The locker room was quiet except for the distant hum of the arena’s ventilation system and the occasional drip from a shower down the hall. Most of the roster had already cleared out, leaving the space feeling strangely intimate under the harsh fluorescent lights.
You stood in front of the full-length mirror, heart beating a little faster than usual.
The new gear fit even better than you’d hoped.
Sleek black with deep crimson accents, the material shiny and tight. The top clung to your chest and waist like it had been painted on, while the bottoms rode high on your hips, showing off the curve of your ass and the length of your legs. Every movement made the light catch the glossy sections, drawing attention exactly where you wanted it.
You turned sideways, smoothing your hands down your sides, checking the back view over your shoulder. It felt bold, powerful and a little dangerous.
The door opened with a slow creak.
Danhausen stepped in, still wearing his own ring gear and that worn-out coat that always smelled faintly like hairspray and energy drinks. He had a half-empty bottle of something neon green in one hand. The second he saw you, he stopped dead in his tracks.
The bottle slipped from his fingers and hit the floor with a dull thud, rolling away forgotten.
His wide eyes went comically large, then narrowed as they dragged slowly up and down your body.
Once.
Twice.
He didn’t speak right away. He just stared, lips slightly parted.
You turned to face him fully, trying to keep your voice casual. “Hey… what do you think?”
Danhausen blinked hard, like he was trying to reset his brain. He took one step forward, then another, the coat swishing around his legs.
“Think?” His voice came out rougher than usual, that signature dramatic cadence cracking just a little. “Danhausen… does not think right now. Danhausen is… cursed. Very cursed.”
He circled you slowly, boots clicking on the tile floor. You could feel his gaze like a physical touch, lingering on the straps over your shoulders, the way the fabric hugged your waist, the exposed skin at your hips.
“You…” He stopped behind you. You watched his reflection in the mirror. “You did this on purpose.”
“Maybe,” you admitted, meeting his eyes in the glass. “I wanted something new for tonight’s match. Something that would stand out.”
“Stand out?” He let out a low, breathy laugh. “This does not stand out. This… demands attention. Demands worship.” His gloved hand hovered near your lower back, not quite touching. “Look at how it fits here.” His fingers finally brushed the edge of the fabric at your hip, tracing it lightly. “Like it was made to torment Danhausen specifically.”
You shivered at the barely-there contact. He noticed, and his grin sharpened.
“Cold?” he asked innocently, even as he stepped closer so his chest brushed your back. “Or is the new gear making you… sensitive?”
“Both,” you murmured.
He hummed thoughtfully, continuing his slow orbit around you. Every few seconds he’d pause to admire a different angle, your chest, the curve of your ass, the way the crimson accents framed your body. His breathing had grown heavier.
“You wore this during the match?” he asked.
“Yeah. Felt good out there. Confident.”
Danhausen made a pained noise in the back of his throat. “Danhausen was watching from backstage. I saw how the lights hit you. How every movement made the fabric stretch…” He swallowed. “Very distracting. Danhausen nearly forgot his own entrance because of you.”
His hands finally settled on your waist, turning you gently to face him. Up close, his pupils were blown wide, the usual chaotic sparkle now mixed with something darker and hungrier.
“Tell me the truth,” he said, voice low. One gloved finger traced the plunging neckline of your top, following the edge without quite dipping inside. “Did you think about me when you put this on? When you tightened these straps? When you looked at yourself in the mirror before walking out?”
You bit your lip. His eyes tracked the movement.
“…Yes.”
A satisfied groan rumbled out of him. “Cruel. Wicked. Evil.” He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You knew I would see you like this. Knew I would spend the entire night imagining peeling it off. Or… keeping it on.”
His hands slid down to your hips again, squeezing gently, thumbs stroking the bare skin just above the waistband. He pulled you a fraction closer, but not enough to fully press against him. The restraint was maddening.
“Look at me,” he ordered softly.
You did. His face was flushed, messy hair falling into his eyes.
“This gear…” He exhaled shakily. “It should be illegal. Danhausen wants to kneel and thank it. Wants to curse it. Wants to ruin it with his mouth while you’re still wearing every single piece.”
He tilted his head, studying your lips like he was debating whether to kiss you yet.
“But not yet,” he whispered, almost to himself. “Danhausen is enjoying the suffering. The anticipation.” His thumb brushed just under the swell of your breast, teasing the underside of the fabric. “Turn around again. Slowly. Let me look more.”
You obeyed, facing the mirror once more. Danhausen stayed pressed close behind you, hands roaming in slow, possessive trails, down your sides, over your stomach, along the high cuts of the gear on your thighs. Every touch stayed just this side of innocent, building the heat between you until the air felt thick.
He kissed the side of your neck, soft at first, then lingering with teeth. “You are going to drive me completely insane tonight,” he murmured against your skin. “And you are going to love every second of it.”
His hand slid down your thigh, squeezing. His voice dropped even lower.
“Now… tell me exactly how long you want me to wait before I stop being gentle.”
You swallowed, feeling the heat of his body pressed against your back, his hands still resting possessively on your hips.
“I don’t want you gentle for long,” you admitted, voice a little breathy. “But… I like when you look at me like this.”
Danhausen let out a shaky, delighted laugh against your neck. “Greedy.” His gloved fingers traced slow, lazy circles over the exposed skin of your hips, dipping just under the high-cut edges of the gear but never going further. “You like being admired. You like making me ache.”
He guided you to turn around again so you were facing him. His eyes were half-lidded now, but still intensely focused on every inch of you. He took half a step back, just enough to look you over once more from head to toe, then stepped right back in, crowding you against the lockers.
“Stay right there,” he murmured. “Danhausen needs to commit this to memory.”
For a long moment he simply looked. His gaze lingered on the way your chest rose and fell, on the shine of the fabric across your breasts, on the sliver of skin between your top and bottoms. One gloved hand came up and gently cupped the side of your face, thumb brushing your lower lip.
“You are beautiful every day,” he said quietly, unusually sincere for a moment. “But tonight… this gear makes you look like a weapon. My favorite kind of weapon.”
He leaned in and kissed you, slow, deep, and deliberate. Not rushed. His tongue slid against yours lazily, savoring, while his free hand roamed. He traced the straps over your shoulders, then followed the plunging neckline down between your breasts with one finger, never quite touching where you wanted him most.
When he pulled back, his lips were wet and his breathing was heavier.
“Tell me,” he whispered, forehead resting against yours, “what part of this gear do you like best?”
You thought for a second. “The way it makes my hips and ass look… and how tight it is right here.” You ran your own hand over the curve of your chest.
Danhausen groaned openly. “Evil. You are evil.” He immediately mirrored your touch, cupping your breasts through the fabric with both hands, squeezing gently, feeling the weight of them. His thumbs rubbed slow circles over your nipples until they hardened against the material.
“These straps…” he continued, voice growing rougher, “they frame everything so perfectly. Danhausen wants to bite them. Wants to pull them with his teeth while he listens to you.”
He kissed you again, deeper this time, pressing his body fully against yours. You could feel how hard he was through his trunks, thick and insistent against your stomach. He rocked his hips once, slowly, letting you feel it, but didn’t grind harder. The restraint was clearly costing him.
His mouth moved to your jaw, then down your neck. He sucked lightly at your pulse point, then lower, kissing along your collarbone and the exposed skin above your top. Every kiss was deliberate. Every touch lingered.
“Turn around again,” he ordered softly. “Hands on the mirror.”
You did as he asked, palms pressing against the cool glass. Danhausen stepped behind you, hands sliding down your sides until they settled on your ass. He squeezed firmly, spreading you slightly through the gear, thumbs stroking the underside of your cheeks where the fabric ended.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the word rare and filthy from him. “This should be criminal. I could stare at this view for hours.”
He dropped to one knee behind you, hands still on your ass. You felt his breath, hot against the back of your thighs. He kissed the curve where your ass met your leg, then the other side, slow and reverent. His teeth grazed the edge of the fabric.
“Soaked already,” he observed, voice thick. He pressed two fingers against the crotch of your gear, rubbing the damp fabric in slow, teasing strokes. “You’ve been wet for a while, haven’t you? Thinking about me seeing you like this.”
“Yes…” you admitted, hips twitching.
He kept rubbing, firm but agonizingly slow, occasionally pressing a kiss to your ass cheek while he worked you up. The pressure was perfect, but never quite enough to get you there.
After several long minutes, he stood back up, pressing his chest to your back and grinding his hard cock against your ass.
“Tell me what you want next,” he rasped into your ear, one hand sliding around to rub between your legs from the front while the other held your hip. “More touching? My mouth? Or should I finally stop teasing and start taking this pretty gear off… or keep it on while I fuck you?”
His fingers pressed harder, rubbing tight circles over your clit through the soaked fabric.
“Choose carefully,” he whispered, biting your earlobe. “Because once I start, I'm not going to stop. I'm going to fuck you until your legs shake and this gear is ruined.”
Danhausen’s fingers pressed harder against your soaked crotch, rubbing tight, demanding circles over your clit through the fabric.
“Choose,” he growled into your ear, voice cracking with need.
You gasped, pushing back against his cock. “Keep it on. Fuck me in the gear.”
A wicked, delighted sound tore out of him. “Good girl.”
He spun you around, kissing you hard and filthy, while he shoved his trunks down just enough to free his throbbing cock. It slapped heavy against your stomach, hot, flushed and already leaking.
Without breaking the kiss, he grabbed your hips and lifted you, slamming your back against the lockers. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively. He yanked the crotch of your new gear roughly to the side, exposing your dripping pussy.
“No patience left,” he panted.
He lined himself up and thrust in deep with one brutal stroke, burying every inch inside your tight heat. You both moaned loudly at the same time. He was thick, stretching you perfectly, and he didn’t give you time to adjust. He started fucking you hard against the lockers, the metal rattling with every powerful snap of his hips.
“Fuck, so tight,” he hissed, forehead pressed to yours, eyes wild. “This cursed gear… still looks so good on you while Danhausen ruins you.”
His gloved hands gripped your ass, spreading you wider as he drove into you again and again. The wet, obscene sound of skin slapping skin filled the locker room. Every thrust made your breasts bounce in the tight top, and he couldn’t stop staring.
“Look at you,” he groaned, voice breaking. “Taking me so well. Such a perfect, filthy little wrestler.”
He leaned down and bit one of your nipples through the fabric, sucking hard while he pounded you. The added stimulation made you clench around him.
“Harder,” you moaned.
Danhausen laughed breathlessly, the sound manic. “Oh you want harder? Greedy.”
He pulled out suddenly, spun you around, and bent you over the bench. Your hands braced on the wood as he kicked your legs wider. He yanked the gear’s crotch aside again and slammed back in, even deeper from this angle.
“Fuck,” he growled, one hand fisting your hair while the other slapped your ass. “Arch your back. Let me see.”
You obeyed, pushing back to meet every thrust. He fucked you mercilessly now, long, powerful strokes that made your eyes roll back. His balls slapped against your clit with every thrust, and the wet sounds grew louder as your arousal dripped down your thighs.
He reached around and rubbed your clit in fast, sloppy circles, never slowing his hips.
“You’re going to cum like this,” he ordered, voice rough and filthy. “All over Danhausen’s cock while you’re still wearing your pretty new gear. Then he’s going to fill you up.”
Your legs started shaking. The pressure built fast and brutal.
“That’s it… that’s it,” he snarled, pounding you harder. “Cum for me.”
The orgasm hit you like a freight train. You cried out, pussy spasming hard around his cock as pleasure ripped through you. Danhausen groaned loudly, fucking you straight through it, drawing it out until you were whimpering and overstimulated.
Only then did he let himself go.
With a broken moan he buried himself to the hilt and came hard, pulsing deep inside you. Thick ropes of cum flooded your pussy, so much it started leaking out around his cock and dripping onto the floor.
Danhausen stayed buried inside you for a long minute, forehead pressed to your shoulder as he caught his breath. When he finally pulled out, he watched with dark, satisfied eyes as his cum slowly dripped down your thighs and stained the inside of your new gear.
Instead of softening right away, he let out a low, possessive hum.
“Look at that mess,” he murmured, almost proud. He reached down and used two fingers to push some of the leaking cum back inside you, making you jolt. “Mine.”
But then his expression shifted. The wild edge faded into something quieter.
He gently lowered you until your feet touched the floor, keeping one arm around your waist so you wouldn’t fall. Your legs were still trembling.
“Come here,” he said softly, guiding you toward the attached shower area. He turned the water on, testing the temperature with his gloved hand before stripping off his gloves and coat. He left his trunks on for now.
He guided you under the warm spray still wearing your gear, then stepped in behind you. The water immediately started soaking the fabric, making it cling even tighter to your body.
Danhausen grabbed a clean towel from the shelf, folded it, and placed it on the built-in bench inside the shower for you to sit on.
“Sit,” he ordered gently.
Once you were seated, he knelt in front of you under the water. With surprising patience, he began peeling the soaked gear down your body, slowly, carefully, almost reverently. He kissed every new inch of skin he revealed: your shoulders, the tops of your breasts, your stomach, your hips.
When the top was finally off, he tossed it aside and cupped your breasts in his bare hands, massaging them softly under the warm water.
“Sore?” he asked, thumbs brushing over your nipples.
“A little,” you admitted.
He leaned in and kissed them tenderly, one after the other, before moving lower. He helped you lift your hips so he could slide the bottoms off. The ruined crotch was absolutely drenched with both of you. He set the gear aside on the bench like it was something precious.
Danhausen took the detachable showerhead and rinsed between your legs with gentle pressure, using his other hand to carefully clean you. His touch was soft, almost clinical at first, but he couldn’t resist leaning in to press a slow, lingering kiss right against your sensitive clit.
“Too much?” he asked, looking up at you through wet strands of hair.
You shook your head, and he smiled, that rare, genuine little smile.
He spent the next several minutes just taking care of you. He washed your hair with surprisingly gentle fingers, massaged your shoulders and thighs where you’d been gripping and tensing, and kept dropping soft kisses wherever he felt like it, your knee, your wrist, the back of your neck when he moved behind you.
Once you were both clean, he wrapped you in a big towel and carried you back to the bench outside. He sat down first, then pulled you into his lap again, this time facing him with your legs straddling his waist. He tucked the towel around your back and held you close, skin to skin.
“You did so well,” he whispered against your temple. “Danhausen is very proud of you. Very obsessed with you.”
His hands rubbed slow, soothing strokes up and down your back. Every so often he’d tilt your chin up for a lazy, affectionate kiss.
“Stay with Danhausen tonight,” he said quietly, almost shyly for once. “No more wrestling. No more gear. Just… this. We shall order food. Maybe allow you to wear my best sleeping clothes.”
He nuzzled into your neck, breathing you in.
“And tomorrow,” he added with a mischievous little smirk, “we are doing this again. But maybe Danhausen will wear something new too… so you can stare at him the way he stared at you.”
“ Burden? What a stunning misinterpretation of the situation. ”
⤿ After countless failed attempts, Danhausen finally demands the truth behind your rejection, leading to a vulnerable confession, and one soft moment that changes everything.
tags | fluff | angst | rejection |
The first time Danhausen asked you out, it had been in passing, like a joke tossed into the hum of backstage noise, half-buried beneath the clatter of equipment cases being wheeled down concrete corridors and the distant swell of a crowd that never truly went quiet.
You had been crouched near a monitor, rewinding a segment for notes, the glow of the screen washing your face in pale blue light when he had appeared at your side without warning, all black and white paint and sharp angles and that peculiar, theatrical stillness he carried like a second skin.
“You will go on a date with Danhausen,” he had said, as if it were already decided, his voice lilting with mischief, his hands clasped behind his back like he was presenting himself as an offer rather than a question.
You hadn’t even looked up properly, just let out a soft, amused exhale through your nose, shaking your head once.
Not harsh or unkind. Just… final.
And that should have been the end of it.
It wasn’t.
Because Danhausen, you would come to realise very quickly, did not operate like most people. Where others took rejection as a closed door, he treated it as a puzzle. A challenge. Something to be circled, studied, approached from different angles until eventually, somehow, it gave way.
By the time you noticed it properly, it had already become part of the rhythm of your days.
Not something loud or obvious, not a grand, sweeping change that demanded your attention, but something quieter. Persistent. Like the faint buzz of electricity in the walls of an arena or the low murmur of voices bleeding through thin corridors backstage. It was there when you arrived, there when you left, threading itself through the in-between moments you used to move through without thinking.
Danhausen had made himself a constant.
It started small, as these things always seemed to. A passing comment here, a strange, theatrical attempt at charm there, something easy enough to dismiss with a shake of your head and a quiet, automatic no. You had expected it to fade after that, expected him to lose interest the way people often did when they realised you weren’t going to bend.
But he didn’t. If anything, he adapted.
One morning, the arena was still half-asleep when you arrived, the fluorescent lights flickering lazily overhead as crew members moved at a slower pace, coffee cups in hand, conversations still muted and low. The air carried that familiar mix of cleaning chemicals and something faintly metallic, the scent of a space not quite awake yet.
You had slipped into your usual routine, setting your things down, pulling out your notes, your focus already narrowing into the work ahead.
You didn’t notice him at first.
You only became aware of him when something shifted at the edge of your space, the faint sound of boots against the floor, measured and deliberate. When you glanced up, he was already there, standing just a little too still, one hand tucked neatly behind his back like he was presenting himself again.
“For you,” he said, holding out a cup in his other hand.
Steam curled lazily from the lid, the smell of coffee reaching you a second later, warm and sharp and oddly comforting. You blinked at it, then at him, your brows knitting together slightly.
“You’ve tried this one before,” you said slowly, remembering the last time he had brought coffee.
“Yes,” he agreed. “But this time, it is improved.”
“Improved how?”
“I have added sugar,” he said, very serious. “Because you made a face last time. Danhausen noticed.”
Something in your chest shifted at that, subtle but undeniable. You hadn’t thought he’d been paying that close attention. You hadn’t thought you mattered enough for him to remember something so small.
You took the cup from him, your fingers brushing briefly against his, the contact fleeting but enough to make you acutely aware of it. “You’re keeping track now?”
“Of course,” he replied, like it was obvious. “How else will Danhausen win you over?”
You huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you took a sip. It was better this time. Still strong, still a little too bitter for your taste, but softened enough that you didn’t immediately wince.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” you said, even though your voice lacked its usual firmness.
“But you did not reject the coffee,” he countered, tilting his head slightly, watching you with an intensity that felt disproportionate to the situation.
“I’m not rejecting free coffee.”
“Still progress,” he said, nodding to himself like he was ticking something off an invisible list.
You didn’t correct him.
That was the problem.
Because it wasn’t just the coffee. It was everything around it, everything layered into those small, seemingly insignificant moments. The way he lingered without crowding you, the way he seemed to understand the exact point where persistence became too much and carefully stepped back just before crossing it.
He learned you in fragments.
In passing comments you didn’t realise you were making. In habits you hadn’t noticed were habits until he pointed them out with quiet certainty. The way you always reached for the same seat in catering, the way you preferred the quieter corridors over the busier ones, the way your shoulders tightened when things got too loud, too crowded.
And he adjusted himself around those things, like it was second nature.
One afternoon, you found him waiting outside your locker, though this time he wasn’t offering anything, wasn’t performing in the usual exaggerated way. He leaned against the wall, one foot propped behind him, like he was trying to imitate something casual he had seen somewhere else and only half succeeded.
“You have a free evening,” he said as soon as you approached, like he had rehearsed it. “Danhausen has checked.”
You paused mid-step, eyeing him carefully. “You’ve checked?”
“Yes,” he nodded, completely unbothered. “You complained earlier about having nothing scheduled. This means you are available. Therefore, you will go on a date with Danhausen.”
You let out a quiet breath, shaking your head as you reached past him to open your locker. “That’s not how this works.”
“It could be,” he insisted, shifting slightly closer, peering at you like he was trying to catch a different angle of your reaction. “You will not know unless you try.”
“I’m not trying.”
He hummed, thoughtful, like he was filing that away for later. “You are very resistant.”
“And you’re very persistent.”
“Yes,” he said, as if that explained everything.
It did, in a way.
Another time, it was mid-training, the ring echoing with the dull thud of bodies hitting canvas, the air thick with the scent of sweat and effort. You had been leaning against the ropes, catching your breath, your hair clinging slightly to your skin, when he appeared at ringside, looking entirely out of place and yet somehow exactly where he intended to be.
