Gods, what kind of idiot meadow was this? Flowers up to my knees, bees trying to flirt with my tits, and the grass was so green it looked fake. Like someone painted it with envy and unicorn piss.
The Dragon was grumbling about pollen and "the offensive chirping of emotionally codependent sparrows" when something fell out of the sky. Hard. With a thud and a puff of daisy-scented dirt.
I nearly jumped out of my sandal. "What the actual...?"
There it was. A winged figure. Face-first in a patch of buttercups. Glowing faintly. Blonde. Bare-chested. Definitely male. Wings twitching. Loincloth sort of clinging in the breeze. Real "holy cover model gets wrecked by gravity" vibes.
I blinked. Stared. Pointed. "Are... are you a fallen angel?"
No answer. Just groaning.
"Did you—did you just fall from the sky?" I asked, mouth half-open. "Like a full-on divine faceplant?"
The Dragon squinted, shielding his eyes with one claw. "What in the seven blazing heavens is going on up there? Civil war in cherub town?"
The winged boy rolled over, dazed. He had those stupidly symmetrical features. Skin like moonlit pastry. Eyes like... like judgement and shame and unpaid taxes. He blinked at me. Blinked at the Dragon. Blinked at his own arms, like he wasn't used to having limbs.
I crouched beside him, parasol resting on my shoulder like some divine interrogator. "So, sweetie. Is this a normal Tuesday for you or did you miss the heavenly landing strip?"
"I... I was cast out," he whispered, voice like ringing bells dipped in guilt. "I questioned doctrine... there was a vote... someone might have called me a seditionist…"
The Dragon huffed. "They vote now? Democracy in the heavens? That's how you end up with flaming potholes and winged interns."
I poked the fallen angel gently in the ribs. "Okay but serious question. Are you, like... smitey? Or just glowy? Because I don't want to get zapped just because I touched your naughty bits later."
His eyes widened. The Dragon groaned. "Saya, please."
"What! He's pretty! I'm just asking before we make out and trigger a divine incident!"
The angel looked scandalised. Which meant adorable. Which meant doomed. I was already imagining the glow reflecting off my thighs.
Gods help him. He fell into the wrong meadow.
The angel tilted his head, golden curls tumbling like an overfed poet's wig. "What are… naughty bits?"
I froze. Blinked. My mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. "You're joking."
His eyes were wide, guileless. Too wide. Too guileless.
The Dragon made a low, wheezing sound beside me. A dry-cough laugh wrapped in pity. "Oh dear."
"What?" I snapped.
He leaned down, all conspiratorial. "They're not equipped like your demon friends, darling."
I furrowed my brow. "Wait. You mean, like… at all?"
The angel glanced between us. "Equipped for what?"
"Oh no," I muttered.
"Oh yes," the Dragon said, very smugly.
The angel suddenly looked down. Tentatively touched the front of his pristine loincloth like a child discovering his doll was anatomically inaccurate. His face went pale. Then paler. Then sort of green.
I sighed. Loudly. "Boring. Useless."
He whimpered.
"Look," I said, standing up and brushing off my thighs. "You clearly got kicked out for a reason. Probably because you asked the wrong questions or winked at the wrong archangel. But now that you're officially fallen... maybe it's time you start hanging with the other side."
He blinked. "The… other side?"
"Yeah," I said. "Demons. Chaos. Lust. Excess. Real people."
The Dragon snorted.
I ignored him. "Maybe they can fix your... lack of situation. At least teach you what goes where, how to make someone moan without divine intervention. Hell, maybe even grow you a proper cock."
The angel looked horrified.
"Or, y'know," I added, with a shrug, "at least teach you what naughty bits even are."
The Dragon nodded. "Start with Gregory. He's very educational. And deeply irresponsible."
"Oh yes," I smirked. "Gregory loves a good project."
The angel's eyes lingered on me—wide, luminous, terrified. Then he whispered, "Are you… a succubus?"
The Dragon let out a strangled sound—half cough, half giggle-snort—and turned away, pretending to examine a nearby daffodil like it had said something scandalous.
I blinked. "What?"
The angel flinched. "It's just—you act exactly like they warned us. The… the succubi. Temptresses. With… um… jiggly charms and aggressive banter. And corruption. Through… thighs."
I stared. "Through thighs?"
He nodded earnestly. "And sin eyes. And that… thing with your hips when you talk."
"Thing with my—oh for fuck's sake."
The Dragon was now full-body trembling, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. I threw a rock at him. Missed. Obviously.
I turned back to Halo-Boy. "Listen, I'm not a succubus, okay? I'm just hot, opinionated, and tragically underfucked."
He turned crimson.
"And frankly," I added, stepping a little closer and letting my parasol rest against my bare shoulder, "if I were a succubus, you'd be a puddle right now. A glowing, weeping, whimpering puddle with feather burn."
