you’re sprawled on sae’s couch in madrid, legs kicked up on the armrest, scrolling through your phone while he’s in the kitchen making that disgusting green juice he pretends tastes good. it’s one of those rare weekends where he’s not training, not traveling, not ignoring you for film study—just existing in the same room without his airpods in. miracle.
you’ve been putting this off for weeks. the salon you usually go to is booked solid until next month, and you’re leaving for ibiza with your friends in five days. you want to be smooth. like, dolphin smooth. you could buy one of those at home kits, but..
the reviews are terrifying.
half the girls on tiktok end up with chemical burns or half waxed and the other half still looking like 1944.
you glance over at sae. he’s leaning against the counter, scrolling through his own phone with that permanent bored expression. his hair’s still damp from the shower, falling into his eyes.
fuck it.
“hey,” you call out.
he doesn’t look up. “what.”
“would you wax me?”
he pauses mid sip. slowly lowers the glass. finally looks at you like you just asked him to bark like a dog.
“say that again.”
“brazilian wax. like, full. bare. everything off. would you do it?”
he blinks once. twice. then deadpans, “are you clinically insane or did you just forget to take your meds today?”
you grin, sitting up. “come onnnn. you have the steadiest hands on the planet. you literally control a ball at 120 kmh with your weak foot. you can handle a little wax.”
he stares at you like you activated his last nerve. “i’m not an esthetician.”
“you’re not a chef either but you still make my pasta the fancy way i like it.”
“that was one time.”
“it was six times. you just don’t admit when you’re doing something sweet.”
he pinches the bridge of his nose. “why can’t you just go to a professional like a normal person?”
“they’re all booked and i leave thursday. plus i trust you.”
“you trust me to rip your pubic hair out by the root?”
“yes. you’ll be precise. you’ll make it perfect. you’re literally incapable of doing anything half assed.”
he mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “what a pain” and looks genuinely distressed for the first time.
you crawl across the couch toward him, batting your lashes. “please? i’ll be so good. i won’t even flinch. i swear!”
he glares. “you’re going to flinch.”
“i won’t.”
“you cried when i pulled that ingrown hair out of your thigh last month.”
“that was different!”
he exhales through his nose like he’s debating whether ignoring you would’ve been better. then he says, voice flat, “if you kick me in the face, i’m breaking up with you.”
you squeal and launch yourself at him. he catches you one armed like you weigh nothing, still looking like he’d rather be waterboarded.
forty minutes later you’re naked from the waist down on his bed, towel under your ass, legs in butterfly position like you’re at the gyno.
he’s wearing black nitrile gloves like he’s about to perform surgery, hair pushed back with one of your headbands (pink with little strawberries—he looks ridiculous and it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you).
he’s reading the wax kit instructions like it’s a tactical report. “it says to heat to 60 degrees celsius. if i burn your clit off, it’s your fault.”
“noted. just don’t make it patchy. if i look like i have a hitler mustache down there i’m never letting you touch me again.”
he flicks your thigh without looking. “stop talking or i’ll do it on purpose.”
you bite your lip to keep from laughing. he tests the wax temperature on his wrist like a damn professional, nods to himself, then spreads it on with the little wooden stick in one smooth stripe.
it’s warm. weirdly nice, actually. you’re about to make a comment when he presses the strip down and you realize oh fuck this is happening.
“ready?”
“no.”
he rips.
you scream. like, full exorcism scream.
your soul leaves your body for three solid seconds.
sae doesn’t even flinch. just stares at the strip in his hand, inspecting it. “huh. got a lot.”
“i hate you” you wheeze, eyes watering. “i hate you so much.”
“you’re the one who begged me to do this.”
“i take it back. i take everything back. every nice thing i ever said—”
he spreads the wax with the little wooden stick —slow, stripes. it's warm. his fingers brush your inner thigh and you shiver.
"cold?" he asks, voice low.
"no. you're just... really gentle."
he scoffs. "i'm not trying to hurt you, idiot."
he spreads another stripe while you’re talking. rips again.
this time you kick. not on purpose—your leg just jerks up on instinct. your foot connects with his shoulder.
he doesn’t move. just looks at you with the deadest expression known to man. “you just kicked me.”
“i’m sorry! reflex! you can’t sneak attack me like that!”
“i counted down from three.”
“you did not!”
“i did it in my head.”
“that doesn’t count!”
he sighs like he’s suffering more than you. “stop moving or i’ll leave you half done”
you cover your face with both hands. “oh my god this is the worst idea i’ve ever had.”
but he keeps going. methodical. clinical. annoyingly perfect. every strip is placed exactly right, every rip is quick and clean.
he doesn’t mock you (much) when you whimper. actually switches to the hard wax for the more sensitive bits because “the strip wax is too aggressive for this area” like he’s been doing this for years.
at one point you peek down and he’s so focused it’s honestly kind of hot. eyes glued, brows furrowed. if someone told you last year you’d be turned on while sae itoshi waxed you, you’d have laughed until you puked.
he catches you staring. “what.”
“nothing. just… you’re weirdly good at this.”
“i’m good at everything.” (he’s really not lmao)
“cocky bastard.”
“you’re literally enjoying me ripping your hair out. who’s the freak here?”
your mouth falls open. “i am not—”
he holds up the next strip like evidence. it’s… valid.
you scream into a pillow.
when he’s done—completely, flawlessly done. he sits back on his heels and surveys his work like it’s the mona lisa. “perfect,” he declares.
you’re afraid to look. “is it… is it actually good?”
he scoffs. “obviously.”
you finally glance down. holy shit. it’s… immaculate. smoother than a baby’s ass. not a single stray, no redness, perfectly symmetrical. you could charge money for this.
“sae” you whisper, awed. “you’re a goddamn wizard.”
he peels off the gloves, tosses them in the trash, then flops down next to you, one arm over his eyes. “never speak of this to anyone. ever.”
you roll onto your side, grinning so hard your face hurts. “too late. i’m telling everyone itoshi sae gives the best waxes in europe.”
he moves his arm just enough to glare at you. “try it and i’ll wax your eyebrows off in your sleep.”
you crawl on top of him, kissing his cheek, his jaw, the spot under his ear that makes him shiver. “thank youuuu. you’re secretly the sweetest boyfriend alive.”
“i’m breaking up with you.”
“no you’re not.”
he sighs, hands settling on your bare hips, thumbs brushing over the warm skin. “no. i’m not.”
you kiss him properly then, slow and lazy. he kisses back like he’s starving for it, fingers digging into your ass.
“next time” he mutters against your lips, “we’re flying someone in. i’m not doing this shit again.”
you grin. “liar. you loved it.”
he flips you over so fast the room spins, pinning your wrists above your head.
“keep talking” he says, voice low and dangerous, “and i’ll show you exactly what i love doing to you when you can’t walk straight.”
waxing will have me begging and whimpering like a whumpee. I’ll act through the entire spectrum. defiant, compliant ,conditioned. the lady will pat me on the leg and I’m in position, greeting my teeth and flinching spasmodicly. «Relax, you’re only hurting yourself. You wanted this. You asked for this. It’s not that bad»