“You are strong,” he called up to you, loud enough that a couple of heads turned.
You glanced down at him, already bracing yourself. “Don’t start.”
“Danhausen is not starting,” he replied, raising his hands defensively. “Danhausen is observing. And also complimenting. You should accept this.”
“I accept the compliment,” you said dryly. “I reject whatever comes after it.”
He narrowed his eyes slightly, like you had ruined his plan. “You assume too much.”
“You’re predictable.”
“I am evolving,” he corrected quickly. “Now. You will go on a date with Danhausen to celebrate your strength.”
You snorted, shaking your head as you turned away, pushing yourself back into the rhythm of training. “Still no.”
He sighed loudly, dramatically, flopping back against the barricade like he had been personally wounded. “A tragedy.”
But he was smiling.
That was the thing that got you.
He never seemed discouraged.
Even when you turned him down without hesitation, even when you didn’t give him anything to work with, he didn’t retreat. He didn’t grow cold or distant or irritated the way people often did when they weren’t getting what they wanted.
On another occasion, the arena was alive in that chaotic, buzzing way it always was before a show, voices overlapping, music bleeding faintly from somewhere down the hall, the distant thud of someone testing the ring. You had found a small pocket of quiet near the far end of the corridor, leaning against the wall with your notes in hand, trying to carve out a moment of stillness before everything ramped up.
He appeared without fanfare this time, slipping into the space beside you like he belonged there.
“Hiding?” he questioned.
“I’m working,” you corrected, though there was no real bite to it.
“Same thing,” he said, glancing at the papers in your hand like he might understand them just by looking.
You let the silence sit for a moment, the distant noise filling the gaps, before you spoke again. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
“Yes,” he said. “Right here.”
You exhaled slowly, your head tipping back briefly against the wall, your eyes closing for just a second. “You’re exhausting.”
“And yet,” he said softly, “you have not told Danhausen to leave.”
You opened your eyes, turning your head slightly to look at him. He was closer than usual, not enough to feel intrusive, but enough that you could see the subtle details you often ignored. The faint smudge where his face paint had worn slightly near his jaw, the way his expression shifted when he wasn’t actively performing.
“I should,” you said quietly.
“But you will not,” he replied, just as softly.
There was no arrogance in it. No assumption.
Just… certainty.
And that unsettled you more than anything else.
Because he was right.
You should have pushed him away properly. Should have drawn a line so clear he couldn’t mistake it for anything else. It would have been kinder in the long run.
Easier.
Safer.
But every time you tried, something held you back. Something quiet and stubborn that refused to let you cut him off completely.
Because he made it hard.
Not in a forceful way, not in a way that made you feel trapped, but in the way he existed around you. The way he filled spaces without overwhelming them, the way he turned even the smallest interactions into something warm, something that lingered longer than it should have.
And you felt it.
That slow, creeping shift inside you, the one you refused to acknowledge fully.
Because you knew where it led.
You had been there before.
The memory came uninvited sometimes, slipping into your thoughts at the worst moments, sharp and vivid in a way you couldn’t quite dull. That cramped kitchen. The tension that had settled into the walls long before either of you had said it out loud.
“You’re always somewhere else,” your ex had said, his voice tight with frustration. “Even when you’re here, you’re not really here.”
“I’m trying,” you had insisted, your hands gripping the edge of the counter like it might anchor you in place. “I just… I can’t give you everything all the time.”
“I’m not asking for everything,” he shot back. “I’m asking for something that feels real.”
The words had lodged themselves somewhere deep, something uncomfortable twisting in your chest.
“It is real,” you had said, quieter now, but the conviction hadn’t been enough.
Because somewhere along the way, it had stopped feeling like it.
It had become something you were constantly trying to fix, constantly adjusting yourself to fit into, until you barely recognised the version of yourself that existed within it. And when it ended, it didn’t explode. It didn’t shatter in a way that made it easy to process.
It just… faded.
Left you standing in the aftermath with a hollow kind of exhaustion, like you had poured too much of yourself into something that had no intention of holding it.
That was what you remembered most.
Not the arguments. Not the sharp words.
The emptiness.
The quiet, gnawing sense that you had given too much and still somehow not enough.
So you stopped.
You built your rules carefully, piece by piece, like walls you knew you needed to keep yourself steady. No dating colleagues. No dating at all. No opening yourself up to something that could unravel you like that again.
And for a long time, it worked.
Until him.
Danhausen didn’t approach you like anyone else had. He didn’t demand more than you could give, didn’t make you feel like you were falling short of something unspoken. He just existed beside you, offering pieces of himself without expecting you to match them immediately.
And that made it worse.
Because it made you wonder.
Later that week, it was quieter.
The kind of quiet that only existed in the hours after everything had wound down, when the energy of the night had drained out of the building, leaving behind something softer, something almost hollow. You had been sitting on one of the worn couches in the common area, your legs tucked beneath you, a half-empty vending machine coffee balanced on the table in front of you.
The glow of the television flickered across the room, casting shifting shadows against the walls.
He sat beside you without asking.
Not too close. Not touching.
“You look tired,” he said after a moment, his voice lower than usual.
“I am,” you admitted, not bothering to argue.
“Then you should go on a date with Danhausen,” he replied immediately. “It will restore your energy.”
You huffed out a quiet laugh, your head tipping back against the couch. “You think a date fixes exhaustion?”
“Yes,” he said. “Especially a date with Danhausen.”
You turned your head slightly to look at him, studying him in the softer light, the edges of his usual persona blurred by the quiet of the moment. “You don’t stop, do you?”
“No.”
There was no hesitation.
No apology.
Just truth.
“Why?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
He paused then, just for a second, like the question had caught him slightly off guard. “Because you are worth the effort,” he said simply.
Something in your chest tightened, sharp and unexpected.
You looked away first.
“Still no,” you said, quieter this time.
And for the first time, something flickered across his expression that you couldn’t quite place.
Not frustration. Not yet.
But something closer to it.
It built after that.
Not immediately, not in a way that was obvious at first, but gradually, like a slow pressure you didn’t fully register until it became impossible to ignore. He was still gentle, still playful, still careful with the way he approached you, but there were moments now where something heavier sat beneath it.
A question he wasn’t asking out loud.
Until he did.
It happened in the corridor.
One of the quieter ones, tucked away from the main flow of traffic, where the noise of the arena softened into something distant and indistinct. You had been moving quickly, your focus elsewhere, your thoughts already moving ahead to the next thing on your list when he stepped into your path.
Not abruptly. Not aggressively.
But deliberately.
“Date with Danhausen?” he asked, but there was no humour in it this time. No lightness.
You slowed to a stop, something in your chest tightening instinctively. “How many times do I have to say no for you to...”
“Why?” he cut in, his voice sharper than you had ever heard it, though not loud. Just… firm. “Why not?”
You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
“Why will you not go on a date with Danhausen?” he continued, his gaze fixed on you now, unflinching. “You say no. Always no. But you do not say why.”
You shifted slightly, your grip tightening on the folder in your hands. “I’ve told you...”
“No,” he interrupted again, shaking his head. “You have given deflections, perhaps. But not the truth.”
The air felt heavier suddenly, the space between you closing in.
“Is it because you do not like Danhausen?” he asked, and there it was, the thing that had been sitting beneath everything finally breaking the surface. “You can say this. It is fine. Danhausen will accept it. But you must say it.”
Your throat tightened, the words catching before they could form.
“Is something wrong with Danhausen?” he pressed, softer now, but no less intense. “Is he too strange? Too much? Not enough? You must tell him.”
“Stop,” you said quietly, your voice wavering just slightly.
“No,” he said, shaking his head again, more insistent this time. “Because Danhausen does not understand. You laugh. You stay. You take the coffee, the notes, the compliments. You do not push him away. But you also do not let him closer. This is confusing.”
There it was.
The frustration.
Not explosive, not angry in the way you had come to expect from others, but real. Honest. Something that had been building for far longer than you had allowed yourself to acknowledge.
“Just tell me you do not like me,” he said, and his voice softened then, just slightly, just enough that it made something in your chest ache. “And Danhausen will stop.”
That was what broke it.
Because you couldn’t say it.
You couldn’t lie like that.
“I do like you,” you admitted, the words coming out quieter than you intended, but steady. Real.
He stilled.
The shift was immediate.
“Then why?” he asked, softer now, but still searching. Still needing an answer.
You exhaled slowly, your shoulders dropping just slightly, like the weight of everything you had been holding back was finally too much to carry.
“Because I don’t date,” you said. “I don’t date colleagues. I don’t date anyone.”
“Why?” he asked again, gentler now.
And this time, you didn’t deflect.
“Because it always goes wrong,” you said, your voice quieter, more vulnerable than you liked. “Because I’ve done this before, I’ve tried, and it ends the same way every time. People leave, or they change, or I do. And it hurts. It’s messy, and it’s exhausting, and I don’t want to do that again.”
He didn’t interrupt.
Didn’t argue.
He just listened.
“I don’t want to be a burden,” you added, the words slipping out before you could stop them.
“Burden?” he repeated immediately, his brows pulling together, confusion sharp in his expression. “What a stunning misinterpretation of the situation.”
You almost laughed, but it caught somewhere in your chest.
“You think Danhausen sees you as a burden?” he continued, stepping closer now, his voice softer but firm. “You think this is obligation?”
“I just...”
“No,” he said gently. “You think wrong.”
He held your gaze, steady and unwavering, something warm settling into his expression, something that felt far too real for you to ignore.
“I will love you,” he said quietly. “I will cherish you, if you will let me.”
Your breath caught, the words hitting somewhere deep, somewhere you had spent a long time trying to keep closed off.
“I am not asking for forever,” he continued, his tone softer now, almost poetic in its rhythm. “Danhausen is not so foolish. But you are afraid of ghosts. Of endings that have not happened yet.”
You swallowed, your voice barely steady. “And what if they do?”
“Then they do,” he said simply. “But something will have existed before that. Something real.”
The silence stretched between you, softer now, less suffocating.
“I’m scared,” you admitted.
He nodded once. “Good. That means it matters.”
A quiet breath left you, something easing slightly in your chest.
“You’re so persistent,” you murmured.
“Yes,” he said softly. “But very devoted.”
You hesitated, your thoughts a tangled mess of fear and something softer, something you hadn’t let yourself feel in a long time.
“What would we even do?” you asked, your voice quieter now.
And just like that, something warm returned to him, something hopeful.
“A date,” he said. “A very good one.”
You huffed out a small laugh, shaking your head slightly. “Fine. One date.”
The shift in him was immediate, something bright and relieved flickering across his expression.
“One date,” he echoed.
And then, softer, more careful, like he was aware of the fragility of the moment, he stepped just a little closer.
Not enough to overwhelm.
Just enough.
You felt it before you fully registered it, the warmth of him near you, the slight brush of his presence as he leaned in. His hand hovered for a second, like he was giving you time to pull away, to change your mind.
You didn’t.
His lips pressed gently against your shoulder, just above the fabric of your shirt, the contact light, fleeting, but grounding in a way that made your breath catch.
A promise, more than anything else.
When he pulled back, there was a quiet satisfaction in the way he looked at you, something calm, something certain.
Hello! Firstly, I just want to say I’ve been living for your Danhausen fics!! They’re all so good!!
Would you be able to write a fic where the reader and Danhausen are forced to be a tag team despite not exactly getting along but end up having romantic tension? Also can you maybe sprinkle in some jealousy on her or Danhausen’s part?
Thank you!💗
yoooo thank you so much 💞
we love enemies to lovers round here 🫶🫶🫶
゛TAG TEAM ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ danhausen x reader
: ̗̀➛ requested! for anon
“And still, you treat Danhausen like an obstacle. ”
⤿ Forced to team up, you and Danhausen clash hard until rivalry turns into jealousy, tension, and something neither of you can ignore.
tags | angst | forced proximity | jealousy |
The first time your name was put beside Danhausen’s on the match card, it did not feel like an inconvenience. It felt like an insult.
You stood there far longer than necessary, staring at the board as if sheer irritation alone might burn the ink clean off it.
Around you, the locker room buzzed with its usual noise, laughter, gear bags dropping, voices overlapping, but it all dulled into the background the longer you looked at it. Your jaw tightened, your arms folding slowly across your chest as a familiar heat crept up your spine, the kind that came when something about a situation felt fundamentally unfair. You had spent too long carving your own space here, too long proving yourself without anyone’s help, to suddenly be tethered to someone who treated everything like a performance.
Behind you, there was a sharp, theatrical inhale.
“Absolutely not,” came his voice, dramatic and offended in a way that made something in your eye twitch.
You didn’t even turn around at first. “Oh, good,” you muttered, dry and cutting. “At least we agree on something.”
Footsteps approached, deliberate, unhurried, and then he was there beside you, presence impossible to ignore. When you finally looked at him, his expression was exactly what you expected. Lips curled downward, eyes narrowed beneath the paint, posture stiff with exaggerated disapproval like he’d just been personally slighted by the universe itself.
“This,” he said, gesturing at the board as if it were a cursed object, “is a mistake. A grave one. Danhausen refuses to be paired with someone so… aggressively difficult.”
Your head snapped toward him properly then, irritation sharpening into something far more immediate. “Aggressively difficult?” you echoed, incredulous. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Danhausen never jokes about these matters,” he replied, tone flat but laced with something smug. “You are loud. You are impulsive. You do not listen.”
A laugh slipped out of you, short and sharp, entirely humourless. “You don’t even know me.”
“Hm,” he managed, tilting his head slightly as his gaze dragged slowly over you in clear judgement, “Danhausen has observed enough.”
That did it. Something in your chest flared hot and immediate, your patience snapping clean in half. “Observed what, exactly? That I don’t stand around talking in riddles and acting like I’m above everyone else? Yeah, sorry, I actually do my job.”
His eyes narrowed just slightly further, something colder settling beneath the theatrics now. “Danhausen does his job very well.”
“Yeah?” you shot back, stepping closer without thinking, drawn into the argument like it had weight. “Then maybe try doing it without treating your partner like they’re in your way.”
“Partner,” he repeated, like the word itself was distasteful. “This is temporary. Do not misunderstand.”
“Oh, trust me,” you said, voice dropping, sharp with edge. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
There was a pause then, thick and heavy, the kind that pressed in around you when neither person was willing to back down. The air between you felt charged, not with anything soft or uncertain, but with friction. Pure, undeniable friction. You didn’t like him. Not his attitude, not the way he carried himself like he was untouchable, not the way he spoke like everything was a performance you weren’t part of. And he, very clearly, did not like you either.
And yet, neither of you walked away.
Because the truth of it sat there, unspoken but understood.
You didn’t have a choice.
The first match was chaos.
Not the kind that came from unpredictability, but the kind that came from two people refusing to meet in the middle. You moved like opposing forces rather than a team, your instincts clashing at every turn, every attempt at coordination dissolving into frustration before it could settle into anything useful. You were quick, reactive, used to relying on your own rhythm, and he was calculated, precise in a way that felt suffocating when it wasn’t aligned with you.
“You are early,” he snapped under his breath the first time you reached for a tag, his hand hovering just out of yours for a fraction too long.
“You're too late,” you shot back instantly, fingers brushing his before he finally slapped your hand with more force than necessary.
The contact sparked something sharp up your arm, but you ignored it, stepping through the ropes with irritation still burning under your skin. The crowd was loud, the energy high, but all you could feel was the lingering frustration of working beside someone who refused to bend.
Every movement became an argument. Every misstep a fault to assign.
“You missed your cue,” he muttered when you passed him again.
“You didn’t even call it,” you snapped back, ducking a strike and barely sparing him a glance.
“Danhausen should not need to call everything.”
“I think Danhausen should learn how to communicate.”
That earned you a look, a proper one this time, sharp and cutting and entirely focused. It lasted longer than it should have, long enough that you almost missed the next move, long enough that your irritation twisted into something tighter in your chest.
You hated how aware you were of him.
You hated it even more when it got worse.
Because at some point, in the middle of all that tension and misalignment, something clicked. Not cleanly, not easily, but enough that your movements began to sync in brief, unexpected bursts. A tag that landed exactly when it needed to. A counter that flowed into his without hesitation. A moment where you moved without thinking and he was already there, already matching you, like he had anticipated it.
It shouldn’t have worked.
But it did.
Just enough to win.
Backstage was not better.
If anything, it was worse without the distraction of the match to temper things. The moment you were through the curtain, the tension that had been simmering snapped back to the surface, raw and unfiltered.
“That was a mess,” you said immediately, pacing a tight line in front of him, your voice sharp with leftover adrenaline. “We got lucky.”
“We did not get lucky,” he replied, tone firm, controlled, which only irritated you further. “We adjusted.”
“You adjusted,” you echoed, turning on him. “I had to work around you.”
“Danhausen did exactly what was required.”
“You just did whatever you wanted,” you snapped, stepping closer again, pulled into the argument without hesitation.
His posture shifted, just slightly, something tightening in his shoulders as he met you halfway, the space between you shrinking again until it felt deliberate. “And you,” he said, voice lower now, quieter but no less sharp, “refuse to follow anything that is not your own idea.”
“Because your ideas don’t involve anyone but you.”
“Because your way involves no control.”
“At least I don’t freeze up waiting for the perfect moment while everything falls apart around me.”
“And at least Danhausen does not throw himself into situations without thinking first.”
The words collided, heavy and fast, neither of you willing to give an inch. It was exhausting and electric all at once, the kind of argument that burned hot enough to leave something behind even when it ended.
And it didn’t end cleanly.
The weeks that followed did not soften anything.
If anything, the edges between you sharpened further before they ever dulled.
Every match became a test, every interaction another chance to clash, to push, to prove something neither of you would say out loud. You learned each other not through kindness or patience, but through friction. Through mistakes. Through arguments that lingered long after they should have ended.
“You do not trust anyone,” he said one evening, the words quieter than usual but no less pointed.
You scoffed immediately, though it rang a little hollow. “I trust people who earn it.”
“And who has earned it?” he asked, stepping closer, his gaze fixed on you in a way that felt far too deliberate.
You hesitated.
Only for a second.
“That’s not your concern.”
“No,” he agreed, though his voice carried something heavier now. “It becomes Danhausen’s concern when it affects the match.”
You let out a frustrated breath, dragging a hand through your hair. “God, everything is about the match with you.”
“Because the match matters.”
“Yeah, well, news flash. So does the person you’re working with.”
That landed.
You saw it.
A flicker. Brief, almost imperceptible, but real.
“And still,” he said after a moment, slower now, “you treat Danhausen like an obstacle.”
“Because you act like one.”
Silence stretched between you again, thick and unresolved, but this time it felt different. Less explosive. More… loaded.
Because somewhere in the middle of all that anger, something had shifted.
Not enough to name.
Not enough to admit.
But enough that you both felt it.
And neither of you knew what to do with it.
The jealousy did not announce itself.
It crept in, quiet and uncomfortable, threading through moments that should have meant nothing until suddenly they meant too much. You didn’t notice it at first, not properly, but you felt the effects of it in the way he moved during matches, in the way his attention lingered too long, sharpened too quickly when someone else got too close.
It came to a head during a match you should have handled easily.
You were outside the ring, catching your breath, when one of your opponents cornered you, their grip firm, unnecessary, their body crowding yours in a way that felt deliberate. You pushed back immediately, irritation flaring, but they held for just a second longer than they should have.
And then something changed.
The tag came hard, sudden, his hand striking yours with a force that jolted through your arm, his presence immediately filling the space between you and them as he stepped into the ring without hesitation.
“Enough,” he said, voice low, controlled, but edged with something unmistakable.
You blinked, thrown off. “What are you doing? I had that.”
“Danhausen did not ask,” he cut in, not even looking at you as he moved, every action sharper than usual, every strike carrying something heavier beneath it.
The match ended quickly after that.
Too quickly.
And when you were backstage again, the tension that followed was suffocating.
“What the hell was that?” you demanded, turning on him the second you were alone, your voice cutting through the silence.
He didn’t answer immediately, pacing once, twice, like he was trying to contain something he didn’t fully understand.
“They were too close,” he said finally.
Your brows pulled together. “It’s a match.”
“It was unnecessary.”
“That’s not your call.”
“It becomes Danhausen’s concern when...” He stopped, jaw tightening, frustration flashing across his face.
