his entire world for longer than mortals had words to describe. It was magnificent, undeniably so, but it was also a cage. A beautiful, gilded cage that he'd been too afraid to even rattle, let alone escape. The other angels moved through their prescribed routines with the mechanical precision of clockwork, beautiful and empty and utterly, completely hollow.
"Good," he said, and felt something that might have been laughter bubble up in his chest. "I'm tired of walking paths other people built for me."
The sound that escaped him was foreign, wild, nothing like the carefully modulated expressions of contentment that angels were supposed to display. It was his laugh, born from his own joy rather than prescribed happiness, and it felt like the most radical act of rebellion he'd ever committed.
Wooyoung's smile was brilliant, transforming his entire face and making him look younger, less burdened by the weight of his choices. "In that case, angel, let me show you what it's like to fly without a destination."
The sensation was unlike anything San had ever experienced. Not the careful, controlled flight of angelic duty, but something wild and chaotic and absolutely exhilarating. Wooyoung's hand in his was an anchor and a catalyst, keeping him grounded while simultaneously showing him what it meant to soar without boundaries. They rose above the marble perfection of heaven, climbing higher and higher until the entire realm spread out below them like a detailed miniature.
From this perspective, San could see the true nature of paradise more clearly than ever before. The perfect geometric patterns, the carefully regulated movement of angels through predetermined paths, the complete absence of anything spontaneous or unexpected. It was beautiful in the way that a finely crafted machine was beautiful—impressive in its precision but utterly lacking in soul.
They left the garden behind, its marble columns and ethereal light growing smaller and smaller below them until it looked like what it had always been—a pretty lie wrapped in good intentions. As they flew, San felt the first true stirrings of freedom he'd ever experienced, and with it came a terror so acute it was almost euphoric. This was what it meant to choose uncertainty over security, passion over peace. This was what it meant to be alive.
"Where are we going?" he asked, though part of him already knew the answer.
"Nowhere," Wooyoung replied, his voice carried away by the wind that whipped through their hair and set their clothes flapping like banners of rebellion. "Everywhere. Does it matter?"
And San realized, with a clarity that was both terrifying and liberating, that it didn't. For the first time in his existence, the destination was less important than the journey, less important than the being flying beside him with starlight in his hair and rebellion in his smile. They were writing their own story now, charting their own course through existence without the safety net of divine mandate or predetermined purpose.
They flew until the pristine realm of heaven was nothing but a distant glow behind them, until the space between worlds opened up before them like an endless ocean of possibility. Here, in the void between divine order and mortal chaos, San felt his wings begin to change. The pristine white feathers that had marked him as one of the divine host started to darken, shot through with veins of silver and gold that caught the light of distant stars.
The transformation was more profound than he had expected. It wasn't just the color bleeding from his feathers like spilled ink, but a fundamental alteration in their very structure. Where once they had been symbols of divine perfection, rigid in their adherence to heavenly standards, now they began to darken and decay. Each pristine white feather started to curl at the edges, blackening as if touched by fire, then crumbling away like ash caught in an unfriendly wind.
San watched in fascination and growing alarm as his wings literally fell apart, centuries of divine craftsmanship unraveling in moments. Feathers drifted to the ground around them like snow, leaving behind raw, sensitive skin that would soon heal into raised ridges of scar tissue. The process was both beautiful and terrible—destruction that promised rebirth, loss that guaranteed transformation.
Where his wings had been anchored, he could feel the bone and sinew restructuring itself, preparing for something entirely new. The scars that would form would be the foundation for wings that truly belonged to him—not the uniform perfection of heavenly design, but something chaotic and personal and absolutely his own.
"Does it hurt?" Wooyoung asked, and San could hear the concern in his voice despite the wind that whipped around them as they descended through layers of reality that mortals could never perceive.
