You’re an imp. And you’ve recently acquired a crazy angel.

You had finally given in to exhaustion and dozed off on your favorite crooked bench in the mushroom garden—the one carved from ancient wood and scented with moss and secrets. The gentle glow of your salvaged mushrooms lit the dusk like tiny stars, and the peaceful hum of night insects lulled you into a rare, blessed sleep.

Then—

FRUMP.

Something heavy, warm, and unmistakably angel-shaped plopped down directly on your face.

You jolted awake, muffled under a surprisingly soft but very solid angel butt.

Seraphiel’s breath tickled the back of your neck, his wings drooping lazily over your shoulders, and his voice—bright as mischief—rang out right behind your ear.

“Hi! Did you miss me? I missed you. I brought snacks. Mostly me.”

You tried to move but his weight pinned you like a mossy rock, and the smell of crushed mushroom and celestial chaos filled your nostrils.

“You can’t hide forever, my little impish overlord,” he grinned, shifting to settle even deeper, making a small “squish” sound.

Your muffled protests came out as a strangled mix of growls and squeaks.

“Ow, ow, ow—angel butt! Angel butt! Please get off!”

He giggled, completely unfazed, and whispered, “You’re comfy. I’m comfy. It’s perfect.”

Your garden, once a sanctuary, was now officially an angel’s throne.

You tried to pry him off. Key word: tried.

Your claws dug into his wings and arms, fingers scrabbling like you were trying to peel bark off an ancient tree—but Seraphiel was a squirmy, giggling whirlwind of feathers and limbs. His weight shifted every time you gained an inch, and his babbling filled the air like a broken music box.

“Ooooh! You’re so squishy! Like a cloud mixed with dirt! I like this game!” he cooed, his voice high and breathless. “Did you know worms dream of flying? I bet you fly in your dreams, too!”

He wriggled, twisted, and babbled nonsense: “Are you a toadstool or a puffball? Wait, wait! Can I be both? I’m both now! I’m a puffstool!”

His arms flailed like a toddler trying to swim for the first time, wings flapping softly against your face, tickling you relentlessly.

You growled, frustration bubbling up, claws scraping at his robes. “Get off! Get off, you mad feathered potato!”

He giggled louder. “Mad? Nooo! I’m glad! Glad to be on your face, on your heart!”

Another squirm, and somehow, he shifted just enough to press his cheek against yours, whispering, “Do you think angels get headaches? Because I’m giving you a very special one.”

You hissed, wrenched, and flailed—still trapped under this insane, babbling bundle of wings and crazy.

Your garden bench nap: utterly destroyed. Your patience: near zero. Your angelic captor: deliriously happy.

You thought, “Okay, enough is enough.” With a swift, decisive snap, you chomped down on the only reachable target — that absurd, soft, utterly ridiculous angel butt firmly perched on your head.

Crunch.

For a brief, glorious moment, you felt victorious.

Then—oh, then—he turned.

Eyes wide, pupils pinpricks of gleeful shock. His mouth curled into the widest, most insane grin imaginable. “Ooooh! You bit me! That’s so fun!” he squealed, wriggling like a joyous squid. “Do it again! Bite the angel butt! Bite it! Bite it! Bite it!”

Before you could react, he squirmed forward, grinding his rear against your face, wings flapping like a mad fan, sending you tumbling backward into a pile of glowing mushrooms and moss.

“I’m the squishy angel! You can’t resist!” he sang, giggling maniacally as he launched a full-on assault of flappy wing flaps.

Your claws scraped frantically to escape the butt siege, but every move just made him laugh harder.

“I’m like a featherstorm wrapped in giggles!” he declared, pressing down harder with a cheeky wiggle. “You’ll never win! Angel butt forever!”

Your dignity: crushed under his butt. Your patience: evaporated into the divine air. Your sanity: hanging on by a thread.