“When what?” you pressed, stepping closer, refusing to let it go.
“When you do not stop it.”
The words hit differently.
You blinked. “I was handling it.”
“You hesitated.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
Something twisted in your chest then, sharp and unfamiliar.
“…You’re actually serious,” you said slowly.
He didn’t deny it.
Didn’t look away.
And suddenly, the pieces started to fall into place.
All that tension. All that irritation. The way he watched. The way he reacted.
“You’re jealous,” you said, the realisation settling heavy between you.
“Irritated,” he corrected immediately, though his voice lacked its usual certainty. “Danhausen is… irritated.”
You let out a breath, something almost disbelieving bubbling up. “That’s the same thing.”
“It is not.”
“It really is.”
He stepped closer then, close enough that the argument lost its sharp edges and turned into something else entirely, something quieter but far more dangerous.
“You are,” he interrupted, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made it hard to breathe. “You allow it. You do not react.”
“I don’t need you stepping in every time someone gets too close.”
“Perhaps Danhausen disagrees.”
“Why?” you challenged, your voice softer now, but no less firm.
He hesitated.
Just long enough.
And in that pause, everything changed.
Because suddenly, all that anger, all that tension, all those arguments that had felt too charged for simple dislike.
They made sense.
Your voice dropped, barely above a breath. “Oh.”
He stilled.
For a long moment after that quiet, breathless realisation, neither of you moved.
It was almost suffocating, the silence that settled in the space between you, thick with everything that had been building for weeks and had only just found a name. The anger was still there, coiled tightly beneath your ribs, but it had shifted now, tangled up with something far more dangerous. Something that made your chest feel too tight, your thoughts slower, your awareness of him sharper than it had ever been before.
Danhausen did not step back.
If anything, he seemed to settle into the closeness, like he was testing it, like he was trying to understand it the same way he had tried to understand you since the moment you were forced into his orbit. His gaze didn’t waver, dark and steady, tracing over your face with a focus that made it difficult to look away, even when every instinct told you to create distance.
“This,” he said slowly, his voice quieter than you had ever heard it, stripped of most of its usual theatrical edge, “is… ridiculous.”
You let out a soft, almost disbelieving breath, your lips pressing together as you tried to find something sharp enough to throw back at him, something that would put this back where it belonged. Back in the realm of irritation and rivalry where things made sense.
“Yeah,” you murmured instead, your voice betraying you just slightly.
He tilted his head, studying you like he wasn’t entirely convinced by your tone. “Danhausen does not think you understand the extent of the inconvenience.”
“Oh, I understand it perfectly,” you shot back, though it lacked the bite it should have had. “We don’t even like each other.”
“Correct.”
“But...”
“But,” he echoed, stepping a fraction closer, close enough now that the line between confrontation and something else blurred entirely, “you felt it too.”
Your breath caught.
You hated that he said it so plainly.
You hated that he was right.
You swallowed, forcing your shoulders to square, forcing your expression back into something steadier, something defensive. “It doesn’t change anything.”
“No?” he asked, softer now, the word almost curious.
“No,” you insisted, even as your pulse betrayed you, thudding too loudly in your ears. “We still argue. We still can’t stand each other half the time.”
“Half,” he repeated, and there was something faintly amused in it now, something that tugged at the corner of his mouth. “An improvement.”
You frowned, but it didn’t quite land the way it usually did. “Don’t push it.”
“Danhausen is not pushing,” he said, though the way his eyes flicked briefly to your lips suggested otherwise. “Danhausen is observing.”
“That’s your problem,” you muttered. “You observe too much.”
“And you,” he returned quietly, “do not observe enough.”
That made you pause.
“Meaning?” you asked, your voice dropping despite yourself.
He didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, his hand moved.
It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t dramatic. It was slow, deliberate, like he was giving you every opportunity to pull away if you wanted to. His fingers brushed lightly against your wrist first, testing, the contact barely there but enough to send a sharp awareness up your arm. When you didn’t immediately recoil, his hand shifted, closing more firmly around yours, grounding the contact into something real.
Your breath hitched before you could stop it.
“This,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost thoughtful, “has been… distracting Danhausen.”
You stared at your joined hands for a second longer than necessary before forcing your gaze back up to his face. “You’re distracted?”
“Do not sound so surprised,” he replied, though there was no real bite behind it. “You are… difficult to ignore.”
Something in your chest twisted at that.
“You were doing a pretty good job of it at the start,” you said, trying to recover some of your usual edge.
“Danhausen was mistaken.”
You blinked.
That was not something you expected to hear from him.
“Mistaken?” you repeated, softer now.
“Yes,” he said simply, his thumb shifting slightly against your wrist, the movement absentminded but grounding. “Danhausen thought you were only… frustrating.”
You huffed out a quiet breath, a hint of something almost like a laugh slipping through. “Only?”
“Now,” he continued, ignoring the interruption, his gaze steady on yours, “Danhausen realises you are… more complicated than that.”
The words settled somewhere deeper than they should have.
You should have pulled your hand away.
You didn’t.
Instead, you stepped closer.
It was subtle, barely noticeable, but it closed the remaining space between you until there was nothing left but shared air and too much awareness. Your free hand lifted without much thought, hovering for just a second before resting lightly against his chest, fingers curling slightly into the fabric as if grounding yourself.
“That goes both ways,” you said quietly.
His breath hitched.
It was small. Almost imperceptible.
But you felt it.
And something in you softened just slightly in response.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
The usual noise of the locker room felt distant, muffled, like it existed in another world entirely. Here, it was just the two of you, standing far too close, hands still joined, your touch still lingering, everything that had once been sharp and hostile now threaded through with something warmer, heavier.
“You are still irritating,” he said after a moment, though his voice had lost most of its usual edge.
You smiled faintly, unable to help it. “You’re still insufferable.”
“Good,” he murmured.
“Good,” you echoed.
But neither of you moved apart.
If anything, the silence stretched again, softer this time, charged in an entirely different way.
Your gaze dropped briefly, just for a second, to his lips.
And when you looked back up, he had noticed.
Of course he had.
Danhausen noticed everything.
The tension moved again, tightening, pulling, the air between you growing heavier with something unspoken but unmistakable. His hand tightened slightly around yours, his other lifting just enough to hover near your side, like he wasn’t entirely sure if he was allowed to close that final bit of distance.
“You are… very distracting,” he admitted quietly.
Your breath caught again, your voice barely more than a whisper when you answered. “You’re not exactly helping.”
That faint hint of amusement flickered across his expression again, softer this time, less guarded.
“Danhausen is beginning to think,” he said slowly, his gaze dropping briefly before returning to yours, “that this partnership may not end as originally planned.”
You swallowed, your fingers tightening slightly against his chest.
“…Yeah,” you murmured. “I’m starting to think that too.”
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ouchhausen notes!
oooop this is making me lowk wanna write a feisty/angry danhausen
SORRY TO THE ANON I LOST YOUR REQUEST LOL BUT I REMEMBERED WHAT IT WAS 🫶🖤
whoever you are, pls enjoy and ty for the request
゛FLIRT BACK GODDAMMIT ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ danhausen x reader
: ̗̀➛ requested! for anon
“ you just never get it, do you? ”
⤿ After weeks of flirting, you think Danhausen is rejecting you until you realise he just never believed you could like him.
tags | ANGST | longer oneshot!! | kiss |
He noticed everything except the one thing that mattered.
That, you thought bitterly, was almost impressive.
Danhausen noticed when you changed your shampoo because one afternoon, while the two of you were squeezed into the narrow corridor outside makeup, he leaned in far too close in that strange way of his and informed you, very solemnly, that you smelled like expensive witchcraft and vanilla.
He noticed when you were limping after a rough match and appeared at your elbow with an ice pack, muttering that only fools and terrible enemies ignored damage to a perfectly serviceable ankle.
He noticed when your coffee order changed, when you started wearing a darker lipstick, when your wrist tape matched the trim on your gear, when your mood dipped low enough that you spoke a little less and smiled a little slower.
He noticed tiny things, ridiculous things, things no one else on the roster ever seemed to catch.
But he did not notice when you spent six full weeks shamelessly, consistently, almost painfully flirting with him.
Or worse, maybe he noticed and simply did not believe it.
At first, it had been funny.
You had not meant for it to become a whole thing. The first remark slipped out on a Tuesday, late in the afternoon, when the arena was still half asleep and everyone backstage looked undercaffeinated and mildly haunted. Danhausen had come stalking into catering with his face paint half done, black curling around one eye, hair still damp at the ends, and there had been something so unexpectedly handsome about it, something unfinished and unguarded, that the words escaped before you could stop them.
“Well,” you had said, leaning back against the counter with your paper cup of tea warming your hands, “that's an unfair thing to do to people before noon.”
Danhausen stopped. He turned toward you slowly, blinking, one dark brow lifting beneath the paint. “What thing?”
You shrugged, smiling over the rim of your cup. “Walk around looking like that.”
He stared at you for a beat, then looked down at himself. Black hoodie. Ring gear peeking out underneath. Boots unlaced. One wrist wrapped, the other not. Then he looked back at you with complete seriousness and said, “Danhausen knows. Very intimidating.”
You had laughed so hard you nearly spilled your tea, and he had looked smug, like he had delivered exactly the reaction he wanted. Then he snatched a banana off the counter, announced that potassium made curses stronger, and wandered off before you could explain that intimidating was not remotely the word you had meant.
After that, it became a game.
Or at least, it became a game for you.
You started dropping little things into conversation just to see if one of them would finally get through that thick, baffling layer of obliviousness wrapped around him like armor. You complimented him every chance you got. You touched his arm when you passed him in the hall. You sat beside him in production meetings when there were other empty chairs. You brought him energy drinks he liked and pretended it was no big deal. You laughed at jokes that did not always make sense and stood a little too close and made eye contact a little too long and kept waiting for the moment his expression would change, for the precise instant he would look back at you and really, truly see what you were doing.
Instead, he seemed to accept it all with the innocent confidence of a man who believed himself completely safe.
That was the part that began to hurt.
Because there was only so much flirting a person could do before it started to feel less like teasing and more like humiliation.
“Here,” you said one evening, tossing him a cold bottle of water as he came through gorilla after a match, chest still rising hard with exertion. “You looked good out there.”
He caught it neatly. “Of course.”
You smiled. “No, I mean really good.”
“Yes.” He unscrewed the cap. “Danhausen heard you the first time.”
The laugh that escaped you was helpless, but there was a strain under it now, a hairline crack beginning to spread through your patience. “You are impossible.”
“Very possible,” he corrected, taking a drink. “Danhausen is standing right here.”
And then he walked away, leaving you staring after him with your heart dragging behind your ribs like something bruised.
It should have been easy to give up.
You told yourself that repeatedly. It should have been easy to stop. Pull back. Save what pride you had left. Accept that either he was not interested, or he was interested and too oblivious to do anything about it, which was somehow worse. But every time you resolved to keep your distance, Danhausen would do something small and devastatingly kind that cracked your resolve all over again.
Like the day you got your fingers taped badly before a match and could not quite manage to fix it one handed. You had been swearing under your breath in the corner of the locker room, teeth catching your lower lip as you tried to peel the tape up without taking skin with it, when his shadow fell over you.
“You are doing that terribly,” he said.
You glanced up. “Oh, good. Public humiliation. Exactly what I needed.”
He made a dismissive sound and held out his hand. “Give it here.”
You hesitated for only a second before passing him the tape. He crouched in front of you, surprisingly steady, broad hands infinitely gentler than they looked as he took your hand in his. His fingers were cool from whatever drink he had been holding. Your breath snagged slightly when his thumb pressed against the inside of your wrist to tilt your hand into the light.
“There,” he murmured, more to himself than you. “You cannot go into battle looking like a child wrapped this.”
You watched him work, watched the concentration sharpen his features, the slight furrow between his brows, the way his hair fell forward near his cheek. “You know,” you said quietly, “someone could get the wrong idea, seeing you like this.”
He did not look up. “Yes. They will think you are incompetent with tape.”
You closed your eyes for one brief, despairing moment. “That is not the idea I meant.”
“Mm.” He smoothed the end of the tape down with careful precision. “You are also dramatic.”
Then he patted your knee once, as if that settled the matter entirely, and rose to his feet.
You stared after him, heat creeping up your neck. “Danhausen.”
He turned at the door. “Yes?”
You had no idea what to say anymore. I am trying to flirt with you so aggressively that at this point it should qualify as a cry for help. Instead you managed, “Thanks.”
He nodded once. “Danhausen is aware of his many gifts.”
Then he was gone.
You fell in love with him very slowly, and then all at once.
That was the truth of it, though you refused to name it for as long as you could. It began in pieces. In fragments. In a hundred moments that might have meant nothing on their own but became unbearable when stitched together. The way he always seemed to drift toward you, even in crowded rooms, as though some private instinct pointed him your way. The way he remembered odd details you had only mentioned once. The way his voice softened, just a little, when it was only the two of you. Even his absurdity became part of it, the strange theatrical nonsense, the curses, the muttered observations, the deadpan confidence that somehow concealed a nervousness most people never bothered to look for.
You looked for it.
You found it in the pauses.
In the moments after he made a joke, when his eyes flicked to your face as if checking whether it had landed. In the way he lingered nearby but not too near, like a man who wanted company and did not know how to ask for it plainly. In the tiny shifts in his shoulders whenever praise turned sincere. In the fact that he could perform confidence in front of thousands and still seem startled by tenderness in private.
That was what ruined you, really. Not his looks, though those were not helping. Not the dry humor or the clever little comments or the dark theatrical charisma. It was the softness under all of it. The softness he gave away carelessly, as if he did not understand its value.
You started writing him into the corners of your day.
You checked whether he was at catering before deciding where to sit. You listened for his voice in crowded locker rooms. You started measuring good nights by whether he had stopped by to bother you. If a day passed without speaking to him, the whole thing felt off center, subtly wrong, like a picture hung crooked.
And still he remained heartbreakingly, infuriatingly oblivious.
The worst night came at a live event in Chicago.
You had already been tired, which never helped. Tired made everything thinner. The skin. The patience. The small, carefully managed distance between what you felt and what you showed. Your match had gone long, and not in a good way. You had a bruise blooming hot against your ribs, your hair was sticking to the back of your neck, and all you wanted was to shower, find something unhealthy to eat, and disappear into the hotel bed with the curtains closed.
Instead, you ended up in the hallway outside the trainer’s room with Danhausen.
He was perched on a road case, elbows on knees, talking to you while he waited for a wrap on his shoulder. The corridor was dimmer here, quieter than the rest of backstage, washed in that dull industrial light that made everyone look slightly unreal. He had no paint on anymore. Just the ghost of it still clinging at the edges of his eyes. Without it, he looked younger somehow. Less protected.
“You were brilliant,” you told him, handing over the instant coffee you had scavenged from somewhere. “The crowd loved you.”
He accepted it with a suspicious glance. “This is terrible coffee.”
“I know.”
“You brought Danhausen terrible coffee.”
“I brought you terrible coffee because it was the only coffee left, and you looked like you were about to fall over.”
He took a sip anyway. “That is almost sweet.”
“Almost?” You tilted your head. “I can do sweeter.”
He looked at you then, really looked at you, and for one reckless second hope surged sharp and bright in your chest.
Then he smiled, small and crooked. “Yes. Danhausen knows you are nice.”
Not sweet. Nice.
It should not have mattered. It was a single word. A harmless one. But something inside you gave way all the same, frayed through by weeks of misfires and half hopes and the sheer exhaustion of wanting him this much without any clear sign you were not making a fool of yourself.
You gave a short laugh. “Right.”
He frowned slightly. “What?”
“Nothing.” You folded your arms, suddenly cold despite the heat trapped in the corridor. “You just never get it, do you?”
Danhausen went still. “Get what?”
There it was again. That sincere confusion. That total lack of comprehension. You stared at him, waiting for the joke, the delayed realization, anything. Nothing came.
Your chest tightened.
“Forget it,” you said.
“No.” He straightened on the road case, brows drawing together. “No, do not do that strange thing people do where they say something confusing and then insist it is nothing.”
You let out a breath through your nose, tension coiling tighter. “Danhausen.”
“What does that mean?” he pressed. “Never get what?”
You should have lied. You should have laughed and changed the subject and protected what little pride you had left. Instead, because you were tired and sore and sick of bleeding your feelings out in tiny harmless jokes that went nowhere, you heard yourself say, “I have been flirting with you for over a month.”
Silence.
Not stunned silence. Not delighted silence. Not the charged, disbelieving silence of a man about to admit he had been too nervous to say anything back.
Just silence.
Danhausen blinked at you.
You felt yourself flushing from throat to hairline. “Forget I said anything.”
“You were flirting?” he asked, and the tone of it was so genuinely startled that your stomach dropped clean through the floor.
You laughed once, sharp and joyless. “Wow. Okay.”
“No, Danhausen is not making fun of you,” he said quickly, standing now, coffee forgotten in his hand. “He just did not... you were?”
“You're really asking me that right now?”
“Yes, because you are saying a completely insane thing.”
Something hot and wounded flared up in you then. “Insane?!”
He took half a step back. “Not you! The thing. The idea that you...” He stopped, visibly trying to rearrange his thoughts. “You were serious?”
There it was.
Not cruel. Not mocking. Somehow that almost made it worse. Because he sounded like a man being told something impossible, something absurd on its face.
You swallowed hard. “You know what, don’t worry about it.”
He stared at you. “You cannot say that and then walk it back.”
“I can, actually.” Your voice came out tighter than you intended. “Pretty easily.”
“Why would you flirt with Danhausen?”
The words hit like a slap.
You both froze.
His face changed first. Horror spread across it so fast it was almost painful to watch. “No. That came out wrong.”
You looked away before he could see the full force of what that had done. There was a roaring in your ears now, loud enough to blot out the faint noises from the arena. “It's fine.”
“It is not fine,” he said, voice low and rough with panic. “That is not what Danhausen meant.”
But humiliation had already set in, hot and choking. “You do not have to fix it. I get it.”
“You clearly do not.”
“Really?” You looked back at him then, and whatever he saw in your face made him go very still. “Because it sounded pretty clear to me.”
For a moment neither of you moved.
Then the trainer’s door opened behind him, and the spell shattered. Someone called his name. Someone asked if he was coming in. The corridor filled again with light and noise and interruption.
Danhausen kept looking at you.
You stepped back first.
“Good luck with your shoulder,” you said, every syllable scraped raw. “And don’t worry. I won’t make things weird anymore.”
His expression tightened. “You are making them weird right now.”
A horrible laugh escaped you. “Trust me, this is me fixing it.”
Then you turned and walked away before he could answer, before he could see that your hands were shaking.
You cried in the hotel bathroom with the shower running so your roommate would not hear.
That was the low point.
Not because your heart broke dramatically in half, though it felt a little like that. Not because Danhausen had rejected you, exactly, because he had not even managed that cleanly. It was worse than rejection in some ways. Rejection would have been solid ground. Something real. Something you could recover from. What happened in that hallway was vaguer and crueler. A tangle of disbelief and confusion that left you feeling foolish, presumptuous, almost delusional.
Why would you flirt with Danhausen?
The question echoed until it hollowed you out.
It would have been easier if he had avoided you after that.
Instead, the next week was a slow torture of almost conversations and aborted apologies. Every time you entered a room and found him there, something in him sharpened instantly, attention locking on you with an intensity that only made you want to run. He seemed to be waiting for openings that never came. You became very good at leaving just before he reached you. At keeping someone else between you in catering. At vanishing into makeup or wardrobe or your rental car before he could corner you.
You were not proud of it.
But you had to survive somehow.
You stopped flirting entirely. Stopped touching him. Stopped seeking him out. You made yourself smile at everyone the same way, evenly and politely, and if that smile never quite reached your eyes around him, well. That was not your problem. You told yourself distance would cauterize the wound. That if you starved the thing long enough it would finally die.
Instead, you discovered that missing someone while standing ten feet away from them was its own special kind of misery.
He noticed the distance immediately.
Of course he did. Danhausen noticed everything except the obvious.
The first attempt happened on a Friday in St. Louis. You were seated cross legged on the floor of the women’s locker room, re-lacing one of your boots after training, when his voice came from the open doorway.
“You have ignored Danhausen for six days.”
Several heads turned.
You looked up slowly. “Hello to you too.”
