I have a requesthausen!!!
perhaps reader who’s usually not very touchy but is on their period, making them a lot more clingy?
just a thought perchance
lmao this is so domestic i LOVE it 💞💞
゛PRETZELS ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ danhausen x reader
: ̗̀➛ requested! for anon
“ Danhausen suspected cloning. Or possession. Or perhaps you had eaten a cursed sandwich. ”
⤿ When you get unexpectedly clingy during your period, Danhausen spirals trying to figure out what’s wrong. Once he realizes the truth, he goes full soft mode, determined to take care of you.
tags | period pain | fluff |
Danhausen knew something was wrong with you because you had touched his sleeve three times in one morning.
Not once. Not twice. Three times.
Usually, you were careful with affection in the way some people were careful with hot drinks. You carried it with both hands, guarded and steady, offering it only when you were sure it would not spill everywhere. You liked Danhausen. You loved him, actually, in the quiet way that had become louder over time, but you were not the sort of person who hung off him in corridors or tucked yourself into his side in catering or reached for his hand without thinking. Most days, your affection came in smaller things. You saved him the weirdly shaped chips from your bag because you knew he liked them. You fixed the collar of his jacket when it folded funny. You remembered which coffee he pretended not to like but always drank if you left it near him.
Today, though, you were leaning into him like gravity had personally betrayed you.
Danhausen stood very still by the coffee station, one hand hovering awkwardly in the air while your forehead rested against his shoulder. You had approached him without warning, made a small unhappy noise, and then simply folded yourself into him, your arms loose around his middle, your face pressed into the fabric of his black shirt. He could feel the warmth of you through the cotton. He could smell your shampoo, soft and sweet, mixed with the faint bitterness of arena coffee and whatever expensive perfume Rhea had sprayed in the locker room earlier. For several long seconds, he did not move at all.
“Ah,” Danhausen said carefully, looking down at the top of your head. “Hello.”
You mumbled something into his shirt.
Danhausen bent slightly. “Danhausen did not hear this. You are speaking into the chest region.”
“Yes,” he replied, nodding as if this confirmed something very serious. “Danhausen has noticed. You are behaving like a sleepy little haunted barnacle.”
You lifted your head just enough to glare at him, though the effect was ruined by the fact that you still had your cheek pressed against him. “Don’t call me a barnacle.”
“A sleepy little haunted kitten?”
“A sleepy little haunted beloved?”
Your face softened before you could stop it. That was another strange thing about today. Everything felt too close to the surface. Your irritation, your sadness, your hunger, your affection. It was all there, buzzing under your skin like static. Your stomach felt swollen and heavy, your back ached in a dull band across your lower spine, and your emotions had been flipping like a dodgy light switch since the moment you woke up. You had nearly cried because your leggings felt tight. You had nearly shouted because someone in the hallway chewed too loudly. You had nearly proposed marriage to a vending machine because it had the exact chocolate bar you wanted, only to discover it was stuck behind the coil.
So now, apparently, you were clinging to Danhausen in public.
“I hate today,” you muttered.
Danhausen’s painted brows pulled together with immediate concern. “Who has done this? Danhausen will curse today. Very easy. He has cursed many days before.”
“Suspicious. Days do not become evil on their own.”
He hummed, then slowly settled his hand on the back of your head, careful at first, as if you were a skittish animal he did not want to startle. When you did not pull away, his fingers spread gently over your hair. “There, there. The evil day cannot get you. Danhausen is standing between you and the Tuesday.”
“Even worse. It is wearing a disguise.”
You laughed, but it came out small and tired, and he felt the sound against him more than he heard it. His concern deepened. You were not just being affectionate. You were fragile today, and Danhausen, who often pretended not to understand ordinary human things, understood fragility better than most people gave him credit for. Still, that did not mean he knew why.
For the next two hours, he watched you like a detective in a horror film.