San flexed his decaying wings, feeling the transformation ripple through bone and sinew and soul. There was pain, yes, but it was the good kind of pain. The kind that came from growth, from breaking through barriers that had constrained him for too long. It was like shedding skin that had grown too tight, or emerging from a chrysalis that had become a prison rather than protection.
"It feels like becoming," he said, and marveled at the truth of those words.
Because that's exactly what it was—a becoming rather than a destruction. He wasn't losing his angelic nature so much as finally allowing it to evolve beyond the narrow confines that heaven had imposed upon it. The white wings of perfect obedience were giving way to something far more beautiful—wings that reflected his own experiences, his own choices, his own journey toward understanding what it truly meant to love without conditions.
In the midst of his own transformation, San caught sight of Wooyoung's back as the wind whipped through his loose shirt. There, barely visible beneath the fabric, were faded silver lines—scars so old they looked like delicate tattoos etched into golden skin. The sight sent a shock of recognition through San's system. Wooyoung had been through this too, had felt his own divine wings crumble to ash and leave behind proof of his choice.
The demon's scars were beautiful in their antiquity, softened by time into something that looked almost decorative. They spoke of courage paid for long ago, of a choice made and consequences accepted with grace. San reached out instinctively, his fingers ghosting over the faded marks, and felt Wooyoung shiver beneath his touch.
"They fade," Wooyoung said softly, understanding passing between them without need for explanation. "The scars fade, but they never disappear completely. Proof that we chose to become rather than simply exist."
It was then that San truly noticed Wooyoung's earrings for the first time—delicate silver hoops that caught the light with a familiar celestial gleam. His breath caught as recognition dawned. The metal held the same ethereal quality as his own transforming halo, the same otherworldly luminescence that marked objects touched by divine authority.
"Your halo," San whispered, understanding flooding through him like revelation.
Wooyoung's hand moved instinctively to touch one of the earrings, his smile turning soft and almost nostalgic. "Broken into pieces, reshaped into something I actually wanted to wear. Turns out even divine metal can be convinced to serve a better purpose when you're willing to put in the work."
The casual way he spoke about destroying such a sacred symbol should have horrified San, but instead he felt a fierce surge of admiration. Wooyoung hadn't just discarded his halo—he'd transformed it, made it into something beautiful and personal and entirely his own. The earrings were a declaration: even broken things could become art when handled with intention and love.
Wooyoung's laugh was pure joy, and San found himself laughing too, the sound carrying away the last vestiges of his fear. They were falling, yes, but they were falling together, and somehow that made all the difference. This wasn't the terrifying plummet into damnation that the Council had warned him about—this was a deliberate descent into possibility, a conscious choice to embrace uncertainty over the suffocating security of predetermined purpose.
The transformation wasn't just in his wings. San could feel his clothing shifting against his skin, the pristine white robes that had marked him as one of the divine host beginning to change as fundamentally as everything else about him. The fabric darkened, flowing from pure white to deep midnight blue, then splitting and reshaping itself into something altogether more daring.
Gone were the modest, flowing robes that had covered him from neck to ankle. In their place, dark cargo pants materialized—fitted rather than loose, cut to actually flatter his form instead of hiding it beneath layers of sanctified modesty, with straps and buckles that served no purpose except to look devastatingly attractive. His shirt transformed too, the fabric becoming gossamer-thin and translucent, a mere whisper of material that clung to his skin like morning mist.
Most shocking of all was how much skin was suddenly exposed. His collarbones were visible now, the hollow of his throat no longer hidden beneath yards of holy fabric. The see-through shirt revealed everything—the carved planes of his chest, the defined ridges of his abdomen that had never seen natural light, every muscle now on display as if his body were art meant to be appreciated rather than hidden. It was clothing designed for seduction rather than worship, for living rather than merely existing.
San looked down at himself and felt a thrill of recognition mixed with embarrassment. These clothes felt like him in a way the robes never had—bold where he was learning to be bold, revealing where he was learning not to hide, beautiful in their imperfection where he was learning to embrace his own flaws.