He stood there with his hands tucked into the pocket of his hoodie, trying and failing to look casual. “That was the hello.”
One of the other girls snorted. You stood, brushing your hands down your legs. “I haven't ignored you.”
“You left catering when Danhausen sat down.”
“I was done eating.”
“You exited the hallway through a different door.”
“I was going to my car.”
“You hung up on him.”
You stared. “You called me and said, and I quote, ‘Are you avoiding Danhausen, yes or no?’”
“Yes.”
“I thought it was a prank!”
His mouth pressed into a line. “It was not.”
The room had gone suspiciously quiet around you. You could feel eyes flicking between the two of you with the unmistakable interest of people sensing drama.
You forced your voice light. “Well, mystery solved.”
He did not move. “Can Danhausen speak to you?”
The sensible answer would have been no. The self preserving answer definitely would have been no. Unfortunately, Danhausen had chosen a tone for that question that slipped under your ribs and lodged there, quiet and uncertain and so unlike his usual theatrical certainty that it broke something in you.
You sighed. “Fine.”
The hallway outside was cooler than the locker room, a draft moving through the corridor strong enough to raise goosebumps on your bare arms. You folded them across your chest on instinct. Danhausen followed and let the door swing shut behind him. For once, he did not begin with a joke.
“Are you angry?”
You let out a breath. “No.”
He tilted his head. “This sounds false.”
“I'm not angry. I'm embarrassed,” You looked at the cinderblock wall instead of him. “There. I said it. Are we done now?”
“Oh.” The single syllable came out quietly.
“Yes, oh.” You swallowed. “Can we not do this here?”
“Do what?”
You laughed under your breath, though there was no humor in it. “You really do make me feel insane sometimes.”
He went still. “Danhausen does not want to do that.”
“I know.” That was the problem. If you thought he was being cruel, this would have been easier. “Look, you don't owe me anything. I said something I should've kept to myself, and now I would like very badly to pretend it never happened.”
“But it did happen.”
“Unfortunately.”
“And you meant it.”
You closed your eyes. “Yes.”
The silence that followed was not empty. It was thick with things neither of you knew how to say. When you finally looked at him, his expression was unreadable in the harsh corridor light. Not cold. Not disgusted. Just deeply, frustratingly thoughtful.
“Why?” he asked at last.
Something in you recoiled. “Please stop asking me that.”
“No. Not like before.” He took a step closer, then seemed to think better of it and stopped himself. “Danhausen means... what did you think you were doing? What things were flirting? I want to understand.”
You stared at him for a long moment, almost disbelieving. “You want me to explain flirting to you?”
“Possibly. Yes.”
“That is the worst thing anyone has ever asked of me.”
A faint, startled smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, gone almost immediately. “Maybe. But answer.”
You should not have. It was humiliating. It was absurd. It made you feel as though you were standing under a spotlight while he examined all the ways you had tried and failed to reach him. Yet there was something so earnest in his gaze, such a sincere need to understand, that you found yourself caving despite every instinct screaming at you not to.
“When I brought you coffee,” you said.
“That was flirting?”
“Yes.”
“It was terrible coffee.”
“I know. That's not the point.”
He frowned as though filing this away. “Alright. Continue.”
“When I told you that you looked unfairly good before noon.”
“That sounded like mockery.”
“It wasn't.”
His brows lifted slightly.
“When I kept sitting next to you at meetings.”
“You said everyone else in those meetings smelled like protein powder and ego.”
“That was also true,” you hummed. “When I touched your arm every time I walked past you.”
He blinked. “That was deliberate?”
You stared at him. “Danhausen.”
“I thought you were just... touchy.”
You made a strangled sound of disbelief.
“And when you said you could do sweeter,” he continued slowly, almost to himself now, “that was also flirting?”
“Yes.”
His eyes flicked away from your face, then back again. “Oh.”
Something about the way he said it made your heart trip over itself. Not confusion this time. Not exactly. More like realization arriving in pieces, each one landing a little heavier than the last.
You hated that your hope stirred anyway.
“Well,” you said, aiming for casual and missing by a mile, “congratulations. You figured it out. Can I go now?”
“Do not do that,” he said immediately.
“Do what?”
“Talk like that. Like it does not matter.”
You looked at him, stung. “It does matter. That's kind of the issue.”
His throat moved as he swallowed. He looked suddenly nervous, and the sight of that on him was so rare it nearly undid you. His hands came out of his hoodie pocket only to disappear again, fidgeting restlessly against the fabric.
“Danhausen did not know,” he said at last. “Truly.”
“I gathered.”
“And when you said it in Chicago, I...” He stopped, jaw tightening. “I thought you were joking. Or being kind in the way people are kind when they do not mean things seriously. And then the brain panicked.”
You folded your arms tighter. “Why?”
His laugh was brief and sharp at the edges. “Because you are you.”
That did not answer anything, and the ache in your chest flared anew. “What does that mean?”
“It means...” He looked away, visibly struggling. Words had never been his weakness on camera. Off camera, with something real in his hands, he seemed suddenly much less certain. “It means Danhausen did not think you would want that.”
“What, to flirt with you?”
“To want him.”
The corridor seemed to narrow around you. For a second all you could do was stare.
Danhausen kept his eyes on the floor.
It was such a strange reversal that your mind almost refused to process it. This whole time you had been drowning in the certainty that he found the idea ridiculous, while apparently he had been standing on the opposite side of the same misunderstanding, equally convinced the possibility was too absurd to consider.
“You thought I was out of your league,” you said slowly.
His face twisted as though he regretted everything. “That sounds immature of me when you say it like that.”
“But accurate?”
He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like unfortunately.
You just looked at him. Then, despite yourself, despite the lingering bruise of all those awful days, a small disbelieving laugh escaped you. “You are an idiot.”
“Yes,” he said at once. “Danhausen is aware.”
“And all this time I thought you were rejecting me.”
“I was not rejecting you.” He looked up sharply. “Danhausen was trying very hard not to make a fool of himself by assuming impossible things.”
“Great. So we are both fools.”
“Apparently.”
The laugh that came out of you this time was a little less painful. Some of the tension in your shoulders loosened without permission. Not all of it. You were not ready for all of it to go. Too much had built up. Too many almosts, too many lonely nights talking yourself down from hope. But the ground beneath you no longer felt like it was falling away.
Danhausen seemed to notice the shift. He studied your face with cautious intensity, as if checking whether he had permission to breathe.
“Are you still embarrassed?” he asked.
“Yes,” you said honestly.
He nodded. “Reasonable.”
“And still a little angry.”
He winced. “Also reasonable.”
“And deeply offended that I had to itemize my flirting for you like a business presentation.”
A huff of laughter left him. “That part may haunt Danhausen forever.”
“Good.”
They called your name from somewhere down the hall then, some production assistant looking for you, and the moment faltered. You both turned toward the sound, reality intruding once again. When you looked back, Danhausen was still watching you.
“We are not finished,” he said.
The seriousness in his voice made your pulse jump. “No?”
“No.” His mouth curved very slightly. “Because now Danhausen has many questions.”
That should have worried you. Instead it sent a ridiculous little thrill through your chest.
The next two weeks were somehow worse.
Not in the old way. Not in the humiliating, hopeless, hollowed out way. Worse because now there was something alive between you, something acknowledged but not yet resolved, and every interaction became charged with the knowledge that neither of you could quite retreat into ignorance anymore.
Danhausen started hovering.
He had always hovered, to a degree, but now it was deliberate. Intentional. He appeared at your side in catering and carried your tray without asking. He waited outside your matches and fell into step beside you afterward. He found reasons to touch you that were somehow both gentler and more obvious than anything you had dared before. A hand at the small of your back guiding you through a crowd. Fingers brushing your wrist when he handed you something. His shoulder leaning into yours during production meetings, testing, like he was still getting used to the idea that he was allowed.
You let him.
That was the dangerous part. You let him, because after weeks of feeling ridiculous, it was almost impossible to deny yourself these tiny rewards now that he was finally meeting you halfway. Still, he had not said anything clear. Not yet. And your fear had not vanished just because the misunderstanding had been dragged into daylight. Fear was trickier than that. It lingered. It whispered. It reminded you how close you had come to being hurt beyond repair.
So you waited.
And apparently, so did he.
One Monday night, you were both trapped in the far corner of a near empty airport terminal after a delayed flight, sharing a miserable plastic row of seats and a bag of pretzels that had long since lost whatever charm pretzels ever possessed. It was past midnight. Most of the roster had either spread out to find better food or passed out in awkward positions with jackets over their faces. The fluorescent lighting overhead was unforgiving. The air smelled like stale coffee and floor cleaner.
Danhausen was beside you in a black beanie and an oversized coat, all his usual theatrics stripped away by exhaustion. He looked almost domestic like this, annoyingly so. You had your feet tucked up on the seat, knees drawn close, your head turned toward him as he recounted some bizarre travel disaster from years ago involving a rental car, three independent wrestlers, and a highway side motel that may or may not have been haunted.
“You are making this up,” you said.
“I am not.”
“You absolutely are.”
He opened the pretzel bag, peered inside as if betrayed by the remaining contents, and offered it to you anyway. “Danhausen would never lie about ghosts.”
You took one. Your fingers brushed. Neither of you pulled away quickly. “No. Just about everything else.”
He made a sound of offense. “Cruel.”
You smiled a little. “You like me cruel.”
The words slipped out before you could stop them.
For a second, old panic clawed at your ribs. Habit told you to brace for confusion, for another missed cue. But Danhausen only looked at you, quiet now, his eyes darker than usual in the flat airport light.
“Yes,” he said softly. “Maybe.”
The simple answer hit harder than any witty comeback could have.
You looked away first, pulse kicking.
For a while after that, neither of you spoke. The terminal hummed around you. A cleaner pushed a machine across the tile in the distance, its low mechanical whirr rising and falling. An announcement crackled overhead, garbled and tinny. Your shoulder remained pressed lightly to his. You could feel the warmth of him through both your coats.
“You are doing it again,” he said at last.
You glanced at him. “Doing what?”
“Flirting.”
The corner of your mouth lifted. “And you noticed?”
He turned his face toward you fully then, expression unreadable but intent. “Danhausen notices now.”
Something in your chest softened so abruptly it almost hurt.
“Good,” you whispered.
His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes. It was the first time you were certain he had done it on purpose. The first time you could not explain it away as imagination or hope or self delusion. Heat rose under your skin in a slow dangerous tide.
He looked a little startled by his own boldness.
That, more than anything, made you brave.
You shifted closer, just enough that your knee pressed against his thigh. “So what are you going to do about it?”
The question hung between you.
Danhausen’s throat worked. “Danhausen is considering the options.”
“You have had weeks to consider the options.”
“I know.” His mouth twitched, humor threaded through nerves. “Danhausen has been overwhelmed by the knowledge that he has accidentally been inside a romance this whole time.”
You laughed under your breath, and the sound seemed to steady him. His shoulders eased slightly. He tipped his head back against the plastic seat, studying the ceiling for a moment as though answers might be written there.
Then he said, very quietly, “You really mean it?”
Every trace of teasing drained out of you.
You knew what he was asking. Not whether you were flirting. Not whether you found him attractive. Those were easy pieces. He was asking whether the whole vulnerable, impossible thing was real. Whether, after the confusion and the embarrassment and the mess of the last two months, you still wanted him. Whether he had imagined the weight of your attention all this time because he wanted so badly for it to be true.
You turned toward him properly. “Yes.”
His eyes met yours.
“I meant it in Chicago,” you said, voice barely above a murmur now. “I meant it before Chicago. I mean it now.”
Danhausen looked stricken by the answer in a way that made your chest ache. Not upset. Not scared. Just deeply affected, like the truth of it had reached somewhere tender.
“You are dangerous,” he muttered.
“Why?”
“Because Danhausen was doing fine before this.”
“You were not.”
“No.” He smiled faintly, not taking his eyes off you. “But he was doing a very convincing impression.”
The honesty of that nearly undid you.
For a long moment you simply sat there, breathing the same thin airport air, your shoulders touching, the space between your faces close enough now that every shift felt significant. You could hear your own heartbeat. You wondered if he could.
He lifted one hand slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull back, and touched two fingers to the sleeve of your coat near your wrist. Just that. Just the lightest contact. A question disguised as barely anything at all.
You turned your hand over and took his.
The breath he drew in was sharp and quiet.
His fingers closed around yours with surprising caution, as if he had expected you to vanish. His hand was warm. Larger than yours. Slightly rough at the palm. You had imagined it often enough in private, shamefully enough, but the reality of it was still enough to make your whole body go still with awareness.
There was no dramatic rush. No immediate kiss. No sweeping declaration.
Just that.
His hand in yours. His thumb making one slow pass over your knuckles. The expression on his face changing so subtly and so completely that it felt like watching a door unlock.
“Danhausen has been very stupid,” he said.
You smiled, small and shaky. “A little.”
“He thought you were being kind because you pitied him.”
Your heart clenched. “I never pitied you.”
“I know that now.”
“Good.” You squeezed his hand. “Because I was actually being embarrassingly obvious.”
“Yes. In hindsight, it was absurdly obvious.”
You let out a laugh. “Oh, now you see it.”
“Yes, now Danhausen would like to go back in time and slap himself.”
“That is fair.”
He looked at your joined hands for a second, then back at you. “There is another problem.”
Your stomach dipped. “What problem?”
A beat passed.
Then, with maddening calm, he said, “Danhausen does not know how to do this.”
You blinked. “Do what?”
He gestured vaguely between the two of you with your still linked hands. “This. Correctly.”
The vulnerability of it knocked the air out of you.
It would have been easier if he had hidden behind a joke, but there was hardly any joke left in him now. Only honesty. Awkward, unvarnished honesty that laid itself at your feet without defense. You stared at him, feeling something warm and painful open in your chest.
“You do not have to do it correctly,” you said softly.
He frowned. “That sounds fake.”
“It is not fake. I mean it.” You shifted closer, enough that your shoulder pressed fully to his side now. “We can do it badly. Weirdly. Slowly. Whatever. I don't care.”
His gaze searched your face, as if testing every word for sincerity.
“You would tolerate a disastrous learning process?”
“I have tolerated six weeks of you thinking I was just being friendly.”
He made a startled choking laugh. “Cruel.”
“You said you liked me cruel.”
His eyes dropped to your mouth again, slower this time, less accidental. “Yes,” he said, voice low. “Danhausen is learning many things.”
There it was again, the pull between you, stronger now, no longer deniable. You felt it in your fingertips, in the air against your skin, in the way the world around you seemed to blur at the edges. He shifted slightly, turning toward you. You could smell his shampoo. Something clean with a darker note under it. Your pulse thudded so hard it almost made you dizzy.
“You know,” you murmured, “for a man who missed months of flirting, you are suddenly very intense.”
He did not smile, though warmth flickered in his eyes. “Because now Danhausen is aware of the stakes.”
“And what stakes are those?”
He answered without hesitation.
“That if he does this wrong, you might stop looking at him like that.”
Your breath caught.
The honesty of it was brutal. Worse, because it lined up so perfectly with your own fear that for a second you could only look at him, stunned by the sudden intimacy of being understood so exactly.
“Danhausen,” you whispered.
He looked almost alarmed by your tone. “What?”
You shook your head once. “Nothing. Just...” Emotion pressed unexpectedly at the back of your throat. “You are not the only one who was scared.”
His expression softened.
This time when he lifted his hand, it was to your face.
Again he moved slowly. Slowly enough that you could stop him. Slowly enough that every inch felt deliberate. His fingertips brushed your jaw first, then settled there, palm warm against your cheek. The contact was so gentle it made your eyes sting.
“I know,” he said quietly.
The terminal disappeared.
Not literally. The announcements still crackled overhead. Somebody laughed too loudly near the charging station. A suitcase wheel rattled over tile. But all of it receded until there was only this, only him, only the warmth of his hand and the impossible tenderness in his face.
You leaned into his palm before you could think better of it.
The inhale he took was almost inaudible.
Then he kissed you.
Not confidently. Not with the polished certainty of someone who had rehearsed it in his mind a hundred times and decided exactly how it would go. It was better than that. It was careful. A little tentative. Like he was still half convinced you might disappear if he moved too quickly. His mouth brushed yours once, softly enough to make your whole body ache, and then again with a little more intent when you made a helpless sound and moved closer.
Your free hand caught in the front of his coat.
He kissed like he did most things in private, it turned out. With far more sincerity than flash. With a steadiness that seemed to surprise even him. The first few seconds were all sweetness and disbelief, the two of you fitting yourselves to something you had both wanted for too long. Then his thumb moved against your cheek, and something changed. The kiss deepened just enough to make your pulse race. Not rushed. Not greedy. But no longer questioning.
When you finally pulled back, it was only because breathing had become a practical concern.
You stayed close enough that your noses nearly brushed.
Danhausen looked a little dazed.
That alone was worth weeks of suffering.
“Well,” you whispered, unable to stop smiling, “you are doing better than expected.”
He stared at you for a second, then let out a disbelieving breath that might have been a laugh. “That was terrible.”
“No, it was not.”
“It was unbalanced. Danhausen had poor angle control.”
You laughed properly then, quiet but helpless, and his mouth twitched in response.
“Shut up,” you said affectionately.
He tilted his forehead against yours, and the intimacy of that nearly melted you on the spot. “No.”
“You really know how to ruin a romantic moment.”
“And yet you persist.”
“I do.” Your fingers tightened in his coat. “Against all evidence.”
His smile faded into something softer. More serious. He brushed his thumb once more along your cheekbone, gaze so openly fond now that it made your stomach flip.
“Good,” he said.
You kissed again after that, because not to would have been ridiculous. Because the first one had broken something open and the second one let you both fall through it properly. This one came easier. He made a small thoughtful noise into your mouth when you shifted closer, and one of his hands found your waist beneath the coat, holding there with a care that bordered on reverent. You kissed until the world came back in pieces, until an announcement for your boarding group startled you apart, until you were both smiling in that stunned, private way people did when something long hoped for had finally become real.
The flight itself was miserable, but you spent half of it with your fingers laced together beneath a shared jacket draped over your laps, and that changed the quality of misery considerably.
After, things did not become magically easy.
That would have been too neat. Too simple. You were still you, and Danhausen was still Danhausen, and both of you had spent a ridiculous amount of time misunderstanding each other out of pure insecurity. Those habits did not vanish overnight. There were still moments of hesitation. Of overthinking. Of one of you saying what do you mean by that a little too quickly because old fears had stirred.
But there was also something else now. Something stronger.
Truth, maybe.
Once it was out in the open, you found yourselves talking more honestly than either of you had before. Not gracefully. Never gracefully. Danhausen still phrased things in bizarre sideways ways, and you still covered vulnerability with sarcasm more often than was strictly helpful. But the effort was there. The wanting was there. And because the wanting was mutual, even the awkward parts felt survivable.
A week after the airport, you were sitting together in an empty stretch of backstage corridor after dark, your legs stretched out in front of you, sharing a tub of terrible vending machine ice cream while ring crew dismantled things in the distance. You had already kissed twice that night, once by your dressing room door and once in the shadowed corner near production where you both definitely should have been discussing timing notes instead.
“You know,” you said, nudging his boot with yours, “I still cannot believe you thought I pitied you.”
He made a face. “Danhausen would like that stricken from the record.”
“No. I am keeping it forever.”
“Cruel.”
“You love it.”
He glanced sideways at you. “Yes.”
The easy certainty of that one word still had the power to light your whole body up from the inside.
You looked down at the half melted ice cream, smiling despite yourself. “If its any consolation, I was losing my mind.”
“Danhausen was also losing his mind.”
“You hid it better.”
“No. You were simply distracted by his beauty.”
You snorted. “There he is.”
He smiled, but it softened quickly. “I am sorry.”
You turned toward him. “For what?”
“For Chicago.” He looked ahead, not quite at you now. “For making you feel small.”
All the humor went out of you.
The apology landed in a quiet place. Somewhere bruised but healing. You set the ice cream aside and shifted closer until your shoulder touched his.
“You didn't know,” you said.
“I should have.”
“Maybe. I also should have stopped sooner and just told you.”
“Yes, but then Danhausen would have missed the dramatic tragedy of it all.”
You laughed softly. “True.”
He looked at you then. Really looked. “Still. I am sorry.”
This time you reached for his hand first. “It's okay.”
He exhaled as if he had been holding that breath for days.