When you sat beside him in catering, you pressed your thigh against his and stayed there. When he reached for a napkin, you caught two of his fingers and held them under the table. When someone asked if you were all right, you smiled too brightly and said you were fine, then leaned into Danhausen the second they walked away. He stared at your joined hands with enormous suspicion.
“You are very handsy today,” he whispered.
You blinked at him, chewing slowly on a chip. “Am I?”
“Yes. Normally your personal bubble is guarded by dragons.”
“Maybe the dragons are tired.”
“Or dead,” he said gravely. “Who killed them?”
You squeezed his hand harder, but you did not let go.
That was what puzzled him most. You threatened him, glared at him, complained at him, and still kept touching him. You tucked your arm through his while walking down the corridor. You hooked your fingers in the back of his shirt when he stopped too suddenly. You leaned your cheek against his shoulder while he stood near production, listening to a conversation he only half understood because most of his brain was busy cataloguing your symptoms.
Tired. Hungry. Sad eyes. Angry mouth. Very attached to Danhausen. Occasional sniffle. Consumed three salty foods and then demanded something sweet. Complained your stomach felt “horrible” and then refused to explain. Almost cried when your water bottle rolled under a bench. Called a packet of plain crackers “emotionally disappointing.”
The evidence was alarming.
“You may have been replaced by a clone,” Danhausen announced once the two of you were alone in a quieter hallway near the locker rooms.
You looked up from where you were resting your forehead against his upper arm. “What?”
“A clone. A duplicate. A false you.”
“That is exactly what a clone would say.”
You sighed and wrapped both arms around one of his, hugging it against your chest. “Can the clone have a nap?”
Danhausen’s expression faltered. You sounded so genuinely miserable that his ridiculous theory lost its shine. “Yes,” he said softer. “The clone may have a nap. But Danhausen will be watching.”
“This is because you are interesting.”
You did not have the energy to answer, so you just squeezed his arm and stayed there, warm and quiet and unusually needy. Danhausen looked down at you, his heart doing something silly and fizzy beneath his ribs. He liked this. Of course he liked this. He liked being wanted by you in any form. He liked your weight against him, your fingers curled in his sleeve, the way you trusted him enough to be soft when the world expected you to be sharp.
But he also did not like that you looked as though you might burst into tears if someone asked you the wrong question.
By late afternoon, he had upgraded the situation from suspicious to urgent. You were curled in a chair in the locker room, knees drawn up, hoodie pulled over your hands, looking both furious and heartbroken at your phone.
Danhausen crouched in front of you. “What has the little glowing rectangle done?”
You turned the screen toward him. “The snack I want is sold out in catering.”
He stared at the image. It was a very specific chocolate-covered pretzel situation, the kind that came in a little purple bag and apparently mattered to you more than oxygen at that exact moment.
“This is why you look betrayed?”
Danhausen placed a solemn hand over his chest. “Then Danhausen shall go on a quest.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t joke.”
He straightened immediately. “No joke. Serious quest. Very brave. Much danger. Many vending machines.”
Your bottom lip wobbled, and he nearly panicked.
“Oh no,” he said quickly, touching your knee with the lightest pressure. “Do not leak from the eyes. Danhausen will find the snack. He will bring it to you as tribute.”
“I’m not crying,” you snapped, while obviously almost crying.
“Of course not. Your eyes are simply sweating because of their workout.”
You covered your face with your sleeve. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m being like this.”
Danhausen went quiet. When he spoke again, the theatrical edge had softened into something careful and warm. “You do not have to be sorry for being like this. Danhausen likes all of your thises.”
He nodded firmly. “The grumpy this. The sleepy this. The clingy this. The one who threatens murder over pretzels.”
“No,” he said, standing and adjusting his jacket as though preparing for battle. “You are beloved and dramatic.”
You gave him a weak little smile.
That smile was enough to send him marching down the corridor with purpose.
Unfortunately, the quest did not begin well.