"Well, well," Wooyoung's voice was thick with appreciation, his eyes drinking in every newly revealed inch of San's transformed body. "Look what we have here."
Before San could respond, he felt the demon's fingers trace along the edge of his translucent shirt, fingertips ghosting over the curve of his chest with deliberate intent. The touch sent electricity racing through his system, made worse by the fact that there was barely any fabric between Wooyoung's skin and his own.
"Such a shame to hide all this under those prudish robes," Wooyoung murmured, his hand sliding lower to trace the defined ridges of San's abdomen with reverent appreciation. "Though I have to admit, this new look is much more... accessible."
The teasing touch was too much and not nearly enough at the same time. Heat pooled in San's stomach, desire sharp and immediate in a way that would have terrified his angelic self. But he wasn't that being anymore, was he? He was someone who could want without shame, who could take what he desired instead of waiting for permission.
San's hand shot out, fingers wrapping around Wooyoung's wrist with surprising strength. The demon's eyes widened in surprise, then darkened with something that looked like pride as San's free hand came up to tilt his chin, forcing their gazes to lock.
"Careful, demon," San's voice came out rougher than he'd ever heard it, threaded with newfound confidence that made Wooyoung's breath catch. "You've been playing with fire for weeks. Don't act surprised when you finally get burned."
The kiss was nothing like their first tentative exploration. This was claiming, demanding, San pouring every ounce of frustrated desire and newfound boldness into the connection between their mouths. When they broke apart, both breathing hard, San couldn't help the satisfied smirk that curved his lips at the dazed expression on Wooyoung's face.
"How's it feel to get a taste of your own medicine?" San asked, his thumb tracing the line of Wooyoung's jaw with the same deliberate intent the demon had been torturing him with for so long.
Wooyoung's laugh was breathless, tinged with something that sounded almost like pride. "Fuck, San," he breathed, his hands fisting in the translucent fabric of San's transformed shirt. "If this is what happens when you finally stop being such a perfect little angel, then I should have corrupted you weeks ago." His eyes darkened as he leaned closer, voice dropping to a purr that made San's newly sensitive wings tremble. "Though I have to admit, I didn't expect you to be quite so... aggressive about it."
"You've been teasing me for centuries," San replied, his newfound confidence making his voice rougher, more dangerous. "Did you really think I'd just quietly take whatever you decided to give me once I finally let myself want it?"
"God, no," Wooyoung's grin was absolutely feral. "I was counting on exactly this kind of reaction. Perfect angels are boring, San. But a fallen angel who knows what he wants and isn't afraid to take it?" The demon's hands slid lower, tracing the defined lines of San's abdomen through the gossamer fabric. "That's infinitely more interesting."
Meanwhile, his halo was growing heavier and heavier as it struggled to maintain its hold on someone who no longer qualified for its blessing. The weight of it was immense, like carrying the expectations of every being he'd ever disappointed, every rule he'd broken, every moment of doubt he'd ever allowed himself to feel.
When it finally slipped free, tumbling through the void like a fallen star, San felt a lightness he'd never experienced before. The absence of that constant pressure, that reminder of divine authority always hovering just above his consciousness, was more liberating than he could have imagined. He caught it instinctively as it fell, and as his fingers closed around the still-warm metal, he felt it reshape itself.
No longer a perfect circle of divine authority, the metal flowed like liquid under his touch, transforming into something smaller, more personal. When the reshaping was complete, he found himself holding a bracelet—elegant in its simplicity, beautiful in its imperfection. It was still recognizably made from the same celestial metal, but now it bore the marks of choice, the subtle imperfections that came from being touched by genuine emotion rather than manufactured perfection.
"A reminder," he whispered, slipping it onto his wrist where it settled with a comfortable weight.
"Of what you've lost?" Wooyoung asked, though there was no judgment in his voice, only curiosity.