For a while you both sat there in companionable silence, fingers linked, the arena around you winding down into the strange after hours hush that always felt a little sacred. The bright noise of the day had burned off. What remained was softer. Truer. The click of equipment cases rolling over concrete. Faint laughter from some distant room. The rustle of your sleeve when you leaned your head against his shoulder.
He went very still under the weight of you, then relaxed by degrees.
“You know what the funniest part is?” you murmured.
“What?”
“I really thought I could be subtle.”
He let out a low hum of amusement. “You told Danhausen his mouth was distracting during a promo rehearsal.”
You lifted your head. “That was one time.”
“You asked if he practiced looking that handsome or if it happened naturally.”
“In my defense, that one was excellent.”
“It was alarming.”
You smiled. “And apparently, still not enough.”
He turned his face slightly, enough that his temple brushed yours. “Danhausen will spend the rest of his life making up for that.”
The words were probably meant as a joke.
They did not land like one.
Your breath caught a little. He seemed to realize what he had said a half second too late, because you felt the tension go through him, felt the minute stiffening of his shoulders as if he was bracing for you to laugh it off.
Instead, you lifted your head and kissed him.
Just once. Softly. Deliberately. Long enough that he understood your answer.
When you drew back, his expression had gone open in that rare defenseless way that always made your chest hurt.
“Good,” you said.
His gaze searched yours. “Good?”
“Yes.” You smiled, small and steady. “You have plenty of time.”
Something in his face eased then, some hidden fear loosening its grip. He brought your joined hands up and pressed his mouth briefly to your knuckles in a gesture so unexpectedly tender that it nearly wrecked you.
Then, because he was still himself, he ruined the moment by saying, “Of course, Danhausen expects regular reminders that he is beautiful.”
You laughed against his shoulder. “I walked into that one.”
“You are welcome.”
You stayed there until someone came looking for you both.
Until the ice cream melted completely. Until the corridor lights dimmed one row at a time. Until the long ache of wanting without certainty had finally, finally loosened into something warm enough to keep.
And later, much later, when you lay awake in a hotel bed replaying every second of the last few weeks, every humiliation and misunderstanding and terrible beautiful moment of it, you realized something that made you smile into the dark.
He had not been oblivious to you, not really.
Not entirely.
He had noticed everything.
The compliments. The lingering touches. The way you kept finding him in crowded rooms. The way your voice changed when it softened for him. The gifts disguised as jokes. The patience. The attention. The wanting.
He had noticed all of it.
He just never believed he was allowed to hope those things meant what he wanted them to mean.
And maybe that was the sharpest kind of angst there was. Not two people missing each other entirely, but two people circling the same impossible wish, each too afraid to claim it, each convinced they had imagined the tenderness in the other’s hands.
It would have been tragic, if you had let it.
Instead, it became this.
Slow. Messy. A little ridiculous. Earned.
The kind of love story that began in confusion and survived on stubbornness. The kind built by two fools with bruised hearts and poor communication and just enough courage, eventually, to tell the truth.
Which, you thought as sleep finally pulled at you, sounded exactly like something Danhausen would end up in.
And for once, gloriously, wonderfully, he had noticed.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ouchhausen notes!
holy moly i LOVED writing this
ty anon for the request, sorry for accidentally losing your message lmao i hope this reaches you somehow
Reblogging this to say that this fanfic pretty much solidified my interest in Danhausen. I was fighting that interest pretty hard. My brain wants to stay loyal to (fixated upon :-P) my irl crush.
I kept seeing mutuals post little gifs of this goblin-mime fully clothed and I finally said "Alright who is this guy" and found some vids of his fights. Problem is if he's topless and not looking straight at the camera he's shaped enough like my IRL crush that I *noticed* the appeal. Anyway I came to the realization that honestly Danhausen wears so much makeup that I could reasonably get away with saying I couldn't tell them apart and it kinda gave my brain permission to go ham.
My irl crush doesn't have chest tattoos but an ex did (I like tattoos but don't have them and don't require partners to have or not have them). That's the only difference. It honestly feels quite taboo to be appreciating anyone besides my IRL in the flesh crush. I usually get around that by, like, appreciating fictional not-real-at-all characters (Like Mortal Kombat. Every character is hot.)
Danhausen is both a character and a human. It's like he's playing his own OC self-insert character in WWE and I'm 💯 here for it. And I wouldn't be, if I had not stumbled across THIS exact fic.
“ I should not have to tell you everything for you to stay out of it. ”
⤿ After accidentally costing Danhausen an important match, guilt and anger spark a painful argument between you both. Later, he apologizes, and the two of you slowly make up with soft, fluffy reassurance.
tags | ANGST | arguing | fluff at the end |
The thing about standing at ringside for someone you cared about was that it made every second feel like it belonged to you too.
Every hit landed somewhere beneath your own ribs.
Every stumble pulled at your stomach.
Every near fall made your heart forget how to beat properly until the referee’s hand stopped just short of three and the crowd exploded around you like they had all been holding the same breath.
Danhausen had told you, more than once, that he did not want you to worry so much.
He said it with that particular tilt of his head, black and white paint sharp beneath the arena lights, eyes wide and knowing like he could see every nervous thought crawling around inside your skull.
“Danhausen is very powerful,” he would remind you, usually while adjusting his jacket or smoothing down the tape around his wrists. “Very evil. Very capable. You do not need to look at Danhausen as if he is a small Victorian child with weak bones.”
And you would always roll your eyes, because you knew he was joking, at least partly. “I don’t look at you like that.”
“You do,” he would insist, pointing one long finger at you. “You look at Danhausen as if a strong breeze will carry him away.”
“Maybe stop getting thrown into barricades and I’ll stop looking at you like that.”
He would gasp, dramatic and offended. “That is victim blaming.”
It had always been like that between you. Gentle bickering. Odd affection. A closeness built in the strange spaces between jokes and quiet concern. He was absurd and theatrical and sometimes impossible to read, but you had learned the shape of him. You knew when he was being ridiculous because he was comfortable. You knew when his voice went softer because he was trying not to sound too sincere. You knew when he was nervous, even if he hid it under curses and fake grandeur.
Tonight, though, you had not known how important this match was to him.
He wanted this match.
Not in the easy, playful way he usually wanted things, not like when he announced he deserved more monies or better snacks or a cloak with proper dramatic movement. This one mattered. It should have been obvious in the way he had been pacing backstage before his music hit, shoulders tight, fingers flexing at his sides. He had been quieter than usual, his face paint making him look almost ghostly beneath the harsh white lights of the corridor.
“You’re nervous,” you had said carefully.
Danhausen had stopped pacing long enough to look at you like the very concept had insulted him. “Danhausen does not get nervous.”
“You’ve walked past the same crate six times.”
“It is a good crate. Danhausen is inspecting it.”
“You nearly tripped over it twice.”
“It is a suspicious crate.”
You had smiled, but it had faded a little when he did not smile back right away. His gaze had drifted toward the curtain, toward the sound of the crowd beyond it, and for a second he had looked less like the strange, untouchable creature he pretended to be and more like someone carrying too much pressure in his chest.
So you had softened your voice. “You’ve got this.”
His eyes had flicked back to you.
“You do,” you said, stepping closer. “You’re good. You’re smarter than he is. You know how he moves. You know when he gets impatient. You’ve watched the tapes. You’re ready.”
Danhausen had stared at you for a moment, unreadable, then lifted his chin. “Yes. Danhausen is very prepared. Very strategic. Very deadly.”
“There we go.”
“And perhaps,” he added, pointing at you with mock seriousness, “after Danhausen wins, there will be celebratory chips.”
You laughed. “You win and I’ll buy you whatever chips you want.”
“All of them?”
“One bag.”
“Three bags.”
“Two.”
“Two and a drink.”
“Fine.”
He had nodded once, satisfied, but as he turned toward the curtain, you had reached out and caught his sleeve. It was instinct more than anything, your fingers brushing the fabric before you could think better of it.
He looked down at your hand, then back up at you.
“Just be careful,” you said.
For once, he didn’t make a joke immediately. His expression shifted, something quieter passing through his eyes before he covered it with a theatrical sigh. “Danhausen will be careful enough to survive and reckless enough to entertain. This is the balance.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It is the only offer Danhausen has.”
Then his music hit, the crowd surged, and he was gone.
Now, standing at ringside, you wished you had held onto him for one second longer.
The match had started rough, but not badly. Danhausen had taken a few hits early, the kind that made you wince even though you knew he could handle them. His opponent was bigger, heavier, meaner in the way he moved, all blunt force and smug confidence. Every time he gained momentum, the other man cut him off with something ugly. A knee to the gut. A shove into the ropes. A forearm across the back of the head that made your hands curl uselessly at your sides.
Still, Danhausen kept coming back.
He always did.
He moved with that strange, unpredictable rhythm that made people underestimate him until it was too late. One moment he was stumbling dramatically, clutching at his chest like he had been mortally wounded by an insult, and the next he was ducking beneath a clothesline, throwing his opponent off balance, snapping the crowd awake. You found yourself shouting without meaning to, both hands cupped around your mouth as you leaned against the apron.
“Come on! Get up!”
He did.
Slowly at first, one hand pressed to the mat, then suddenly with purpose, rolling beneath a grab and popping up behind his opponent. The crowd rose with him. You could feel it building, that change in the room when everyone sensed the match turning. Danhausen had him frustrated. He had him guessing. He had him right where he wanted him.
Your heart slammed against your ribs.
“That’s it,” you whispered, though there was no way he could hear you over the noise. “That’s it, you’ve got him.”
Then his opponent cheated.
Not obviously. Not enough for the referee to call it. Just a handful of tights during a counter, a nasty little pull that yanked Danhausen off balance and sent him shoulder-first into the corner. The sound of it made your stomach lurch. You stepped forward before you could stop yourself, hand flying to the rope.
“Ref, come on!” you shouted. “He pulled the tights!”
The referee glanced your way briefly, then back to the action. No call.
Danhausen sagged against the turnbuckle, one hand pressed to his shoulder. His opponent smirked, leaning in close enough to say something you could not hear but could read in the cruel shape of his mouth. The crowd booed. Your pulse spiked.
For the first time that night, fear started to crowd out trust.
Because Danhausen was good. You knew he was good. But you also knew how often matches slipped away because someone else was willing to be dirtier, meaner, faster with the cheap shot. You watched his opponent drag him out of the corner and slam him down hard enough that the mat shook beneath your feet. You watched the cover.
One.
Two.
He kicked out.
Relief punched through you so strongly your knees nearly weakened.
His opponent sat up furious, slapping the mat once before getting in the referee’s face. You could hear him shouting, complaining about the count. The referee pushed back, warning him. Danhausen rolled slowly toward the ropes, breath heavy, fingers stretching toward the bottom rope.
You moved closer.
Not interfering. Not touching. Just close enough that when his eyes flicked toward you, you were there.
His gaze held yours for half a second.
And in that half second, you thought maybe he looked grateful.
Then the match kept going.
It was after the second near fall that everything started to unravel. Danhausen had managed a counter that sent his opponent staggering, and for one bright, breathless moment, it looked like he had found his opening. The crowd was on its feet. You were shouting so loudly your throat hurt. His opponent swung wildly and missed. He ducked, shoved him forward, and the man collided chest-first with the ropes.
This was it.
You could feel it.
Danhausen had him.
The referee shifted position to avoid getting caught between them. His opponent stumbled back, dazed but not done. Danhausen moved behind him, ready to finish it, and then you saw something flash in the other wrestler’s hand.
Something small.
Something he must have tucked near his wrist or pulled from his gear. You couldn’t even tell what it was at first, only that it was there and the referee couldn’t see it.
Your body moved before your mind caught up.
“Ref!” you shouted, grabbing the middle rope as you leaned forward. “Ref, look at his hand!”
The referee turned toward you.
So did Danhausen.
Only for a second.
Only one tiny, fatal second.
His opponent used it.
He dropped whatever he had, or hid it, or maybe it had never been what you thought it was at all. You barely had time to process that before he twisted, caught Danhausen off guard, and drove him down into the mat with brutal precision. The crowd erupted, half cheering, half yelling in outrage. You froze with both hands on the rope, horror crawling up your throat.
No.
The cover happened too quickly.
One.
“Kick out,” you whispered.
Two.
“Please.”
Three.
The bell rang.
And the whole world seemed to fall silent, even though the arena was louder than ever.
You did not move.
You could not.
The referee raised his opponent’s hand. His opponent looked toward you with a grin that made your skin crawl, tapping his temple as if to say you had been easy to fool. Your stomach dropped so violently you thought you might actually be sick right there at ringside.
You had not saved him from cheating.
You had given the match away.
Danhausen rolled onto his side, one arm tucked beneath him, his face turned away from you. The crowd noise blurred. Your hands slowly slipped from the ropes.
You did not remember climbing onto the apron, only that suddenly you were there, ducking between the ropes with your heartbeat in your ears and guilt pressing down on your chest so hard it hurt to breathe.
“Hey,” you said, rushing toward him. “hey, I’m sorry. I thought he had something, I thought he was going to hit you with it, I didn’t know he was baiting me. I didn’t think he would do that.”
He pushed himself up onto one knee.
His head turned.
The words died instantly.
You had seen Danhausen annoyed before. You had seen him dramatic and huffy and offended, especially when someone stole his snacks or misunderstood one of his curses. You had even seen him angry in matches, usually in flashes that burned hot and vanished quickly.
But this was different.
This was still. Sharp. Focused.
His eyes fixed on you with a kind of furious disbelief that made your skin go cold beneath the heat of the arena lights.
“You didn’t think,” he said.
The simplicity of it stung.
You swallowed hard. “I saw something in his hand. I thought he was going to cheat.”
“He was not cheating then,” Danhausen replied, voice low and tight as he forced himself fully upright. “He was waiting for you to do exactly what you did.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“No,” he said, stepping closer, his jaw clenched beneath the paint. “You did not.”
Your hands shook at your sides. “I was trying to help you.”
“And you did not help.”
It landed hard, but you tried to breathe through it. You deserved that much. You had cost him the match. He was allowed to be angry. You knew he was allowed to be angry.
“I know,” you said quickly, your voice already trembling. “I know I didn’t. I’m sorry. I panicked. I saw him and I just thought...”
“You keep saying you thought,” he snapped, anger finally breaking through the controlled edge of his voice. “But you did not think. You reacted. You interfered. You pulled the referee’s attention when Danhausen needed it where it belonged.”
The referee had slipped out of the ring by then. His opponent was backing up the ramp, still laughing, still soaking in the reaction, but you barely saw any of it.
All you saw was Danhausen in front of you, breathing hard, eyes bright with frustration.
“I thought he was going to hurt you,” you said, your own voice rising despite yourself, because the guilt was too big, too suffocating, and now fear and shame were twisting into defensiveness before you could stop them. “What was I supposed to do? Just stand there and let him hit you?”
“Yes,” he shot back, then immediately seemed to realize how harsh that sounded, but he was too angry to soften it. “You let Danhausen handle it. This is Danhausen’s match. This is what Danhausen does.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?” His voice sharpened again, and you flinched. “Because it seems very much like you do not trust Danhausen to handle anything.”
Your mouth parted.
That one cut deeper than the others.
“That’s not fair,” you said, quieter now.
“It is not fair?” He let out a short, humorless laugh, gesturing toward the ropes, toward the ramp, toward the result that could not be changed. “Danhausen just lost a match because you decided you knew better than in his own ring.”
“I didn’t decide that,” you said, tears beginning to sting your eyes. “I got scared.”
“You got scared, so Danhausen pays for it.”
The sentence hit you so hard that for a moment you could not speak.
The arena was still loud around you. Too loud. Too bright. Too public. You became suddenly aware of cameras, of people watching, of the crowd catching pieces of what was clearly not just a normal post-match disagreement. Your face burned, humiliation mixing with the guilt until your entire body felt unsteady.
Danhausen seemed to notice it too, because his eyes flicked briefly toward the audience. He looked away, jaw tightening further, then turned and climbed out of the ring without another word.
You followed him.
Of course you did.
You hated yourself for it, but you followed because you could not leave it there. You could not let those be the last words. He walked fast, shoulders rigid, ignoring the fans reaching out along the barricade. You stayed a few steps behind him, blinking hard to keep tears from falling in front of everyone.
“Dan,” you called, but he did not slow down. “Danhausen, please.”
He disappeared through the curtain.
You pushed through after him.
The moment the backstage noise swallowed you, everything changed. The arena became muffled behind thick black fabric and production walls. The bright spectacle gave way to cables, crates, crew members pretending not to notice, monitors showing the next segment. It should have felt safer, more private.
It did not.
He stopped near a row of equipment cases, turning so sharply you almost walked into him. His expression was still furious, and without the crowd between you, without the performance of the ring around you, it felt even more personal.
“Do not do that,” he said.
You froze. “Do what?”
“Follow Danhausen like this. Saying his name in that voice in front of everyone as if Danhausen is being unreasonable.”
Your throat tightened. “I’m not trying to make you look unreasonable.”
“Then stop.”
“I’m trying to apologize.”
“You already apologized.”
“And you’re still angry.”
“Yes,” he said, with brutal honesty. “Danhausen is still angry.”
The words made your chest ache, but you nodded once, trying to steady yourself. “Okay. Fine. Be angry. You have every right to be angry. But don’t act like I did it because I didn’t believe in you.”
He stared at you, breathing hard.
“You said I didn’t trust you,” you continued, voice shaking but stronger now, pain pushing you forward. “That’s not true. I do trust you. I wouldn’t be out there if I didn’t care about you. I wouldn’t be scared if I didn’t care.”
“That is not the same thing,” he replied sharply, his hands flexing at his sides. “Caring does not mean you decide when Danhausen needs saving.”
“I wasn’t trying to save you like you’re helpless.”
“It felt very much like that.”
“Well, I’m sorry it felt like that,” you snapped, hurt flaring into anger now. “But maybe I’m not perfect at watching someone I care about get thrown around and nearly cheated out of a win.”
His eyes narrowed. “Nearly cheated. Nearly. But instead, you helped him do it.”
You looked down, and that was when the first tear fell.
You wiped it away immediately, angry at yourself for crying, angry that he saw it, angry that it made you feel smaller. “I know.”
“Do you?” he pressed, still caught in the heat of it. “Because Danhausen does not think you understand what this meant.”
That made you look up again.
Your eyes were wet now, your face hot, but something in you hardened just enough to answer. “Then tell me.”
He hesitated for half a second.
You stepped closer, though your voice broke. “Tell me what it meant, then. Tell me how badly I ruined it. Go on. I’m clearly already halfway there, so you may as well finish.”
The anger in his face flickered.
But not enough.
“This match mattered,” he said, voice lower now, which somehow made it worse. “Danhausen needed this. Not for jokes. Not for chips. Not for a funny little moment where everyone claps because Danhausen is strange and entertaining. Danhausen needed to prove he could win without tricks being the reason people talk about him.”
Your stomach sank.
He had not said that before.
Not like that.
“You didn’t tell me that,” you said softly.
“I should not have to tell you everything for you to stay out of it.”
The softness vanished from you like it had been slapped away.
You recoiled slightly, staring at him.
He saw it. You knew he saw it. But he was still angry enough to keep going, and that was the part that hurt the most. Not that he was upset. Not even that he blamed you. It was that he could see you breaking and still could not stop himself.
“Maybe Danhausen was wrong,” he said, each word clipped with frustration. “Maybe having you out there is not helpful. Maybe Danhausen does better when he does not have to worry about what you are going to do because you are frightened.”
Your breath caught.
There was a beat of silence.
Long enough for the words to settle.
Long enough for him to realize how they sounded.
Your lips parted, but nothing came out at first. The tears came faster now, spilling over before you could stop them. You looked away because looking at him suddenly hurt too much.
“Right,” you whispered.
His expression shifted.
“I hear you.” You laughed once, small and broken, wiping your face with the heel of your hand. “I’m a distraction. I make things worse. Got it.”
“Danhausen did not say those words exactly.”
“You did,” you cut in, voice shaking harder now. “You did say that. You said exactly that.”
He went quiet.
The backstage hallway seemed too still around you. A production assistant passed behind him, eyes down, moving quickly like they wanted no part of whatever this was. Somewhere nearby, someone laughed at a monitor. Life continued, which felt absurd, because your chest felt like it had caved in.