The first vending machine had plain chips, protein bars, and one sad packet of mints. The second vending machine stole his money and gave him nothing, which Danhausen took personally and cursed with both hands. The third had chocolate pretzels, but not the right chocolate pretzels, and he spent a full minute squinting at the packet as if it might transform under pressure.
“Danhausen knows you are hiding the purple ones,” he whispered to the glass.
He turned to find Rhea Ripley leaning against the wall with a bottle of water in one hand, watching him with open amusement. She had that look on her face, the one people got when they had been observing something ridiculous for long enough to decide they deserved an explanation.
“Danhausen is on a snack quest,” he said.
“For the beloved one. She is strange today.”
Rhea’s eyebrows rose. “Strange how?”
Danhausen began counting on his fingers. “She is tired. She is angry. She is sad. She is hungry, then angry because she is hungry, then sad because she is angry. She is holding Danhausen’s hand in public, which is nice but suspicious. She almost cried about pretzels. She says her stomach is horrible. She is wearing the big hoodie and making the small miserable face.”
Then Rhea blinked slowly and said, “Maybe she’s just on her period.”
The words landed with the force of divine revelation.
Danhausen’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.
Rhea took a sip of water, fighting a smile. “Yeah. Oh.”
Danhausen looked down at the wrong pretzels in his hand, then back at the vending machine, then toward the hallway where you were curled up waiting for him. Pieces began clicking together in his head. The stomach pain. The tiredness. The sadness. The rage. The snack specificity. The clinginess. Your horror that morning when someone had joked about white gear for a future photoshoot. The way you had kept one arm folded over your middle. The way you had asked three times if the room felt cold.
“Oh,” he repeated, softer now, with a little more guilt.
Rhea pushed off the wall. “Don’t make it weird.”
“Danhausen never makes things weird.”
“He makes things charmingly unsettling,” he corrected.
“Just get her snacks. Maybe something salty, something sweet, and don’t ask too many questions.”
Danhausen nodded like he was receiving instructions from a war general. “Sweet. Salty. No foolish questions. Heat?”
“Heat helps,” Rhea said. “Hot water bottle, heating pad, warm drink. And don’t take it personally if she looks at you like she wants to bite your head off. She probably doesn’t mean it.”
Rhea shrugged. “Depends what you say.”
This, Danhausen understood, was extremely important.
By the time he returned to you, he had not found the exact purple bag, but he had gathered an impressive offering. Chocolate buttons, salted popcorn, chips, a brownie from catering, a bottle of water, a cup of tea with too much care put into it, and a heat pack he had acquired from medical after asking if they had “the warm rectangle for cursed organs.” He carried everything in his arms like a raccoon who had robbed a corner shop.
You looked up when he entered, your face still pale and tired, your eyes softening the second you saw him. “You were gone ages.”
“Many trials,” Danhausen said, setting the snacks on the bench beside you. “Many enemies. One machine has been cursed forever.”
Your gaze dropped to the pile. “You got all this?”
“I only asked for one thing.”
“Yes, and the universe failed to provide it, so Danhausen has brought many replacement treasures.”
You stared at the snacks for a second too long, and then your eyes filled.
“Oh no,” he whispered. “Wrong treasures?”
“No,” you said quickly, wiping at your face with your sleeve. “No, they’re good. I’m just stupid.”
He crouched in front of you again, carefully placing the warm pack in your lap. “You are not stupid.”
“I’m crying over snacks.”
“You are crying near snacks. This is different.”
That made a laugh break through your tears, watery and embarrassed. You pressed the heel of your hand to one eye. “I hate this.”
Danhausen glanced at the heat pack, then at you. “Rhea has explained the blood moon suffering.”
Your head snapped up. “The what?”
“The blood moon suffering,” he repeated, very serious. “The monthly curse. The uterus haunting. The tiny organ rebellion.”
You stared at him for three silent seconds, then burst out laughing so suddenly that you had to curl forward and clutch your stomach. “Don’t make me laugh. It hurts.”