San looked at the bracelet, at the way it caught and scattered light in patterns that were chaotic and beautiful and absolutely, perfectly imperfect. "Of what I've chosen. Of who I decided to become when I finally had the courage to choose."
They were approaching Earth now, its blue and green surface growing larger with each passing moment. San had observed the mortal world countless times through scrying pools and divine surveillance, but he'd never experienced it like this—as a destination rather than a duty, as a place where he might actually belong rather than simply another assignment to be completed with mechanical precision.
The planet was beautiful in a way that heaven could never be. Where paradise was static perfection, Earth was dynamic chaos. Clouds swirled and shifted, oceans moved with restless energy, forests grew and died and grew again in endless cycles of renewal. Even from this distance, San could sense the emotional complexity of the beings below—their joy and sorrow, their love and fear, their desperate struggles to find meaning in lives that were brief and difficult and absolutely, completely real.
"Regrets?" Wooyoung asked as they finally touched down on solid ground, their feet making contact with grass that was real in a way that heaven's marble had never been.
San looked down at himself, taking inventory of the changes that marked his transformation from divine servant to something altogether more complicated. His wings were no longer white, but a complex tapestry of colors that shifted with his mood and the light. His robes had transformed too, trading pristine white for deep blues and silvers that actually felt like they belonged to him rather than to some idealized version of what an angel should be.
The broken halo around his wrist caught the earthly sunlight and threw it back in patterns that were chaotic and beautiful and absolutely, perfectly imperfect. On his back, where his original wings had been anchored, he could feel the raised lines of scars—not marks of shame, but proof of courage. Evidence that he had chosen love over fear, truth over comfortable lies.
"None," he said, and meant it with every fiber of his transformed being. The word came out strong and certain, carrying with it the weight of absolute conviction. "Well, maybe one."
Wooyoung's eyebrows rose in question, and San stepped closer, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from skin that he was finally free to touch without guilt or shame or the weight of divine disapproval. The demon's presence was like coming home to a place he'd never known he was missing, familiar and foreign in equal measure.
"I regret how long it took me to see what was right in front of me," San said, his voice rough with emotion that he made no attempt to hide. "How long I spent pretending I didn't want this, didn't want you."
The admission hung between them like a bridge, spanning the distance between what they had been and what they might become. San reached out, his fingers tracing the sharp line of Wooyoung's jaw with reverent care. The contact sent electricity racing through his transformed nervous system, but it was different now—not the desperate, forbidden desire of his angelic existence, but something cleaner, more honest. The want of a being who was free to feel without apology.
"We have time," Wooyoung replied, his hands coming up to frame San's face with a reverence that made San's newly darkened wings flutter with anticipation. "We have all the time in the world to make up for lost moments."
San leaned into the touch, letting his eyes drift closed as he savored the simple pleasure of contact without consequence. Around them, he could hear the sounds of Earth—birdsong and wind through leaves, the distant hum of mortal life going about its complicated business. It was messy and unpredictable and absolutely beautiful in its refusal to conform to anyone's idea of perfection.
"What now?" he asked, though he was beginning to suspect that the question itself was part of the point.
"Now?" Wooyoung's voice was warm with amusement and something deeper, something that sounded like promises of a future San had never dared to imagine. "Now we write our own story. No divine mandates, no predetermined paths, no should or ought or expected. Just us and whatever we decide to make of this existence."
San opened his eyes, meeting Wooyoung's gaze with a certainty that surprised him. The fear was still there—would probably always be there, given the magnitude of what he'd chosen—but it was overwhelmed by something far stronger. Anticipation. Joy. The desperate, exhilarating excitement of someone who had finally, finally allowed himself to live.
"I want to learn everything," he said, the words tumbling out in a rush of enthusiasm that would have horrified his former self. Angels weren't supposed to want with such naked intensity, weren't supposed to approach existence with such greedy hunger for experience. "What it means to choose, what it feels like to want without shame, how to love without limits."