“I know I messed up,” you said, quieter now, the fight draining out of you in a way that left only exhaustion behind. “I know you lost because of me. You don’t have to keep finding new ways to say it.”
His face tightened. “I am just angry.”
“I know.”
“Danhausen is allowed to be angry.”
“I know,” you repeated, your voice cracking. “But being angry doesn’t mean you get to make me feel like I’m nothing to you except a problem.”
That landed.
You saw it land.
His shoulders dropped a fraction, but you were already stepping back. The movement was small, but it changed everything. Until then, you had been moving toward him, trying to fix it, trying to apologize, trying to get through the anger. Now you were creating space.
He noticed.
“Where are you going?” he asked, and there was something less certain in his voice now.
You shook your head. “Away from you.”
His eyes widened slightly.
Only slightly.
But you saw it.
“I think that’s what you want, isn’t it?” you asked, trying to sound steady and failing. “I’ll stop distracting you. I’ll stop worrying. I’ll stop coming out with you if that’s what you need.”
“That is not what Danhausen said.”
“But it’s what you meant.”
“No.”
“Then what did you mean?” you asked, the words breaking open with all the hurt you had been trying to hold in. “Because from where I’m standing, it sounds like you think I’m some stupid little thing at ringside who panicked and ruined everything because she doesn’t know how to trust you. And maybe I did panic. Maybe I did ruin everything. But I was there because I care about you. I was scared because I care about you. I made a mistake because I saw someone trying to hurt you and I reacted before I thought it through, and I am sorry. I am so sorry. But you are talking to me like I wanted this to happen.”
His face changed again, anger and guilt fighting for space.
“I did not say you wanted it.”
“You’re acting like I did.”
“No,” he said, but his voice had lost some of its force.
“Yes,” you insisted, tears still falling, your hand pressed briefly to your chest like you could hold yourself together from the outside. “You’re looking at me like I betrayed you.”
He looked away.
That hurt too.
You nodded once, small and miserable. “Okay.”
His gaze snapped back. “What?”
“Okay,” you repeated, taking another step back. “I get it.”
“No, you are doing that thing,” he said, frustration returning but quieter now, more panicked around the edges. “You are deciding what Danhausen means and then leaving.”
“Because you won’t stop hurting me,” you said.
The words came out softly.
Too softly.
They changed the air immediately.
Danhausen went still.
Your lower lip trembled, and you bit down on it, trying to stop it, trying to salvage any piece of dignity you still had. “I know I hurt you tonight. I know I cost you the match. I’ll probably replay that for the next week until I make myself sick over it. But you’re hurting me on purpose right now because you’re angry, and I can’t stand here and let you keep doing it.”
He did not answer.
For once, Danhausen seemed to have no words.
You wiped your face again, furious at how pointless it was. “I’m sorry about your match,” you said, voice dull now, almost empty. “I really am. I’ll stay out of your way.”
Then you turned and walked away.
This time, he did not follow.
Not right away.
And that might have hurt worst of all.
You made it to the empty locker room at the end of the hall before the sob you had been holding back finally broke through. It came out ugly and sudden, one hand slapping over your mouth as if you could muffle it now that there was nobody there to hear. You sank onto the bench, shoulders shaking, head bowed, the whole night crashing down around you piece by piece.
The match. The mistake. His face. His voice.
You helped him do it.
Maybe having you out there is not helpful.
Distracting.
You pressed your palms to your eyes until sparks of light burst behind them, trying to force yourself to breathe properly. It was ridiculous, you thought bitterly. You had been around pain before. Physical pain, emotional pain, backstage politics, bad losses, rough nights. You had seen people shout after matches and make up ten minutes later. You knew adrenaline made people cruel sometimes.
But knowing that did not make it hurt less when it was him.
Danhausen, who noticed when you were overwhelmed before you said anything. Danhausen, who left weird little snacks in your bag with notes that said things like for energy and perhaps bribery. Danhausen, who once stood between you and a camera because you were crying after a bad segment and did not want anyone to see. Danhausen, who made everything strange enough to feel survivable.
That Danhausen had looked at you like you were a problem he regretted bringing with him.
And maybe, you thought miserably, maybe he was right.
Maybe you were a distraction.
Maybe caring too much was not the same as helping.
You did not know how long you sat there. Long enough for the show to move on without you. Long enough for your tears to slow, then return, then slow again. Long enough for the adrenaline to drain out of your body and leave you exhausted, hollowed out, your head aching from crying.
At some point, there was a soft knock at the door.
You stiffened.
You knew it was him before he spoke.
“Danhausen would like to come in.”
His voice was quiet.
Too quiet.
You stared down at your hands, which were twisted together in your lap. “Why?”
There was silence on the other side of the door.
Then, carefully, “Because Danhausen has been very cruel and would like to stop being an idiot in the hallway.”
You closed your eyes.
A laugh tried to rise in your chest, but it broke into something closer to a sigh. “I don’t know if I want to talk to you right now.”
“That is fair,” he said through the door, and the immediate acceptance made your throat tighten again. “Danhausen can leave. But he would like to apologize first. Through the door, if necessary. Like a haunted apology ghost.”
You hated that it almost made you smile.
You hated more that part of you wanted to open the door.
After a long moment, you wiped beneath your eyes and called, “Come in.”
The door opened slowly.
Danhausen stepped inside like the room itself might reject him if he moved too quickly. The anger was gone from him now, fully drained, leaving him looking oddly smaller despite the face paint, despite the gear, despite all the strange drama he usually carried around like armor. His shoulders were low. His hands were clasped awkwardly in front of him. He did not come too close.
For once, he looked unsure.
That did something painful to your chest.
He glanced at your face and immediately looked stricken, like the sight of your red eyes and damp cheeks physically hurt him.
“You are still crying,” he said softly.
You gave him a tired look. “Yeah. That tends to happen when someone says hurtful things.”
He winced.
Actually winced.
“Danhausen deserves that.”
Silence settled between you, thick but not sharp in the same way as before. You were too tired for sharpness now. He seemed too ashamed for it.
He took a small breath, then spoke carefully. “Danhausen is sorry.”
You looked down at your hands again.
He continued, voice low and deliberate, like he had rehearsed the shape of the words but not enough to make them sound false. “Not sorry in the way people say when they are still angry and want the other person to stop being upset. Real sorry. Deeply irritating, chest-hurting sorry.”
Your fingers curled against your palms.
“I was angry,” he said, then shook his head quickly. “No. That is not an excuse. Danhausen was angry, yes, but Danhausen used the anger badly. He threw it at you. He wanted somewhere to put it, and you were there, and that was wrong.”
You swallowed hard.
He looked at you then, fully, forcing himself not to look away. “You made a mistake. But you did not deserve what Danhausen said.”
Your eyes stung again.
“Well, I did cost you the match,” you whispered.
“Yes,” he said honestly, and the truth of it still hurt, but his tone was gentle now, not punishing. “You did. But you did not do it because you wanted to hurt Danhausen. You did it because you were afraid Danhausen was going to be hurt. There is a difference. A very large difference. Danhausen forgot this because he was being dramatic and wounded and stupid.”
You let out a shaky breath. “You sounded like you hated me.”
His face changed.
All the softness in him tightened with alarm.
“No,” he said immediately. “No. Danhausen does not hate you.”
“It felt like it.”
He closed his eyes for a second, as if that sentence had hit him exactly where it needed to. When he opened them again, they were full of regret. “Then Danhausen did something very wrong.”
You wiped at your cheek, embarrassed by the fresh tears. “I know you were angry. I know you had every right to be. But you kept going. Even after you saw I was upset, you kept going.”
“I know,” he admitted, voice rougher now.
“That hurt.”
“I know.”
“You said I was distracting.”
His jaw clenched, but not with anger this time. With guilt. “Danhausen should not have said that.”
“You said maybe having me out there wasn’t helpful.”
“He should not have said that either.”
“You said I didn’t trust you.”
He stepped closer before stopping himself, like his body wanted to comfort you but he knew he had not earned the right yet. “That was not fair,” he said quietly. “You do trust Danhausen. I know this. You worry because you care. Danhausen knows this too. He was angry and wanted the words to be sharp, so he made them sharp. That was cruel.”
You stared at him, your chest aching with the strange relief of hearing him name it. Not brush past it. Not soften it until it became nothing. Name it.
Cruel.
“Yes,” you whispered. “It was.”
He nodded. “I am sorry.”
For a while, you said nothing.
He stayed where he was, waiting. Not pushing. Not filling the silence with jokes because he was uncomfortable, though you could tell he wanted to. That mattered too.
Finally, you asked, “Did the match really mean all that to you?”
His eyes flicked to yours.
You wrapped your arms around yourself. “What you said backstage. About needing to prove you could win. Did you mean that?”
He hesitated, then nodded.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
His mouth twisted slightly. “Because saying things out loud makes them real. And if they are real, then failing at them is worse.”
The honesty was so quiet you almost missed it.
Your anger softened at the edges, though the hurt did not vanish. “Dan…”
He looked down. “Danhausen wanted to win. Not because winning is everything, because it is not, though it is better than losing and comes with more snacks. But because sometimes people treat Danhausen like a joke first and a wrestler second. And Danhausen is funny. He knows this. He likes this. But he is not only funny.” His voice lowered further. “Tonight was supposed to be proof.”
Your throat tightened.
“I didn’t know,” you said.
“No,” he replied gently. “Because I did not tell you.”
You sat with that for a moment, feeling the shape of the whole horrible night shift slightly. It did not absolve you. It did not erase the mistake. But it made his anger make sense in a way that hurt differently.
“I wish you had,” you murmured.
He took another careful step closer. “May Danhausen sit?”
You nodded after a moment.
He sat beside you, leaving space between your knees and his, his hands resting awkwardly on his thighs. Close, but not assuming closeness. The restraint made your chest ache all over again.
“I really am sorry,” you said, staring down at the floor. “I keep seeing it. The referee turning. You looking over. The pin. I feel sick every time I think about it.”
He was quiet for a moment.
Then he said, “Danhausen does not want you to make yourself sick over one mistake.”
“But it was a big mistake.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “A large, terrible, badly timed mistake.”
Despite yourself, you huffed a tiny laugh through your tears. “Thanks.”
“But still one mistake,” he added, softer. “Not a crime. Not betrayal. Not evidence that you are bad for Danhausen.”
You looked at him then.
He met your gaze, serious beneath the paint.
“You are not bad for Danhausen,” he said carefully, like he wanted every word to land correctly this time. “You are very good for Danhausen. Sometimes too good, which is annoying and makes Danhausen feel many things.”
Your lips trembled.
He lifted one hand slightly, hesitated, then let it fall again. “Danhausen does not want you away from ringside forever.”
“You said you did.”
“Danhausen said many stupid things.”
“You meant some of them.”
He did not deny it, which you appreciated more than you expected.
“Danhausen meant that he needs to know you will let him handle the match,” he said. “He meant that when you are scared, you cannot jump in unless there is truly danger. He meant that he was frustrated and embarrassed and hurt. But he did not mean that he does not want you there. He did not mean that you are only a distraction. He did not mean that he regrets you.”
Your eyes filled again, but this time the tears were quieter.
“You made me feel like that,” you admitted.
“I know,” he said. “And Danhausen will be sorry for that for a long time.”
A silence settled.
Not empty. Not easy.
But honest.
You looked down at your hands again. “I don’t want to make things harder for you.”
“You do not.”
“I did tonight.”
“Yes,” he said, then nudged his shoulder very lightly against yours, cautious enough that you could pull away. “And Danhausen made things harder for you after. So now both are guilty and must be punished by sitting with uncomfortable feelings.”
Another tiny laugh escaped you, watery and unwilling.
He looked relieved by it. Not triumphant, not smug. Just relieved.
“You’re still not funny,” you murmured.
“False. Danhausen is very funny. You are emotionally compromised and cannot judge.”
You shook your head, but the movement brought your shoulder more fully against his. He went still for a second, surprised, then softened beside you.
His hand shifted on the bench between you, palm up.
An offering.
You stared at it for a moment.
Then you placed your hand in his.
His fingers closed around yours carefully, not too tight, his thumb brushing once over your knuckles. The touch was so gentle that it made something in you loosen all at once, the last of your fight giving way to exhaustion.
“I’m still upset,” you whispered.
“That is allowed.”
“I forgive you, but I’m still upset.”
“That is also allowed.”
“I don’t want you to think I’m trying to control your matches.”
“Danhausen does not think that.”
“You did earlier.”
“Earlier Danhausen was an idiot.”
You turned your head enough to look at him. “You really were.”
He nodded solemnly. “A very evil idiot.”
“No. Just an idiot.”
“Understandable.”
The smallest smile pulled at your mouth, and he saw it. His own expression softened so much it nearly hurt to look at him.
“There,” he said quietly. “That is better.”
You leaned into him a little more. “Don’t sound so proud of yourself. I’m still sad.”
He immediately sobered. “Danhausen is not proud. He is grateful that you are still letting him sit here.”
That stole the breath from you for a second.
You looked down at your joined hands.
“I didn’t want to walk away from you,” you admitted. “I just didn’t know what else to do.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t follow me.”
His fingers tightened slightly around yours. “I wanted to. But I thought perhaps I had done enough damage and should not chase you down the hallway like a cursed raccoon.”
You let out a small laugh, then sighed. “I wanted you to follow me.”
He looked pained. “Danhausen will remember this for next time.”
“There better not be a next time like this.”
“No,” he agreed quickly. “Different next time. Smaller next time. Like if you are upset because Danhausen ate the last of your chips.”
“You do that and I’ll cost you another match.”
His eyes widened, scandalized. “Threats. Very alarming. Danhausen has taught you too well.”
For the first time that night, the air between you warmed properly.
It was fragile, but it was there.
You let your head rest against his shoulder, and this time he did not freeze for long. He adjusted slowly, carefully, so you could lean more comfortably against him.
After a moment, his cheek rested lightly against the top of your head, the gesture so soft and quiet that your eyes closed.
“I’m sorry,” you said again, because the words still needed somewhere to go.
He turned his face slightly, his voice low near your hair. “Danhausen forgives you.”
You swallowed.
“And I forgive you.”
He exhaled, long and relieved. “Good. Danhausen was very worried he would have to live in the equipment closet as punishment.”
“You’d deserve it.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “But it is cold in there.”
You smiled faintly against his shoulder.
His thumb continued its slow, absent movement over your knuckles. “Next match,” he said, “you cheer. Loudly. Very supportive. Perhaps intimidatingly supportive.”
“I can do that.”
“No touching ropes.”
“No touching ropes.”
“No yelling at referees unless referee is truly incompetent.”
“That one might be hard.”
“Understandable. Referees are often suspicious.”
You laughed softly, and he shifted just enough to look down at you.
“There is the sound,” he said.
“What sound?”
“The one Danhausen likes.”
Your heart gave a small, tired squeeze.
You hid your face against his shoulder, embarrassed by how quickly that softened you. “Don’t be sweet now. I’m trying to stay mad at you for a reasonable amount of time.”
“Danhausen will be only a little sweet. Moderately sweet.”
You laughed again, and this time it did not break.
He seemed to relax fully then, as if that sound had given him permission to breathe. His arm moved slowly, carefully, giving you every chance to stop him before he wrapped it around your shoulders. You did not stop him. You leaned into it, letting the warmth of him settle around you.
For a while, neither of you said anything.
The hallway outside carried distant noise. Footsteps. Voices. The muffled sound of the crowd reacting to whatever was happening in the ring now. The show had continued, because it always did, but in this small room, everything felt paused. Held. Given room to heal.
Then he added, “Could still get chips.”
You stared at him.
He stared back.
Finally, you laughed, tired and watery but real, and he looked so pleased with himself that you wanted to be annoyed and couldn’t quite manage it.
“But you lost,” you reminded him.
“Yes, but Danhausen has suffered emotionally and physically, so perhaps sympathy chips.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Very.”
You shook your head, but your smile stayed. “Fine. One bag.”
“Two.”
“One.”
“One and a drink?”
You narrowed your eyes.
He squeezed your hand, expression hopeful in the most ridiculous way possible.
You sighed. “Fine. One and a drink.”
He nodded, satisfied. “The healing begins.”
You leaned back into him, softer now, the ache in your chest no longer quite so sharp. “You’re still apologizing again later.”
“Yes,” he said immediately. “Danhausen will apologize while eating chips. Very sincerely.”
“And we’re talking about ringside stuff later.”
“Yes. Rules. Boundaries. Very mature. Horrible.”
You smiled against his shoulder. “Very horrible.”
His cheek rested against your hair again, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet enough that it felt meant only for you.
“Danhausen is glad you care enough to be scared.”
Your smile faded into something tender.
“But next time,” he continued gently, “trust Danhausen to fight.”
You nodded slowly. “I will.”
“And Danhausen will trust you to support.”
Your fingers curled tighter around his. “I will.”
He pressed the smallest kiss to the top of your head, so light you almost wondered if you imagined it.
“Good,” he whispered. “Then we are not ruined.”
Your eyes closed.
“No,” you said softly. “We’re not ruined.”
And in the quiet that followed, with your hand still tucked safely inside his and his arm warm around your shoulders, the night did not feel fixed exactly.
But it felt fixable.
For now, that was enough.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ouchhausen notes!
ohhh my goddd
lowk got carried away with this one lol but i wanted that argument to be tea 🤏🤏🤏
“ why do you look like you've been mugged by a lasagne? ”
⤿ You come home to Danhausen cooking and acting unusually romantic, only to learn he’s been trying to be a better partner, making the moment unexpectedly sweet.
The house greeted you with a kind of quiet that felt… curated.
Not empty, not the usual end-of-day stillness where everything had simply settled because there was no one left moving through it, but something softer, warmer, like it had been arranged ahead of your arrival. The lights were low, not off, not bright, but dimmed into a gentle amber glow that pooled across the floor and softened the edges of everything it touched. It made the space feel smaller somehow, more intimate, like it had folded in on itself to hold something delicate.
You hadn’t even fully stepped inside before you noticed the smell.
It drifted toward you from further in, wrapping itself around your senses in slow, deliberate waves. Butter, rich and warm. Garlic, softened and mellowed rather than sharp. Something herbal, something simmering. It clung to the air in a way that made your shoulders drop before you even realised they’d been tense, your body responding to it instinctively, like it knew this meant home, meant comfort, meant rest.
Then the music reached you.
Soft. Slow. Almost embarrassingly romantic.
It slipped through the hallway like a secret, low and syrupy, the kind of song that didn’t demand attention but instead curled around everything, threading itself into the warmth and the scent until the whole space felt like it was leaning into something… intentional.
You stopped just inside the doorway, your hand still resting loosely against it as it clicked shut behind you, your brows knitting together slightly as you listened.
This wasn’t normal.
Not for your evenings. Not for him.
“Danhausen?” you called, your voice carrying lightly through the house as you slipped your shoes off absentmindedly, your bag sliding from your shoulder and landing on the chair beside you with a soft thud.
There was a pause.
Then a loud, unmistakable clatter.
Metal against something hard. A pan, maybe. Followed by a sharp intake of breath and a muttered, “Ah! No, no, no, that is not correct!”
You blinked, your head tilting slightly.
“…Danhausen?” you tried again, slower this time, already taking a step forward.
“Do not come in yet!” he called quickly, his voice suddenly much closer, hurried footsteps echoing across the kitchen floor. “There is… a process! A reveal!”
You huffed a quiet laugh under your breath, though curiosity tugged at you immediately. “I’m literally already in the house,” you pointed out, your tone laced with tired amusement as you moved down the hallway anyway.
There was the sound of something being hastily moved. A cupboard door shutting too quickly. The faint scrape of something being dragged across the counter.
And then he appeared.
Not casually.
Not naturally.
Danhausen stepped into the doorway like he had been waiting for a spotlight, one hand pressed dramatically to his chest, the other extended toward you in a sweeping motion that nearly clipped the edge of the doorframe. His eyes widened the moment he saw you, lighting up with something bright and almost giddy, like he had been building up to this exact second.
“Ah! At last,” he declared, his voice rich with exaggerated affection as he dipped into a bow that was just slightly too deep to be stable. “The most radiant, most dazzling, most beloved partnerhausen has returned to the domain.”
You stared at him.
Properly stared.
Because… what.
There was flour everywhere.
