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.”
MC was elbow-deep in their bag, half-lounging on the couch, fishing around for the elusive chapstick that always vanished when they needed it most. Mammon sprawled upside-down in an armchair nearby, flipping a stack of grimy RAD coupons between his fingers like he was counting money he didn’t actually have.
Something slid from their wallet and fluttered to the floor.
Mammon’s eyes locked on it like a crow spotting something shiny.
“Hey, what’s this?” he said, leaning over to snatch the little plastic card. “Looks like some kinda ID. Is this your... human summoner license?”
MC didn’t even look up. “That’s my driver’s license.”
Mammon blinked. “Driver’s what-now?”
“License,” they repeated, still digging. “It's for identification, and it shows that I can legally drive.”
Mammon sat up like someone just hit him with a stun spell. “...Wait. Hold on. Humans can DRIVE?!”
There was a long pause.
A dangerous pause.
MC slowly stopped moving. Their head turned toward him — slowly, methodically, like a horror movie puppet about to snap. Their eyes were wide with unfiltered disbelief.
“Mammon,” they said flatly, “since the first car was made in 1885. What the hell made you think humans couldn’t drive?”
Mammon, entirely serious, shrugged. “I’unno. I heard if humans move too fast, their organs like… rip right outta their bodies or somethin’. Like—splat—intestines all over the windshield.”
MC stared. Hard. Processing. Searching the universe for an exit.
“What the fuck,” they said slowly, “who the hell told you that?!”
“I read it somewhere!” Mammon insisted, now fully defensive. “It was in a book! Or maybe some demon at a tavern— I dunno, it sounded legit! I mean, humans are delicate, okay?! You’ve got like, soft squishy insides and no natural armor and your legs snap if you fall off a ladder—”
“MAMMON.” MC slapped their bag shut. “Do you realize humans have been riding HORSES for over 5,000 years?”
Mammon blinked. “So?”
“So?! HORSES ARE LIVING MUSCLE MISSILES. Some of them can run up to 55 miles per hour! That’s faster than most cars go in a city!”
He looked genuinely disturbed. “Wait. Then how are you not dead?!”
MC gestured at themself. “Do I look dead?! Do I look like my liver’s hanging out of my mouth right now?!”
Mammon tilted his head. “Well, maybe not right now—”
“Mammon.”
He raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay! Geez! Look, it’s just—when I was last in the human realm, it was like, 200 years ago. People were still ridin’ around in carriages and screamin’ about soap. Technology’s freaky, alright?! One minute you’re usin’ chamber pots and the next you’re rippin’ through the freeway at 80 miles an hour with your intestines somehow still inside your body!”
MC took a deep breath. “That explains it. You really need better sources of information.”
Mammon muttered, “Yeah, well, Google doesn’t work in the Devildom, MC.”
“Yes, humans can drive,” MC said slowly. “No, it won’t turn us into a meat smoothie. I’ve been driving for years. Over a decade. I’ve parallel parked, hit potholes, drove through thunderstorms—and I’m still fully intact.”
Let's just say I had an itch I wanted to scratch when making this one, because I'm gonna be so fr, I really just wanted to see the girls recreate the intro sequence to "Two And A Half Men"
Realistically, though, I would've put Mira in Charlie's place, Rumi in Alan's place, and Zoey in Jake's place
But it looks super uniform with the positions I have them in now (and besides, I based this image off the Season 9 promo picture with Walden, Alan and Jake lol)
What if Morty had psychic powers? Like, full-on Mob Psycho 100 style.
Hear me out: Morty has god-like psychic abilities, but he literally just wants to be a normal teenager. He keeps it a complete secret. He even made Jerry and Beth promise to never, ever tell Rick about it when Rick moved back in.
And the funniest part? Rick has absolutely no idea. Rick walks around acting like he’s the god of the universe because of his science, while Morty is sitting right next to him sweating bullets, trying not to accidentally blow up a planet with his mind because he got a C- on a math test.
"But how would Rick not notice during adventures?"
Think about the Purge episode! In this au, Morty goes crazy, but he’s wearing that high-tech suit. Rick probably just thought, "Wow, the kid is really using the suit's weapons to absolute perfection," while Morty was actually just using his mind to tear everyone apart because the suit couldn't keep up with his rage. Every time they survive something impossible, Rick takes credit for his tech, and Morty is just like "Yeah... sure... your tech saved us, Rick..."
ALSO, think about Jerry.
Jerry knows about the powers, and you know he would use his own son's god-like abilities for the most pathetic, lazy things ever.
Jerry would definitely come into Morty’s room like: "Hey, uh, Morty... I know you’re trying to suppress your world-ending powers, but can you use your mind to change the TV channel? The remote is all the way over there and my back hurts." Or he makes Morty float the lawnmower so Jerry doesn't have to push it.
Imagine Morty constantly holding back his power, suppressing his emotions, just to survive high school, Rick's chaotic BS, and his dad asking him to psychically open a tight jar of mayonnaise.
Rick: "I'm the smartest man in the universe, Morty! I can do anything!"
Morty, holding back a literal psychic apocalypse because a bully pushed him: "Aw man, geez Rick, yeah, you're the boss."
Freaky 2am idea post + picture to visualise everything properly
yknow how mermaids are half mammal and half fish? so why not reproduce like they are? What if mermaids were dual sex and also had two wombs; one for live birth and one to incubate eggs. Cut to Nolan, who gets double pregged.
Of course, the lively child is from his komandir. The possessive bastard couldn't help himself, with the most visibility of his claim, he wouldn't give that spot that was preserved for him and him alone, to anyone else. but that's only one. he's carrying several eggs from various different species from throughout konni ranks at the same time, everyone available had a go on the captain. he vaguely remembers a whaleshark, and that only because he had been a lot bigger than the great white had preferred. His brain had stopped working properly not long after the first two or three were done with him. One moment, he finished his patrol, the next, he was grabbed and pulled into a cave. all he knew was that it had been Makarov's idea, why, though, he wasn't sure. so now he's resigned to strict rest not in his own, but in Vladimir's nest, with Vladimir beside him.