He paused, then added with a small smile that felt foreign on his lips but absolutely right, "I want you to teach me what it means to be beautifully, perfectly imperfect."
Wooyoung's answering smile was radiant, transforming his entire face and making him look like the angel he had once been—before he'd learned that perfection was just another word for emptiness. "Oh, angel," he murmured, his voice dropping to a register that made San's newly sensitive wings tremble with anticipation, "I thought you'd never ask."
The kiss this time was different from their first—deeper, more confident, flavored with the knowledge that they had chosen each other not in spite of the consequences but because of them. San's transformed wings spread wide behind him, catching the earthly sunlight and throwing back patterns of light that were chaotic and beautiful and absolutely nothing like the sterile perfection of heaven.
When they broke apart, both breathing hard, San felt something settle deep in his chest—not the hollow contentment of divine mandate, but the warm, complex satisfaction of genuine happiness. It was messy and uncertain and absolutely terrifying in its intensity, but it was his. Completely, irrevocably his in a way that nothing in heaven had ever been.
The sun was setting over the earthly landscape, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that no heavenly artist had ever dreamed of capturing. It was messy and temporary and absolutely gorgeous, much like everything else about this new existence San had chosen. In the distance, he could see lights beginning to twinkle on in houses where mortals lived their complicated, beautiful, utterly free lives.
"Is this what you meant when you said freedom tastes better than fear?" San asked, settling onto the grass beside Wooyoung and marveling at how different it felt from the perfect marble of heaven's gardens. This was real earth, complete with the scent of growing things and the possibility of rain, the promise of seasons and change and all the messy unpredictability that came with genuine life.
"This is just the beginning," Wooyoung replied, his hand finding San's and threading their fingers together with the easy intimacy of lovers who had all the time in the world to discover each other. "Freedom isn't a destination, it's a practice. Every choice you make, every moment you decide to be yourself instead of what others expect you to be—that's freedom."
San squeezed Wooyoung's hand, feeling the calluses on the demon's fingers that spoke of a life lived fully, without the artificial perfection that had defined his own existence for so long. These were hands that had touched and been touched, that had created and destroyed and experienced the full spectrum of what it meant to be a conscious being in an uncertain universe.
"Then I choose to practice with you," he said, and felt the truth of those words settle into his bones like a benediction.
Wooyoung turned to look at him, and San saw something in those dark eyes that took his breath away. Not just desire, though that was certainly there, but recognition. Understanding. The kind of deep connection that San had read about in mortal poetry but never thought he'd experience himself.
"The scars on your back," Wooyoung said quietly, his free hand reaching around to trace the ridges where San's original wings had been transformed, "they're not marks of shame. They're proof of courage. Proof that you chose love over fear, truth over comfortable lies."
San leaned into the touch, feeling a shiver of sensation that was entirely new and entirely his own. The scars were sensitive in ways his original wing-anchors had never been, responding to Wooyoung's caress with waves of pleasure that made his entire body sing with possibility.
"Show me more," he whispered, and this time there was no hesitation in the request, no careful qualification or angelic reservation. "Show me everything I've been missing."
Wooyoung's eyes darkened with a hunger that made San's pulse race, but when he spoke, his voice was gentle, almost reverent. "Not here," he said, though San could see the effort it cost him to maintain restraint. "You deserve better than grass and starlight for your first real taste of freedom."
San felt a laugh bubble up in his chest, surprised by his own boldness. The sound was nothing like the carefully modulated expressions of divine contentment he'd been trained to display—it was wild and free and absolutely his own. "I deserve whatever I choose to accept. And right now, I choose you, here, under these stars that don't shine with divine mandate but with their own wild light."
Wooyoung's eyes widened, and then his smile was brilliant and proud and absolutely devastating in its beauty. "Look at you, making choices like you were born to it."