Not a little. Not a light dusting. It coated him. Streaked across his sleeves in uneven patches, clung stubbornly to the front of his shirt, smeared faintly along his jaw like he had tried to wipe his face and only made it worse. There was something darker along his wrist, something that looked suspiciously like sauce, and you were fairly certain there was a fleck of something green tangled in his hair near his temple.
He looked like the kitchen had attacked him.
“…Right,” you said slowly, your eyes narrowing slightly as you stepped closer, your arms folding loosely across your chest as you took him in. “Why do you look like you’ve been mugged by a lasagne?”
He straightened immediately, brushing at his sleeves in a way that only spread the flour further, his posture snapping back into something resembling composure. “This is the attire of a chefhausen,” he insisted, though there was the faintest edge of defensiveness in his tone. “Very professional. Very serious.”
You hummed, unconvinced, your gaze flicking past him briefly toward the kitchen where you could just about see the edge of the stove, something simmering gently on top. “And the music,” you asked, gesturing lightly behind him, your head tilting. “Also part of this... process?”
“Yes,” he replied quickly, nodding once. Too quickly. “Ambience. Essential for the experience.”
“The experience,” you repeated, your lips twitching despite your suspicion. “And what experience would that be?”
He paused.
Just for a fraction of a second.
And then, like he was stepping back into a role he’d already decided on, he softened his expression, his voice dropping slightly as he spoke.
“For you,” he said.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic.
And somehow, that made it land harder.
You felt it settle somewhere warm in your chest, the edge of your suspicion softening despite yourself as you watched him, really watched him now. The flour. The mess. The effort.
“…Okay,” you murmured, your voice gentler as you stepped closer, your arms loosening at your sides. “That’s… suspicious. But also very sweet.”
He seemed to relax at that, just slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing as he stepped forward to meet you. His hands found yours without hesitation, warm despite the faint dusting of flour, and before you could question it, he leaned in.
The kiss to your forehead was slow.
Careful.
It lingered just long enough to feel deliberate, to feel like something he had thought about rather than just done, and it made your breath catch in a way that surprised you.
“You have worked very hard today,” he murmured, his voice softer now, less performance, more something real that slipped through the cracks of it. “You must sit. You must rest.”
Your fingers tightened slightly around his, your eyes lifting to his face, searching for the usual hint of mischief, the joke beneath it.
But there wasn’t one.
Just him.
Before you could say anything, he was already guiding you toward the table, his hand settling at the small of your back, warm and steady. He pulled out a chair for you, the legs scraping softly against the floor, and you let yourself be eased into it, your body giving in to the gentle insistence without much resistance.
“You don’t have to do that,” you started, but he was already crouching in front of you.
“But Danhausen wants to,” he said quietly, his tone softening further as his hands moved to your shoes. His fingers worked carefully at them, slower than usual, more deliberate, and when his knuckles brushed lightly against your ankle, the touch lingered for just a second longer than necessary.
You watched him, something warm unfurling slowly in your chest as you leaned back slightly, your hands resting loosely in your lap. “You’re being very attentive,” you murmured, a small smile creeping onto your lips.
“As Danhausen should be,” he replied, glancing up at you briefly before looking back down, finishing with your shoes and setting them neatly to the side.
There was something in that look.
Something softer than usual.
But before you could place it, he was already standing again, moving back toward the kitchen with quick, purposeful steps. He poured you a glass of wine, careful despite the chaos clinging to him, and returned to place it gently in your hand.
“For relaxation,” he said, nodding once.
You curled your fingers around the glass, watching him as he turned back to the stove, picking up where he’d left off. He stirred something, tasted it, made a small face, added something else. There was a rhythm to it, slightly chaotic but undeniably focused, and you found yourself just… watching.
Watching him try.
Watching him care.
And then the music changed.
It shifted so subtly you almost missed it, the melody softening into something achingly familiar, something that reached straight into your chest and tightened gently around your heart before you could stop it.
Your breath caught.
That song.
The one from the day you met.
You hadn’t heard it in so long, and yet you knew it immediately, the memory of it settling into you like it had been waiting.
He knew that.
Of course he did.
You looked up just as he stilled, his back to you for a moment before he turned slowly, deliberately, like he had planned this part too.
There was no flourish this time.
No exaggerated movement.
Just him, walking toward you with something softer in his eyes, something that made your chest ache in the best way.
He stopped in front of you and held out his hand.
You let out a quiet, breathy laugh, setting your glass down as you slipped your hand into his. “What are you doing?” you asked softly, though there was no real resistance left in your voice.
“We dance,” he said.
“Since when do we dance?”
“Since now.”
You smiled, letting him pull you to your feet, his hand settling at your waist as he drew you closer. Your hand rested against his shoulder, your body naturally leaning into his as he guided you into a slow sway, matching the rhythm of the music perfectly.
Your head found his chest without thinking.
He was warm.
Steady.
His hand moved gently along your back, tracing slow, absent patterns that made your skin warm, your breath evening out as you relaxed into him. After a moment, he dipped his head, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder, his lips lingering there just long enough to make your fingers curl into his shirt.
“This is nice,” you murmured.
“Yes,” he said quietly.
You stayed like that for a while, swaying gently, the world narrowing down to just the two of you.
Eventually, you lifted your head, your gaze soft as it met his. “You didn’t have to do all this,” you said gently.
His expression shifted.
Just slightly.
And this time, you caught it.
The hesitation.
“Danhausen…” you murmured, your hand lifting to brush lightly against his cheek, your thumb catching a streak of flour there. “What is it?”
He exhaled slowly.
“…Danhausen may have had assistance,” he admitted.
You raised a brow. “Assistance?”
He nodded once, looking faintly sheepish now. “An article. It explained… romance. Suggested actions. Cooking. Dancing. Wine.”
You stared at him for a second.
And then your expression softened completely.
“You’ve been following instructions,” you said quietly.
“Yes,” he admitted, his voice softer now, more vulnerable than you were used to hearing. “Because Danhausen wanted to do this correctly. To make you feel… good. Loved.”
Your chest tightened.
You smiled, your hand lingering against his cheek as you wiped away the last of the flour. “You already do that,” you said gently.
He shook his head slightly. “Danhausen wanted to do more.”
“You don’t need to try so hard,” you murmured.
“I do not mind trying,” he replied quietly. “If it is for you.”
That did it.
Your arms slipped around him, pulling him closer, your head tucking beneath his chin as you held him there for a moment, the music still wrapping around you both.
“You’re ridiculous,” you whispered softly.
“Yes,” he agreed.
You pulled back just enough to look at him again, your smile warm. “And very sweet.”
He hesitated, then added, a little more dramatically now but still softer than before, “There is something in Danhausen’s heart for you that will only die when Danhausen dies.”
You laughed softly, your forehead resting briefly against his. “You definitely got that from the article.”
“…The article may have mentioned writing poetry for your loverhausen,” he admitted. "Danhausen spent a long time thinking of what to say to you."
You shook your head, smiling as you leaned into him again, letting him pull you back into that slow sway.
"I love you, Danhausen," you hummed.
The food simmered quietly behind him.
"and I love you, my Darling."
The house stayed warm and soft and full.
And for a long while, neither of you moved, content to stay exactly where you were.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ouchhausen notes!
ALRIGHT THIS IS MY APOLOGY FOR THE LAST CHAPTER OF NO SELL I POSTED EARLIER LMAO SORRY FOR THE ANGST 😭😭😭
enjoy this super cute fluffy oneshot from me to make u feel better xoxo
i kind of have an idea for a smut fic but totally up to you! i was thinking it could start with the medical staff being to busy or something so the reader has to be the one to tend to danhusen’s injury and then he ends up confesses his feelings to her? just an idea!
oooh i been waiting for this one 😭💞
゛RIBS ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ danhausen x reader
: ̗̀➛ requested! for anon
“ Danhausen is many things. Strange. Charismatic. Very nice, very evil. But not blind. ”
⤿ Backstage at a WWE event, you tend to Danhausen's injured ribs in a private medical room, where years of secret mutual pining finally erupt into an emotional confession and intense risk, with the constant threat of getting caught.
tags | angst | injury | SMUT |
NSFW MDNI !!!
The distant thunder of the crowd vibrated through the arena’s concrete veins as you hurried down the dimly lit backstage corridor.
Tonight was chaos.
A brutal tag team spot had gone wrong early in the card, sending two guys to the local ER for imaging. The rest of the medical staff were stretched thin, taping ankles, icing shoulders, dealing with the usual post-match wear and tear, when your phone buzzed with Danhausen’s text.
Danhausen requires your assistance.
Med room 3. Come if convenient.
If inconvenient, come anyway.
You didn’t even pause to think.
You never did when it came to him.
You’d been close for years. Friends who’d shared hotel rooms on long loops, late-night drives between towns, playlists swapped in rental cars, and quiet conversations after losses that cut deeper than any blade. You were the one he called when the road got too heavy, the one who laughed at his dumb jokes even when he was bleeding. And somewhere along the way, that closeness had twisted into something sharper.
Something you both pretended wasn’t there.
Secret glances that lasted a beat too long. His hand lingering on your lower back a second longer than necessary when guiding you through crowded hallways. The way your stomach flipped every time he looked at you after a match, sweat-slick and breathing hard, like he wanted to say something but never did.
Mutual pining buried under layers of “we’re just friends” and fear of ruining the one steady thing either of you had in this insane business.
You slipped into the private medical room and locked the door behind you with a soft click.
The space was small and sterile: padded exam table, cabinets of supplies, a sink, and the faint hum of an overhead fluorescent light. Danhausen sat on the edge of the table, ring gear partially stripped, black trunks and boots still on, but his torso bare. Sweat glistened on his skin under the harsh lighting. A nasty gash ran along his left ribs, jagged and already starting to bruise in deep shades of purple and red.
He looked wrecked, but still unfairly magnetic, broad shoulders, defined muscle earned from years of punishment, damp hair falling across his forehead.
“Shit,” you murmured, setting your bag down. Your voice came out softer than you meant. “That looks bad. What happened?”
He attempted a smirk, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Pain tightened the corners of his mouth.
“Apron spot betrayed Danhausen. Knee of doom. Very rude. Very evil.” His gaze lifted to meet yours, holding steady. “Medical staff are dealing with... lesser disasters. Danhausen required someone competent.”
A beat, quieter. “Someone who cares, anyway.”
Your chest ached at the quiet trust in his tone.
You stepped closer, the familiar scent of his post-match sweat and adrenaline hitting you.
“Of course I do. Let me see.”
You washed your hands at the sink, then gathered gauze, antiseptic, ointment, and tape. The room felt smaller with every step.
When you turned back, he was watching you intently, like he was memorizing the way you moved.
You soaked a pad with antiseptic. “This is going to burn like hell.”
He let out a quiet huff, something between a laugh and a groan. “Danhausen laughs in the face of pain,” he said, then immediately added under his breath, “Danhausen will still complain about it, though. Proceed.”
The first press of gauze to the wound made him inhale sharply, abs contracting under your fingers. Heat poured off his skin. You worked slowly, dabbing carefully, trying to keep your touch clinical. But your hands weren’t steady. Not with him this close, not with the years of unspoken weight pressing down on the air between you.
“You are shaking,” he said after a minute, quiet.
“I’m fine.”
You weren’t.
Every brush of your fingertips against his ribs sent sparks up your arm. You could feel the steady thump of his heartbeat under your palm. It sent your heart racing because you’d spent too many nights lying awake wondering what it would be like if you just stopped pretending.
A small pause.
“That is a lie,” he murmured, not unkindly.
For a while, the only sounds were the distant roar of the arena and the faint drip from the faucet you’d left running as white noise.
You applied ointment next, spreading it gently over the gash. Your fingers traced the edge of unbroken skin, and his breath hitched, not just from pain.
“You did not have to drop everything for this,” he said, voice lower now, the theatrics slipping at the edges. “You are not even booked tonight. Could have ignored poor, injured Danhausen.”
You kept your eyes on the wound, afraid to look up. “You texted. That’s all it takes.”
A long pause. His hand rested on his thigh, fingers twitching like he wanted to reach out.
He huffed again quietly, something fond hidden in it.
“Yes. Of course. You always come. Like some… very kind, slightly terrifying guardian demon.”
The ache in your chest deepened. You swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper. “Because I care. More than I probably should.”
His eyes flicked to your face. Something vulnerable flashed there, raw and guarded at the same time. “Explain this,” he said, tone lighter on the surface but edged underneath. “Danhausen does not enjoy vague emotional statements.”
You finished with the ointment and reached for the bandage roll, buying time.
Your heart hammered.
The pining you’d carried for so long felt suffocating now, trapped in this tiny room with the threat of someone knocking at any second.
“It means… I hate seeing you like this. Hurt. Alone in here. It’s been like that for years. Me showing up, patching you up, and then going back to pretending everything’s normal.”
“Pretending,” he echoed, quieter now. “Yes. Danhausen is very familiar with pretending.”
You taped the bandage in place with deliberate slowness, each strip of tape a small anchor keeping you from falling apart. Your fingers brushed his side again and again, necessary contact that felt anything but.
“Yeah. Pretending that touching you like this doesn’t mess me up. Pretending I don’t lie awake after you crash on my couch wondering if you feel any of it too. The way you look at me sometimes… like there’s more. But then you pull back. And I do the same. Because what if I’m wrong? What if saying it out loud ruins the only real thing I have out here on the road?”
His breathing had grown shallower, not just from the injury. His free hand lifted slowly, hovering near yours before settling lightly over your wrist, stilling your movements. The warmth of his palm seeped into your skin like a brand.
“You believe you are the only one who has been pretending?”
You finally looked up.
His expression had shifted completely now, the usual strange bravado cracked open.
“Danhausen is many things,” he said, voice rough, quieter than you’d ever heard it. “Strange. Charismatic. Very nice, very evil. But not blind.” His fingers tightened slightly around your wrist. “You think he does not notice? The way you look at him? The way you touch him like it matters too much?”
Your eyes stung.
The confession didn’t come in a rush, it dragged out of him, each word weighted with hesitation, like he was still half-expecting you to run.
Your hand turned under his, fingers lacing tentatively. The contact was gentle, but it ignited everything.
“Danhausen has wanted to say something a hundred times,” he continued, breath uneven. “After matches, when Danhausen is half-dead and still searching the hallway for you first. Every time you laugh at his terrible jokes when no one else understands the genius. Every night you sit too close, and Danhausen has to pretend that is not… everything.”
He swallowed, jaw tightening. “It is terrifying,” he admitted, almost frustrated with himself. “Because if Danhausen says it, if he ruins it, then you disappear. And then what? Then this,” he gestured vaguely, meaning everything, “means nothing again.”
“I’ve been in love with you for so long it hurts,” you whispered, the words trembling out after years of silence.
His breath caught, and something in him softened completely.
“Yes,” he said, almost immediately, like he couldn’t hold it back anymore. “Yes, that. Exactly that.” His thumb traced your wrist, slower now. “Danhausen is also… very stupidly, painfully in love with you. For an embarrassingly long time. It is awful.”
The distance between you shrank.
His forehead rested against yours, breaths mingling. The weight lingered in the space, fear of what came next, fear of the world outside the door, but so did relief, raw and overwhelming.
Then his mouth found yours.
The kiss started slow, almost careful, like both of you were still afraid the other might vanish. Soft pressure, a shared exhale. But the dam broke quickly. You leaned in, one hand sliding up to grip his uninjured shoulder, the other staying laced with his. The taste of him, salt, heat, years of longing, flooded you.
He groaned quietly into the kiss, the sound vibrating through his chest.
When you pulled back for air, foreheads still touching, the tension had shifted. Physical need now layered over the emotional release.
“Your ribs…” you started, voice breathless.
“Ignore the cursed ribs,” he rasped, eyes dark and heavy-lidded. “But we should remain careful. Danhausen is aware we are in a private room but he does not think you can be quiet.”
The reminder sent a sharp thrill through you, fear and arousal twisting tight. You nodded, heart pounding. “I'll be quiet.”
His hands found your waist, pulling you between his spread thighs on the table. The position pressed you close enough to feel him hardening against you through his trunks.
Another kiss, deeper this time, hungrier. Your fingers explored his chest, mapping muscle, avoiding the fresh bandage but tracing every other line you’d dreamed about.
He shivered when your nails grazed sensitive skin. “I have thought about this for too long,” he whispered against your mouth. “Your hands. Not just fixing.”
You palmed him through the fabric, stroking slowly. His head tipped back slightly, jaw clenched tight to swallow any sound. Outside, footsteps echoed in the hallway. Someone called a name. The nearness of discovery made every touch electric.
His own hand slipped under your shirt, caressing your back, then higher, cupping your breast, thumb circling until your nipple tightened. You bit your lip to stay silent, stroking him firmer, feeling him throb under your grip.
Clothes were shoved aside with urgent but hushed movements. You straddled his lap carefully, mindful of his injury. Sinking down onto him was slow, exquisite torture, inch by inch, the stretch burning perfectly.
Once fully seated, you both paused, breathing ragged, eyes locked in silent confession.
“I love you,” he breathed, the words finally free and raw. “Have for many years.”
“I love you too,” you whispered back as you began to move, slow, rolling rocks of your hips that kept noise minimal but built pressure relentlessly.
The rhythm stayed tense and restrained. Every grind was measured. His hands gripped your hips, guiding without forcing. Your mouths met in messy, muffled kisses, swallowing gasps and whimpers. The threat outside heightened everything, another set of footsteps passing close by, laughter from down the hall. Each near-miss made you clench around him, drawing a strangled breath from him as he fought not to thrust up too hard.
Sweat slicked your joined bodies. His fingers found your clit, rubbing tight circles that had your thighs trembling. The build was agonizingly slow, every sensation amplified by the need for silence and the weight of everything finally said.
When release came, it crashed through you both in shuddering, silent waves, you biting into his shoulder to stay quiet, him burying his face in your neck as he pulsed deep inside you.
Afterward, you stayed wrapped together, breathing hard, hearts syncing. The angst had burned away into something warmer, scarier, and infinitely better.
He kissed your temple, voice hoarse. “We figure the rest out after tonight. No more secrets.”
You smiled against his skin, still connected, the risk making the moment even sweeter. “Yeah. But first… let me make sure that bandage holds before someone actually walks in on us.”
He chuckled softly, the sound rumbling through you both.
You tended to him with gentle hands and stolen kisses, the confession still echoing warmly between you.
featuring: cody rhodes. roman reigns. seth rollins. gunther. bron breakker. bronson reed. la knight. dominik mysterio. cm punk. damian priest. jey uso. solo sikoa. grayson waller. xavier woods. kofi kingston. drew mcintyre. randy orton. oba femi. ethan page. jimmy uso. sami zayn. jd mcdonagh. kevin owens. joe hendry. finn balor. austin theory.
synopsis: a simple tiktok trend turns into something a lot more personal when you hand out certified handsome stickers backstage. what starts as a joke quickly becomes a soft, flustering moment for some of wwe’s biggest stars, especially when the sticker comes from you, their roster crush. from smug grins to stunned silence, every reaction proves one thing: confidence hits different when it’s earned from the person who matters most.
you hadn’t planned on making a big deal out of it.
it was just a sticker, something silly you’d picked up after seeing it all over your feed. certified handsome, bold letters and all. a joke. a little confidence boost. you handed a few out earlier in the day to mixed reactions, laughs, exaggerated poses, dramatic thank-yous.
cody was different.
you caught him backstage, half out of his gear, towel slung over his shoulder as he scrolled through his phone. he looked up when you said his name, that familiar, gentle smile already there like it had been waiting for you.
"hey" he said, easy. warm.
you held the sticker out between your fingers. "i, uh, this is dumb" you started, already second-guessing yourself. "but i’m giving these out."
he looked at the sticker, then back at you. his brow creased slightly in curiosity before he laughed, soft and surprised.
"well" he said, setting his phone down, "that’s a first."
you asked if it was okay before sticking it on him, and that made his smile change, smaller, more thoughtful. he nodded anyway.
when you pressed the sticker to his chest, just above his heart, his breath hitched so quietly you almost missed it.
"certified handsome" he read aloud, like he was testing the words. then he chuckled, shaking his head. "that’s incredibly kind of you."
you told him it was true. that you meant it. you meant more than just the joke.
his ears turned pink.
for a moment, he didn’t say anything. he just looked down at the sticker, thumb brushing the edge carefully, like he was afraid it might peel away if he didn’t treat it gently. when he finally met your eyes again, there was something softer there, something earnest and unguarded.