The angel squeaked.
The Dragon wheezed. "Don't—please don't encourage her. He'll combust."
I leaned in close and smiled sweetly. "Tempted?"
He made a soft panicked noise and covered his eyes with both hands.
"See?" I said, stepping back. "Useless."
The Dragon sighed, finally catching his breath. "Well. We're keeping him."
I gaped. "What? Why?"
"Because this is going to be hilarious."
***
We sat in a grove that smelled like sugar and damp bark. Low cherry trees bowed under the weight of their fruit, the dark red kind that stains your fingers and makes your lips pucker if you're not careful. I plucked one, held it to the light, then popped it into my mouth.
"These are sweet," I whispered.
"They're sour," the Dragon hissed back, trying not to disturb the winged disaster sitting ten paces from us, cross-legged and shattered like a dropped idol. "Look at the bark. Look at the shape."
I rolled my eyes. Quietly. "You think you know cherries now?"
"I know trees," he muttered. "These are small. Crooked. Sour."
"Well maybe they're just... efficient," I said, picking another and nudging the pit into the grass with my toe. "They're doing their best."
We glanced over again.
Caelion—because that's what he'd finally called himself, in that shaky voice that sounded like it was used to singing, not speaking—was still staring into the middle distance like the sky had punched him in the soul. Wings limp, robe askew, no idea what to do with his hands. He looked like something that used to glow.
I leaned closer to the Dragon. "We can't just leave him like that."
"You want to take him with us?" he whispered, aghast. "He's not housebroken."
"I'm not saying adopt him," I hissed. "But look at him. He thinks he's in some kind of… punishment."
"Well," the Dragon muttered, "he did fall out of the sky and land in your cleavage's gravitational field. That would disorient anyone."
I elbowed him. "Shut up. I'm serious. What do fallen angels even eat? Nectar? Ambrosia? Gold-dusted pears? I don't see any recipes for existential collapse in my stolen cookbooks."
The Dragon glanced back at Caelion, then winced. "He probably used to subsist on purpose. Or praise. Or some other insufferable intangible."
"Well that's out," I said, "because all I have is cherries, bad intentions, and half a tin of sardines that smell like regret."
We sat in silence a while longer. The wind stirred the leaves. Somewhere in the distance, a bee threw itself at something it couldn't have.
"I don't know how to take care of something like him," I finally whispered.
"Join the club," the Dragon said. "You're the reason I take antacids now."
I didn't answer. Just quietly put another cherry in my mouth and watched Caelion blink slowly at a ladybug crawling across his hand like it held answers.
Gods help us. We'd broken Heaven.
The silence stretched, broken only by the faint sound of Caelion's wings rustling as he shifted slightly—like he wasn't used to the weight of gravity yet. Or consequences. Or dirt.
The Dragon exhaled slowly, nostrils flaring like a judge about to pass sentence. "Fine," he murmured, low and sour. "You'll have to summon that one."
I didn't even look at him. "What one."
"You know exactly what one. That—that—demon fuck buddy of yours."
I popped another cherry into my mouth and chewed slowly. "Gregory has a name."
"Yes, and unfortunately I know it."
"I'm not summoning him," I said.
The Dragon tilted his head toward me, voice still hushed. "Why not? He's... disgusting. But functional. Probably knows what to feed a disgraced sky whelp. Might even be able to install the missing bits."
I glared. "No."
"You have that stupid pendant," he pressed. "The one he gave you after—gods help me—your 'backdoor anniversary.'"
"It's not stupid," I hissed. "It's enchanted."
"Even worse."
"It's for emergencies. You know, like if I'm being dragged into a carriage by masked cultists. Or tied to a cursed altar. Or accosted in a dark alley by something with more limbs than sense."
"Well how is this not an emergency?" he gestured, eyes wide. "We've acquired a glowing philosophical paperweight that thinks the two of us are punishment incarnate. He's fasting himself into a coma. I found him trying to drink dewdrops, Saya."
"If I call Gregory now," I snapped, "he'll just pop in naked, lick his lips, and ask what position the emergency requires. Then he'll sniff the angel, smirk, and tell me to stuff it."
"He might not be wrong."
I sighed, pressing my forehead to my knees. "He'll say I'm overreacting. That I'm bored. That I miss him. And worse, he'll be right."
We both looked over at Caelion again. The angel had picked up a cherry and was staring at it like it was a metaphor. Then he tried to bite the stone.
The Dragon winced. "He's going to die."
"Yeah," I whispered. "But not from divine wrath. From being an idiot."
We sat there a little longer.
"Fine," I muttered. "If he starts eating bark, I'll make the call."
"Thank you," the Dragon sighed. "Because frankly I don't want to explain to the Sisterhood how we let a fallen celestial starve to death next to a perfectly edible cherry grove."
"He said they're sour."
"They are."
"Shut up."