Danhausen looked relieved, though he tried to hide it behind a dignified nod. “Danhausen has solved the mystery.”
“Oh my God,” you groaned, still laughing. “Is that why you were staring at me all day?”
“Yes. Danhausen suspected cloning. Or possession. Or perhaps you had eaten a cursed sandwich.”
“I mean, it feels like I ate a cursed sandwich.”
He softened at that, moving closer until his hands rested on the arms of your chair. “Does it hurt very much?”
Your laughter faded. You looked down at the heat pack in your lap and pressed both hands over it. “A bit. Mostly I feel horrible. Bloated and sore and tired. And I’m hungry, but everything sounds disgusting except one very specific thing, and I’m angry for no reason, and then I feel bad because I’m angry, and then I want to cry because I feel bad.” You swallowed, your voice getting quieter. “And I keep wanting to be near you, which is annoying because I’m not usually like that, and I don’t want you to think I’m being weird.”
Danhausen’s face changed.
It was subtle, but you knew him well enough to see it. The comedy stayed there, because it was part of him, but beneath it came something tender and sincere. He reached for your hands slowly, giving you time to pull away. You did not. You let his fingers slide around yours, let his thumbs brush over your knuckles.
“Danhausen does not think you are weird.”
“You always think I’m weird.”
“Yes,” he admitted, “but in the wonderful way. Not in the bad way. Never in the bad way.”
Your throat tightened again.
He leaned closer. “You may be clingy with Danhausen whenever you like. During blood moon suffering, during regular moon suffering, during no moon suffering. He does not mind.”
“You might mind after six hours.”
“Impossible. Danhausen is very strong. He can withstand much beloved clinging.”
You sniffed. “You say that now.”
He stood, then opened his arms with great ceremony. “Test him.”
He wiggled his fingers. “Come here, grumpy little haunted beloved.”
“I hate that I like when you call me that,” you muttered.
The moment you were upright, he gathered you in carefully, one arm around your shoulders, the other low around your back, avoiding squeezing too tightly. You sank into him with a sigh that seemed to come from your bones. His body was warm. His shirt smelled like laundry detergent, face paint, coffee, and something faintly sweet from the chocolate he had carried back. He rested his cheek on top of your head and swayed you slightly, a small rocking motion that made your eyes close.
“There,” he murmured. “Danhausen has captured you. Now you must rest.”
“I can’t rest standing up.”
“Then we shall relocate the suffering goblin to the couch.”
“Don’t call my uterus a goblin.”
“Apologies to the goblin.”
You pinched his side weakly.
“Ow. The goblin has allies.”
But he helped you anyway. He gathered the snacks, tucked the heat pack against your stomach, and guided you toward the small couch tucked in the corner of the locker room. Once you sat, he hovered for a moment, clearly trying to decide what the best supportive boyfriend shape was. You solved the problem by grabbing his sleeve and tugging him down beside you.
The word came out softer than you intended.
Danhausen sat immediately.
You curled into his side before you could overthink it, resting your head against his chest, one arm draped over his middle. He went still again, but only for a second. Then his arm came around you, firm and careful, his hand rubbing slow circles over your shoulder.
“This was a very good idea,” he said quietly.
“You’re not allowed to make a big deal out of it.”
“Danhausen is making a very small deal. A tiny deal. A deal the size of one ant.”
You smiled against him, and he felt it. That made him smile too, though you could not see it from where you were tucked against his chest. For a while, the room settled into a gentle quiet. Somewhere down the hall, people were shouting and laughing. Wheels rattled over concrete. Someone’s entrance music thumped faintly through the walls. But in your little corner, the world shrank down to warmth, snacks, and Danhausen’s hand moving steadily over your shoulder.
After a few minutes, he reached for the chocolate buttons and held the packet in front of you. “The sweet treasure?”
You took one. “Thank you.”
He offered the popcorn next. “The salty treasure?”
You took a handful. “Thank you.”
