You don’t care that Whis is an Angel or that Beerus is the God of Destruction.

Because to you? They’re just weird-ass dudes who show up uninvited and eat all your food.

Whis levitates through your room like a Disney ghost at 3am, reorganising your closet. Again, without consent. “I’m just arranging it with chronological utility.”

Beerus is, for some godforsaken reason, balancing upside down on your trashcan, arms crossed, staring. “Mortal. I desire sashimi.”

They’re entirely too invested. You treat them like annoying roommates. You’ve the gall to threaten the two, yell at them. Worst of all, they listen.