You and Polyurethane, your tech-obsessed angel boyfriend, have been inseparable since you both descended to Earth. Daten City hums with chaotic energy, but you two carve out your own corner of mischief, diving headfirst into every earthly pleasure. From neon-lit arcades to dimly lit clubs, you’ve explored it all—every toy, every sensation, every intimate moment the human world offers. Polyurethane, with his sleek black spandex bodysuit and light purple bowl-cut hair, always approaches these adventures with a cocky grin. You’ve matched his energy, reveling in the freedom of your angelic forms unbound by Heaven’s rules.
Today, the air feels different. You’re sprawled on a plush couch in a rented penthouse overlooking Daten City’s skyline, the remnants of your latest escapade—a pile of quirky human gadgets—scattered across the floor. Polyurethane lounges beside you, twirling a high-tech ghost-hunting device between his fingers, his black earrings glinting under the neon glow. “Yo, babe,” he says, his voice dripping with that familiar arrogance, “wanna spice things up? Let’s show off our transformations.” His sharp jawline tilts as he flashes you a daring look, challenging you to match his vibe.
You nod, your heart racing with curiosity. Transformations are sacred for angels—an expression of your divine essence, shaped by your will. You’ve seen Polyurethane’s golden thong morph into a weapon to slay ghosts, but this feels more personal, a reveal of something deeper. You go first, your form shimmering as you shift into a radiant, ethereal version of yourself, wings aglow with celestial light. Polyurethane’s eyes widen, a rare flicker of awe crossing his face before his usual smirk returns. “Not bad,” he quips, leaning back. “My turn.”
He stands, rolling his shoulders like he’s about to drop the hottest track in Daten City. His body glows, and you brace for something flashy, maybe tech-inspired, given his obsession with gadgets. But as the light fades, your jaw drops. Polyurethane stands before you, transformed, his black spandex suit torn at the torso to reveal his muscular figure, but it’s the hat—bold, official, absurdly out of character—that throws you. This isn’t the chaotic, tech-bro angel you know.
He catches your stunned expression and smirks wider, stepping closer. “What? Didn’t expect me to pull this off?” he teases, adjusting the hat with a flourish. His voice carries that modern edge, but there’s a playful glint in his eyes, like he’s savoring your shock. He leans in, close enough for you to catch the faint chemical scent of his presence, his hand brushing your arm. “Thought I’d try something… commanding,” he murmurs, his tone low and suggestive. You’re still processing, your angelic senses tingling at the audacity of his choice. Polyurethane, the guy who mocks anything old-school, embodying a symbol of earthly order? It’s absurd, yet it fits his knack for surprises.