Then he lifted the bottle of water with a solemn expression. “The wet treasure.”
You snorted. “Never say that again.”
You ate slowly, tucked into him, your mood gradually smoothing at the edges. The ache was still there, heavy and mean, but the heat pack helped. So did the food. So did him. Especially him. Danhausen, who had thought you were a clone before he thought of the obvious. Danhausen, who had gone on a snack quest without making you feel silly. Danhausen, who let you be soft without teasing you for it too much.
“I’m sorry I’ve been clingy,” you said after a while.
His hand paused on your shoulder. “Why?”
“Because I’m not usually like this.”
“Maybe Danhausen likes this.”
You tilted your head enough to look up at him. “You do?”
He looked down at you, his expression suddenly bashful in a way that made your chest ache for an entirely different reason. “Yes. Danhausen likes being chosen by you. Even when you are angry at pretzels.”
You stared at him, eyes prickling again.
He immediately pointed at you. “No crying. Danhausen has been too romantic. He sees this now.”
“You can’t say things like that when I’m hormonal.”
He nodded gravely. “Danhausen will reduce romance by thirty percent.”
A pleased little smile tugged at his mouth. “You are confusing during the blood moon suffering.”
“I’m confusing all the time.”
“Yes,” he said fondly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “But Danhausen is learning the map.”
You melted against him. There was no other word for it. All your usual resistance, all your carefulness, all the little guards you kept posted around your softer parts, they seemed too tired to work today. So you let yourself sink. You let your hand rest over his ribs. You let your cheek press against the steady rise and fall of his breathing. You let him tuck the blanket from the back of the couch over your legs, even though it was ugly and smelled faintly of clean towels.
After a while, you whispered, “Can we go home after this?”
“Yes,” Danhausen said. “Danhausen will take you home. He will make the couch comfortable. He will heat the warm rectangle again. He will bring snacks. He will fight anyone who asks you to do things.”
“You don’t have to fight anyone.”
“He will glare very evilly.”
He kissed your forehead this time, lingering there for a second. His lips were warm, soft, careful not to disturb you too much. “And you may cling as much as you like.”
You closed your eyes. “You’ll regret saying that.”
“I might fall asleep on you.”
“Danhausen has been a mattress before.”
You opened one eye. “What?”
You were too tired to question him. Instead, you tucked yourself closer, your fingers curling lightly in his shirt. Danhausen looked down at your hand, then at your face, and something in him went quiet with affection. You trusted him with this version of you. The sore version. The teary version. The one who wanted snacks and warmth and someone to stay without making you ask twice.
So when Rhea passed by the open door twenty minutes later, she found you asleep against him, heat pack tucked to your stomach, snacks scattered around like offerings at a tiny altar, while Danhausen sat perfectly still with one arm around you and the other hand holding his phone at an awkward angle.
Danhausen looked up, eyes wide and serious. “He cannot move. The beloved has fallen asleep.”
Rhea smiled. “Good luck with that.”
“Thank you. Please send water if he is still here in three hours.”
You stirred faintly, making a small unhappy sound, and Danhausen immediately lowered his voice, rubbing your shoulder again until you settled.
Rhea shook her head, still smiling as she walked away.
Danhausen looked back down at you. Very carefully, he adjusted the blanket higher over your knees. You shifted closer in your sleep, your hand tightening in his shirt like even unconscious, you wanted to know he was there.
He smiled to himself, small and private.
“Do not worry,” he whispered, pressing one more kiss to your hair. “Danhausen understands now. The goblin rebellion is terrible, but you are safe. He has snacks. He has warmth. He has very evil glares. And he has you.”
You did not wake, but your face softened against him.
And Danhausen, who had once believed affection was something best delivered like a curse, dramatic and loud and impossible to ignore, sat there in the quiet with you tucked against his heart and learned that sometimes love was simply staying still because someone needed you to.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ouchhausen notes!
why did writing this give me a stomach ache HAHA did i just bluetooth my period or what
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