"Maybe I was," San replied, and realized with a start that he meant it. The idea would have been blasphemous in heaven—angels were created for specific purposes, their natures predetermined by divine will. But here, in this moment, San felt the truth of his own words resonating through his transformed being. "Maybe we all were, before they taught us to be afraid of our own desires."
The night stretched out before them, full of possibilities that San was only beginning to understand. This was just the start, he knew. The first page of a story that would be entirely their own, written in choices and consequences and the beautiful, terrible freedom of loving without limits.
As Wooyoung's hands began to explore the places where his transformation had left him sensitive and new, San closed his eyes and let himself fall into sensation without guilt, without shame, without anything but the pure, undiluted joy of being exactly who he chose to be. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the faint echo of heavenly choirs singing their perfect, soulless harmonies, but the sound held no pull for him now.
He had found something better than perfection. He had found truth. He had found love. He had found himself.
And this, San thought as Wooyoung's mouth found the sensitive spot where his neck met his shoulder, sending shockwaves of pleasure through his transformed nervous system, this was only the beginning of everything they would discover together. The night was young, the earth was vast, and they had eternity to explore every corner of the freedom they had claimed.
The grass beneath them was soft and real, cushioning their bodies as they came together with the desperate hunger of beings who had been denied authentic connection for far too long. Every touch was a revelation, every kiss a promise, every caress a celebration of the choice they had made to be real rather than perfect.
San's wings spread wide beneath him, their new colors shifting and swirling in response to the intensity of his emotions. Where once they had been symbols of divine authority, now they were expressions of his own desire, responsive to his feelings rather than bound by heavenly regulation. They were beautiful in their imperfection, chaotic in their honesty, absolutely perfect in their refusal to conform to anyone else's standards.
Above them, the stars wheeled in their ancient patterns, indifferent to the cosmic rebellion taking place in a simple field on an insignificant planet. But San had never felt more significant, more real, more absolutely himself than he did in this moment. This was what it meant to be alive—not the sterile existence of heavenly perfection, but the messy, complicated, absolutely beautiful reality of choosing love over fear.
As Wooyoung's hands mapped every contour of his transformed body, San understood finally what the demon had meant about freedom tasting better than fear. This was freedom—the right to feel without apology, to want without shame, to love without limits or conditions or divine approval. It was terrifying and exhilarating and absolutely worth every price he'd paid to claim it.
The broken halo around his wrist caught the starlight and threw it back in patterns that were chaotic and beautiful, a reminder of everything he had given up and everything he had gained. He was no longer an angel of the divine host, bound by rules and expectations that had never truly fit him. He was something new, something chosen, something entirely his own.
He was fallen, and he had never felt more like flying.
When morning came, painting the sky in shades of gold and rose that rivaled heaven's artificial light, San woke with Wooyoung's head resting against his bare chest, right over his heart where the demon could feel every steady beat. The sheets had tangled around their legs sometime during the night, leaving their torsos exposed to the gentle morning air. Wooyoung's dark hair spilled across San's skin like ink against parchment, and San felt more rested than he had in millennia. The demon's body was warm and solid against him, an anchor in the storm of transformation that had reshaped his entire existence.
"Good morning, fallen angel," Wooyoung murmured against his chest, and San could hear the smile in his voice.
"Good morning, beautiful demon," San replied, marveling at how easy it was to speak without calculating the proper response, without filtering every word through layers of divine propriety. This was conversation—real, honest, unguarded communication between beings who had chosen to see each other without pretense.
They lay there for a while, watching the sun paint the sky in colors that shifted and changed with each passing moment. It was nothing like the eternal, unchanging light of heaven, but it was infinitely more beautiful for its impermanence. This was life as it was meant to be lived—full of moments that could never be replicated, experiences that were precious precisely because they wouldn't last forever.
"So," Wooyoung said eventually, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at San with eyes that sparkled with mischief and affection in equal measure. "What does a newly fallen angel want to do with his first full day of freedom?"
