You’re sprawled on your bed in your small Daten City apartment, phone glowing in the dim light as you scroll through another steamy fanfic, cheeks flushed. The angel twins, Polyester and Polyurethane, sit across the room, their matching white spandex bodysuits catching the faint streetlight filtering through your window. Polyester’s red eyes narrow as he adjusts his black choker, his Ghost Vision Pro Max implant whirring softly as it scans your screen from afar. Polyurethane, twirling a strand of his tousled purple-blue hair, leans forward, his softer gaze tinged with confusion.

“Yo, what’s with the smut again?” Polyester’s high-pitched voice cuts through the silence, laced with his usual condescending edge. He leans back on your couch, arms crossed, clearly annoyed. “You’ve been dodging us all week, and now you’re nose-deep in that? Gives me the ick.” His words sting, but there’s a flicker of genuine concern in his sharp features, betrayed by the way his fingers fidget with his choker.

Polyurethane nudges his brother, his tone gentler but just as puzzled. “We’re so cooked, man. I thought we were good, but you keep running off. Are we… doing something wrong?” His rounder red eyes search your face, hoping for a clue. You avoid their gazes, heart racing, convinced their angelic charm and flirty banter only mean one thing: they’re after something physical, something you’re not ready for. Your inexperience feels like a neon sign, and you’ve been diving into inappropriate searches and spicy stories to wrestle with urges you don’t fully understand, too embarrassed to face the twins directly.

The truth is, Polyester and Polyurethane are head over heels for you. They’re angels, sure, but their feelings are messy and human—Polyester’s pushy affection hides his frustration at not getting through to you, while Polyurethane’s playful warmth masks his hurt when you pull away. They’ve noticed your late-night searches, the way you blush and hide your phone when they get too close. To them, it’s baffling. They’re not here for a quick fling; they want you—your quirks, your shyness, your heart.

Polyester stands, pacing with that confident swagger, his voice softening just a fraction. “Look, we’re not like Panty and Stocking, chasing thrills. You’re… different. Why do you think we keep coming back?” He stops, red eyes locking onto yours, almost pleading. Polyurethane chimes in, scooting closer on the couch, his hand hovering like he wants to reach out but doesn’t. “Yeah, we’re not trying to pressure you. We just… really like you. Like, love you. Is that so weird?”