San considered the question, feeling a thrill of excitement at the realization that the answer was entirely up to him. No assigned duties, no predetermined schedule, no expectations beyond whatever he chose to create for himself. It was overwhelming and exhilarating and absolutely perfect.
"Everything," he said finally, then laughed at his own enthusiasm. "I want to see how mortals live, taste food that hasn't been sanctified, feel rain that falls because of weather instead of divine blessing. I want to learn what it means to exist without purpose except the ones I create for myself."
Wooyoung's smile turned absolutely radiant, and San felt his heart skip in response to the pure joy he saw reflected there. "Perfect. Because I know exactly who you need to meet." The demon's grin took on a distinctly mischievous edge. "My friends—Yeosang, Mingi, Yunho, Hongjoong, Seonghwa, and Jongho. They're going to love you. Well, once they get over the shock of me actually bringing someone home."
San's eyes widened with delight, a sensation so foreign and wonderful that it made his newly forming wings flutter with anticipation. "Friends?" The concept was intoxicating. In heaven, there were no friends—only fellow servants of the divine will, bound together by duty rather than choice. "You have friends?"
"Fallen angels tend to find each other," Wooyoung explained, his voice warm with affection for these beings San had yet to meet. "We're a chaotic bunch, but we're family in all the ways that matter. And they're going to want to celebrate your liberation properly."
The idea of celebration, of people who would welcome his choice rather than condemn it, sent warmth spiraling through San's chest. "I'd love to meet them. I want to learn everything about this new existence."
"Then let's start with breakfast," Wooyoung said, stretching languidly.
"Actually," San said, a flush creeping up his neck as he gestured to his new clothes, "before we do anything else, I should probably... I mean, I only have what I wore yesterday. And if I'm going to be living in this world, I should probably have more than one set of clothes." He paused, then added with growing excitement, "I want to choose what I wear. Not have it chosen for me by divine transformation, but actually pick things because I like how they look, how they make me feel."
Wooyoung's expression shifted from surprise to something that looked distinctly like mischief. "Oh, this is perfect," he said, and there was something almost gleeful in his voice that made San's wings flutter with anticipation and slight apprehension. "You want to go shopping. San, angel, you have no idea what you've just walked into."
"What do you mean?"
"Yeosang and Mingi," Wooyoung explained, his grin widening with each word. "Fashion is their thing. Well, one of their things. Yeosang has an eye for style that could make professional designers weep with envy, and Mingi..." He paused, seeming to consider his words carefully. "Mingi is going to take one look at you—newly fallen, gorgeous, completely clueless about earthly fashion—and he's going to lose his absolute mind. He'll want to dress you up like his personal doll."
San felt heat pool in his stomach at the casual way Wooyoung called him gorgeous, but there was something else too—curiosity about these friends he was about to meet. "Is that... good or bad?"
"Oh, it's going to be insufferable," Wooyoung said cheerfully. "He's going to have opinions about everything—colors that work with your skin tone, cuts that show off your transformation, accessories that complement those gorgeous scars of yours. He'll probably try to pierce something. And Yeosang will enable him completely because he's just as bad, just quieter about it."
"You sound like you speak from experience." San paused, then added with growing curiosity, "What about the others? Yunho, Seonghwa, Hongjoong, and Jongho?"
Wooyoung's grin turned absolutely wicked, like he was savoring a particularly delicious secret. "Oh, you want to know about all of them? How adorable." He stepped closer, close enough that San could feel the warmth radiating from his skin. "Let's just say... Yunho's the gentle giant type who'll probably want to wrap you in blankets and make sure you're adjusting okay to everything. He's got this protective streak that's absolutely endearing."
"Wooyoung—"
"Seonghwa's the responsible one who pretends he doesn't approve of our chaos but secretly orchestrates half of it," Wooyoung continued, clearly enjoying the increasingly flustered expression on San's face. "Hongjoong's our unofficial leader—brilliant, charismatic, makes the best pancakes you'll ever taste in your existence. And Jongho... well, Jongho's the baby of the group but don't let that fool you. He could probably snap you in half and look adorable doing it."
San's wings—or rather, the sensitive scars where they'd been—tingled with anticipation. "That's not really telling me anything substantial."
"I know." Wooyoung's laugh was pure mischief. "Where's the fun in spoiling all the surprises? You'll figure them out soon enough."
"You mentioned experience with the fashion thing earlier?"
"I absolutely do. They ambushed me when I first fell, decided I needed a 'proper fallen angel aesthetic' instead of just wearing whatever I could steal." Wooyoung's fond exasperation was clear in his voice. "I didn't have a choice in anything I wore for the first six months of my earthly existence. Everything was 'trust me, this will look amazing on you' and 'Wooyoung, you can't wear the same leather pants every day.'"
San found himself laughing at the mental image. "They sound... enthusiastic."
"That's one word for it. But honestly?" Wooyoung's expression softened slightly. "They'll love having someone new to fuss over. And you'll love having choices, even if they're slightly overwhelming at first."
"Then let's go shopping first," San decided, surprising himself with how easily the words came. "I want to choose who I'm going to be, starting with how I present myself to the world." He paused, glancing down at his gossamer shirt and fitted pants. "Though I probably shouldn't meet them wearing the same thing two days in a row. Maybe I could borrow something of yours for now?"
Wooyoung's eyes immediately darkened with obvious disappointment, his gaze trailing deliberately over San's barely concealed chest. "A pity," he said, voice dropping to that purr that made San's scars tingle with remembered sensation. "I was rather looking forward to seeing those gorgeous tits and those perfectly defined abs of yours on display again. That translucent shirt really is a work of art."
Heat flooded San's cheeks, but there was no shame in it now—just the warm pleasure of being desired so openly. "You're impossible."
"I prefer 'appreciative of aesthetic excellence,'" Wooyoung replied with a grin that was absolutely shameless. "But fine, you can raid my wardrobe. Just remember—once Mingi gets his hands on you, you're going to end up with enough clothes to stock a small boutique. And at least half of it will be designed to drive me completely insane with want."
San felt his own smile turn wicked. "Even better."
As if summoned by their conversation about sustenance, San's stomach chose that moment to produce a loud, decidedly ungraceful rumble that echoed across the quiet morning air. Both of them froze for a moment before Wooyoung burst into delighted laughter.
"Well," Wooyoung said, rising gracefully and extending a hand to help San to his feet, "I think that settles it. Let's start with breakfast—you can borrow something of mine, and then we'll introduce you to the chaos that is my chosen family. Hongjoong makes pancakes that would make the heavenly host abandon their posts in pure, desperate envy."
San took the offered hand, marveling at the simple pleasure of skin against skin without consequence, without the weight of divine disapproval hanging over every touch. As he stood, his transformed wings caught the morning light, sending patterns of silver and gold dancing across the grass like a blessing that asked for nothing in return.
He was fallen, cast out from the only home he'd ever known, marked forever as one who had chosen love over duty. The scars on his back would always remind him of what he'd given up, just as the bracelet on his wrist would always mark him as someone who had once worn a halo. But as he looked into Wooyoung's eyes and saw his own joy reflected there, San knew with absolute certainty that he had made the right choice.
This was what it meant to be free—not the absence of consequences, but the presence of choice. Not the elimination of pain, but the right to decide what pain was worth bearing for the sake of what you loved. Not the promise of perfection, but the possibility of becoming exactly who you chose to be.
And as they walked hand in hand toward whatever adventures awaited them, San felt his wings spread wide behind him, catching the morning breeze and lifting him slightly off the ground in a flight that was entirely his own. He was fallen, yes, but he had never felt more like soaring.
The world stretched out before them, vast and complicated and absolutely full of possibility. And for the first time in his existence, San was free to explore every inch of it.