"you know" he said quietly, "coming from you that means a lot."
later, when you passed his locker on your way out, you noticed the sticker again, no longer on his chest, but pressed neatly onto his bag. centered. smoothed flat.
like it was exactly where he wanted it.
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ROMAN REIGNS
you should’ve known better than to approach roman with something like this and expect it to stay casual.
he was leaning against a production crate when you found him, arms crossed, jaw set, already carrying that quiet authority that made the space feel smaller. his eyes tracked you the moment you stepped closer, slow and knowing.
"come here" he said, low, like it wasn’t a request.
you held up the sticker before your nerves could stop you. certified handsome. you tried to play it off like a joke, like you weren’t suddenly very aware of how close he was.
roman glanced at the sticker, unimpressed, until his gaze flicked back to you.
a smirk tugged at his mouth. "you givin’ these to everybody" he asked, voice smooth, "or am i special?"
you told him it depended on his reaction.
that earned you a quiet laugh, deep in his chest. he straightened, looming just enough to make your pulse jump, and tapped his chest once with his fingers.
"well?" he said. "you gonna put it on me, or just stare?"
you stepped closer, close enough to feel his warmth, and pressed the sticker against his chest. his hand came up immediately, covering yours, not stopping you, just holding you there. letting the moment stretch.
"certified handsome" he read, slow. deliberate.
his thumb brushed your knuckles before he finally let go. "that’s dangerous" he said, eyes locked on yours. "you know what you’re doin’ to me with that?"
you shrugged, trying to look innocent. "just telling the truth."
roman leaned in then, just enough for his voice to drop even lower. "yeah" he murmured. "and comin’ from you?"
another smirk. this one sharper. possessive.
he glanced down at the sticker once more before looking back at you. "guess i gotta keep it" he said. "gotta remind everyone who saw it first."
as you walked away, you could feel his eyes on you the entire time.
and you didn’t miss the way he never took the sticker off.
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SETH ROLLINS
you’d barely said his name before seth was already grinning.
"whatever you’re about to do" he said, eyes lighting up, "i’m in."
you held up the sticker, bright and ridiculous between your fingers. certified handsome.
he froze for half a second.
then he clutched his chest like he’d been shot. "oh my god" he gasped. "i’ve been recognized."
you laughed, already regretting this a little as he stepped closer, eyes sparkling with mischief. "is that official wwe merchandise?" he asked. "because if it is, i need ten."
you told him he only got one.
"well that’s tragic" he sighed dramatically. "but i suppose i’ll accept this great honor." he puffed his chest out and struck a pose. "where do you want it?"
you reached for his shoulder, and the instant you touched him, his voice dropped, still playful, but quieter now. "careful" he said. "you’re gonna make me think this means something."
you told him it did.
that wiped the joke right off his face.
for a beat, he just stared at you, like his brain needed a second to catch up. then he smiled again, smaller this time, softer. you stuck the sticker onto his shoulder, smoothing it down, and he glanced at it like it was suddenly the most important thing in the room.
"certified handsome" he read, shaking his head. "damn. from you?"
he leaned in, forehead nearly brushing yours. "you know" he said quietly, "i might actually keep this one forever."
you told him not to be dramatic.
he laughed, loud and easy, then immediately pointed at the sticker. "too late. this is my whole personality now."
later, you heard him down the hall, telling anyone who would listen, "yeah, i know. i’ve been certified."
and every time he said it, he smiled like he was thinking about you.
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GUNTHER
gunther did not look like someone who would appreciate a sticker.
he stood alone near the edge of the locker room, arms folded, expression set in its usual permanent scowl. the kind that made conversations end before they started. you hesitated only a moment before approaching him anyway.
when you said his name, he turned immediately. His expression didn’t soften, but it shifted, just slightly. enough that you noticed.
"yes?" he asked.
you held up the sticker. bright. cheerful. entirely out of place against him. certified handsome.
for a long moment, he just stared at it.
"this is unnecessary" he said flatly.
you shrugged. "maybe. but it’s true."
he exhaled through his nose, unimpressed, already turning back, until he stopped. looked at you again. really looked at you.
"you are not giving this to everyone" he said. It wasn’t a question.
you told him no.
that did something.
his jaw tightened, like he was trying not to react. "fine" he said after a beat. "if you insist."
you stepped closer, careful, and pressed the sticker to his chest. he didn’t move. didn’t flinch. but his shoulders eased, just a fraction, as if he’d finally relaxed into the moment.
"certified handsome" he read, eyes dropping briefly before lifting back to yours. "you have poor judgment."
you smiled. "and yet."
he huffed, something close to a scoff. but his hand came up anyway, covering the sticker, not removing it. guarding it.
"you should not encourage this" he said, voice low. "they will be unbearable."
you told him you didn’t care what anyone else thought.
that earned you a look, steady, intense, focused entirely on you. "i know" he said quietly.
the rest of the night, he ignored every comment, every joke, every stare.
but when someone laughed and asked about the sticker, gunther didn’t even look at them.
"it was given to me" he said simply.
and that was explanation enough.
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BRON BREAKKER
bron saw you coming and immediately grinned.
that alone should’ve warned you.
"what’s that?" he asked, eyes already dropping to your hands as you stopped in front of him. he was fresh out of a workout, hair still damp, energy buzzing like he hadn’t burned it all off yet.
you held up the sticker. certified handsome.
he laughed, loud and bright. "you serious right now?"
you told him you were. that you’d been handing them out.
"oh, so i'm not special?" he teased, stepping closer anyway, hands settling easily at your hips like they’d always belonged there.
you raised a brow. "do you want the sticker or not?"
"yeah" he said instantly. "i just wanna see where you’re puttin’ it."
you stuck it on his chest, right over his heart. he glanced down at it, then back up at you, grin turning smug.
"certified handsome" he read. "damn. took you long enough."
you rolled your eyes. "you’re impossible."
"uh-huh" he said, leaning in, forehead brushing yours. "and you’re obsessed with me."
you told him not to let it go to his head.
too late.
he puffed his chest out a little, flexing without even thinking about it. "so this means i gotta keep it on all night, right?" he said. "can’t disappoint my girl"
when someone walked by and made a comment, bron didn’t miss a beat.
"yeah" he said proudly, tapping the sticker. "my partner gave it to me."
later, when you caught him in the mirror, he was still wearing it, crooked now, edges peeling, but his smile was stupid and soft as soon as your eyes met.
he winked.
"best award i've ever won."
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BRONSON REED
bronson reed was the last person you expected to get flustered over a sticker.
you found him backstage, towel around his neck, talking with someone else before they drifted away. when you stepped into his space, he looked surprised, but pleased.
"hey" he said, voice warm. "what’s up?"
you held up the sticker without much buildup. bright letters, impossible to miss. certified handsome.
he blinked.
then he laughed, short and disbelieving. "you messin’ with me?"
you shook your head. "not even a little."
he studied the sticker like it might be a trick, then looked back at you, eyes softer now. "didn’t think i was on that list."
you told him he should be.
that earned you a smile, real and unguarded, the kind that changed his whole face. "yeah?" he said, a little quieter. "comin’ from you, that’s pretty nice."
you asked if you could put it on him. he nodded immediately, shoulders squaring like he wanted to look presentable for it. when you pressed the sticker onto his chest, his breath hitched just slightly, and he glanced down at it with something like pride.
"certified handsome" he read, shaking his head. "didn’t see that comin’."
you teased him about underestimating himself.
he chuckled, eyes lifting back to yours. "maybe" he said. "or maybe i just like hearin’ it from you."
there was a pause, comfortable, charged. his fingers brushed yours as you stepped back, deliberate enough to make your stomach flip.
"well" he added, grin turning just a little flirty, "guess i gotta live up to it now, yeah?"
when you walked away, you glanced back once.
he was still standing there, one hand resting over the sticker, smiling to himself like he’d just been handed something way more meaningful than he’d expected.
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LA KNIGHT
he was already talking before you even stopped in front of him.
"lemme guess" he said, sunglasses still on indoors like a menace, "you’re here to tell me somethin’ I already know."
you held up the sticker. certified handsome.
he leaned in, squinting at it like he was inspecting evidence. then he straightened, a slow grin spreading across his face.
"yeah" he said. "that checks out."
you laughed and told him he hadn’t even let you finish.
"oh no" he replied, tapping his chest. "i finished it for you."
you asked if he actually wanted it.
he reached out, fingers brushing yours as he took the sticker. "from you?" he said. "absolutely."
instead of sticking it on himself, he held it out again. "nah" he added. "you do it."
you pressed the sticker to his chest, smoothing it down. he didn’t break eye contact once.
"certified handsome" he read, nodding. "finally, somebody with taste."
you rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away.
he leaned closer, voice dropping just enough to feel private. "but hey" he said, smirk softening, "you didn’t have to make it official like this."
you told him you wanted to.
that gave him pause.
just for a second.
then he smiled again, still confident, still unmistakably him, but warmer now. "well" he said, glancing down at the sticker, "guess i gotta represent."
when someone nearby scoffed, knight didn’t even turn his head.
"yeah" he said easily. "certified. she said so."
later, you caught him removing the sticker carefully, folding the backing instead of tossing it.
"can’t waste this" he said when he noticed you watching. "might frame it."
you told him he was ridiculous.
he grinned. "and you love it."
yeah.
you did.
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DOMINIK MYSTERIO
dominik pretended not to see you at first.
you knew he did, his posture shifted, shoulders straightening like he was bracing himself, but he kept scrolling on his phone until you cleared your throat.
he looked up. "what."
you smiled sweetly and held up the sticker. certified handsome.
he scoffed. "wow. original."
you raised a brow. "you don’t want it?"
he hesitated.
"i didn’t say that."
you stepped closer, close enough that his bravado started slipping at the edges. "i’ve been giving them out" you said casually.
that caught his attention. "yeah?" he asked, eyes narrowing. "to who."
you shrugged. "only the ones i like."
that did it.
his ears went pink, and he immediately tried to play it off by leaning back against the wall, arms crossed. "well" he said, voice cracking just a little, "obviously i qualify."
you asked if he was sure.
he nodded too fast. "yeah. obviously."
you reached up and stuck the sticker onto his chest. he froze while you smoothed it down, breathing shallow like he was afraid to move and ruin the moment.
"certified handsome" he read under his breath.
you told him it was true.
he swallowed, eyes flicking up to meet yours. "you don’t gotta say stuff like that" he muttered. "makes it hard to act cool."
you laughed, and he smiled despite himself, small, genuine, nothing like the attitude he put on for everyone else.
"hey" he added quickly, trying to recover, "this doesn’t mean i’m wearin’ it all night."
an hour later, you saw him in the hallway, still wearing it.
when someone teased him about it, he snapped back immediately. "mind your business."
but when you caught his eye, his expression softened.
he tapped the sticker once, just for you.
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CM PUNK
punk already looked tired when you found him.
not in a bad way, more like he’d seen everything, done everything, and was still somehow standing here letting you ruin his peace on purpose. he glanced up when you approached, eyebrow arching.
"what are you smilin’ about" he asked. not a question. an accusation.
you held up the sticker. certified handsome.
he stared at it.
then he laughed, shaking his head like this was exactly the nonsense he should’ve expected from you. "you’re gonna be the death of me, sweetheart."
you told him to stop pretending he didn’t like it.
"i don’t like it" he said immediately. then paused. sighed. "okay, i don’t hate it."
you stepped closer, and he let you, didn’t move an inch, just watched you with that knowing look, the one that said he was fully aware of how dangerous you were to his self-control.
"is this one of those things you’re givin’ to everybody" he asked.
you shook your head. "just you."
that earned you a look, slow, assessing, fond in a way he probably hated admitting. "yeah" he muttered. "that figures."
you stuck the sticker on his chest, right over the old scars and the ink and the years. his hand came up automatically, resting over yours for half a second longer than necessary.
"certified handsome" he read. "took you long enough to notice."
you told him you’d noticed a while ago.
he scoffed, but his thumb brushed your knuckles anyway. "careful", he said. "say stuff like that and i start thinkin’ you’re trouble."
you smiled. "i am."
he exhaled, something like a laugh slipping out. "yeah" he said quietly. "that’s the problem."
later, when someone cracked a joke about the sticker, punk just deadpanned, "don’t touch it."
when they walked away, he leaned down and murmured, "you happy now?"
you nodded.
he smirked. "good. because i’m keepin’ it."
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DAMIAN PRIEST
damian noticed you before you noticed him.
you felt it, the way his attention settled on you, heavy and unhurried, so when you finally looked up, he was already watching, one brow slightly raised like he knew exactly what you were about to try.
"you got somethin’ for me?" he asked, voice low.
you held up the sticker. certified handsome.
for a second, he just stared at it.
then he laughed, quiet and surprised, shaking his head. "didn’t have that on my bingo card today."
you told him to stop pretending he didn’t like it.
he stepped closer, towering just enough to make your stomach flip. "i didn’t say that" he murmured. "i’m just wonderin’ what made you think of me."
You shrugged. "i always think of you."
that got him.
his expression softened, not much, but enough that it felt like something private you weren’t supposed to see. "careful" he said. "you say stuff like that, i start gettin’ ideas."
you asked if you could put the sticker on him.
he nodded once. "go ahead."
when you pressed it to his chest, his hand came up, resting at your waist, steady, grounding, like he was anchoring the moment. his thumb brushed your side absently, like he wasn’t even thinking about it.
"certified handsome" he read. a smirk tugged at his mouth. "you got good taste."
you told him it wasn’t about taste. it was about truth.
he looked down at you then, really looked at you. "yeah" he said quietly. "that’s what i like about you."
someone nearby made a comment. damian didn’t even turn his head.
"not for you" he said calmly.
later, as you walked away, you felt his fingers catch yours for just a second.
"hey" he said softly. "thanks."
you glanced back to see him watching you go, hand resting over the sticker like it belonged there.
and maybe it did.
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JEY USO
jey clocked you the second you walked into the room.
"aw nah" he said, already laughing. "what you up to?"
you held up the sticker. certified handsome.
he squinted at it like he needed to make sure he was reading it right. then his eyebrows shot up. "you for real?"
you nodded. "dead serious."
he broke into the widest grin, shaking his head. "that’s crazy, uce."
you told him he could say no.
"nah" he said immediately, stepping closer. "don’t do that. i ain’t sayin’ no to that, especially from you."
you reached up and stuck the sticker on his chest. he watched you do it, eyes warm, smile softening like he forgot anyone else was around.
"certified handsome" he read out loud. "yeah, i like the sound of that."
you teased him about letting it go to his head.
"oh it already did" he said proudly, puffing his chest out. then he leaned in a little, voice dropping. "but lowkey? means more comin’ from you."
someone walked by and laughed, pointing at the sticker. jey didn’t miss a beat.
"what?" he said. "you jealous?"
when they kept walking, he glanced back at you, grin turning shy for just a second. "you know i’m keepin’ this, right?"
you told him you expected nothing less.
later, you caught him showing jimmy, tapping the sticker like it was proof of something important. when he noticed you watching, he shot you a wink.
"certified" he mouthed.
and somehow, you were the one blushing.
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SOLO SIKOA
solo didn’t ask why you were standing in front of him.
he just looked at you, head slightly tilted, eyes sharp and unreadable, like he was waiting to see what you’d do next. the noise of the locker room seemed to fade the longer he watched.
you held up the sticker. certified handsome.
for a moment, he didn’t react at all.
then his gaze dropped to the sticker. back to you.
"yeah?" he said quietly.
you nodded. "yeah."
you stepped closer, close enough that you could feel his presence like gravity, and pressed the sticker onto his chest. he didn’t move. didn’t blink. just let you do it, eyes never leaving your face.
"certified handsome" he read under his breath.
his jaw tightened, not annoyed. focused. like he was locking the moment away.
you teased him, asked if he hated it.
he shook his head once. "nah."
that was it. but the way he said it, low, sure, made your stomach flip.
someone nearby snorted. "that yours, solo?"
solo didn’t even look at them. His hand came up, covering the sticker protectively.
"yeah", he said. final.
when you turned to leave, you felt fingers hook briefly into your sleeve, stopping you. you looked back.
he leaned in just enough for only you to hear. "don’t give that to anyone else."
you smiled. "wasn’t planning on it."
his lips twitched, barely, but it counted.
and for the rest of the night, no one said a word about the sticker.
no one dared.
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GRAYSON WALLER
grayson waller didn’t even pretend to be surprised when you walked up to him.
he looked you over slowly, grin already in place. "what" he said. "you finally here to give me the attention i deserve?"
you rolled your eyes and held up the sticker. certified handsome.
his grin widened. "well, yeah" he said immediately. "obviously."
you told him not to get cocky.
"too late" he replied, stepping closer, crowding your space on purpose. "you’re the one handin’ out proof."
you pressed the sticker against his chest, right over his collarbone, smoothing it down. he watched you do it, eyes dark, amused, and very aware of how close you were.
"certified handsome" he read, tongue clicking. "from my partner?"
he leaned in, voice dropping. "that’s basically a public service announcement."
you told him he didn’t need his ego fed any more than it already was.
he laughed, low and pleased. "nah", he said. "but i like when you do it."
his hand settled at your waist, thumb brushing your side like it was absentminded, like it wasn’t absolutely intentional. "you know what this does, yeah?" he added. "now everyone’s gotta see you’re the one who claimed me."
you told him he was insufferable.
"and yet" he murmured, leaning in closer, "you’re still here."
someone nearby made a comment, and grayson didn’t even look away from you. he just smirked and tapped the sticker.
"they know."
later, when you tried to peel it off before heading out, he caught your wrist.
"nah" he said. "leave it."
you raised a brow.
he grinned. "i like reminders."
and judging by the way he pulled you back in, he wasn’t talking about the sticker at all.
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DREW MCINTYRE
drew looked intimidating even when he was relaxed.
fresh off a match, hair pulled back, towel around his shoulders, he was nursing a bottle of water when you approached. he noticed you immediately, eyes softening just a touch.
"aye" he said. "you alright?"
you held up the sticker. certified handsome.
he blinked.
then he laughed, deep and genuine, shaking his head like you’d just caught him off guard in the best way. "is that so?"
you nodded. "it is."
he studied the sticker for a moment, then looked back at you, something thoughtful settling into his expression. "that’s a bold claim" he said. "you sure about it?"
you stepped closer. "completely."
you reached up and pressed the sticker to his chest. he stood still for you, broad and solid, eyes dropping briefly as you smoothed it down. when he read the words, his smile softened into something quieter.
"certified handsome" he murmured. "well. that’s not somethin’ i hear every day."
you teased him, told him he should hear it more often.
he huffed a laugh. "maybe" he said. "but comin’ from you, it carries a bit more weight."
someone nearby whistled, making a comment. drew just straightened slightly, hand coming up to rest over the sticker with quiet pride.
"aye" he said calmly. "i know."
when he looked back at you, his gaze was warm and steady. "thank you" he added, voice low. "you’ve a way of remindin’ me who i am."
later, as you walked past him again, he caught your hand gently.
"just so you know" he said, leaning in, "i’ll be keepin’ this."
you smiled.
he smiled back, slow, fond, and entirely yours.
∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘
XAVIER WOODS
he lit up the moment he saw you.
there was a bounce to his step as he met you halfway, grin already in place. "hey" he said. "that look means you’re up to something."
you held up the sticker. certified handsome.
he froze.
then his hand flew to his chest like he’d just taken critical damage. "whoa. hang on" he said. "is this official? am i being graded?"
you laughed and told him not to overthink it.
"oh no" he replied, eyes sparkling. "i am absolutely thinking it through, because if this is comin’ from you, that’s a big deal."
you asked if he wanted it.
"want it?" he echoed. "i’ve been trainin’ my whole life for this moment."
you reached up and stuck the sticker onto his chest, smoothing it down. he watched you do it, smile softening, voice dropping just a touch.
"certified handsome" he read. "dang."
you teased him for acting surprised.
he shrugged, bashful but pleased. "i know i’m confident" he said. "but hearin’ it from you? hits different."
someone walked by and made a joke. xavier immediately puffed up, pointing proudly at the sticker. "yeah, that’s right" he said. "don’t hate."
when they left, he leaned closer, shoulder brushing yours. "you know" he added quietly, "this might be my new lucky charm."
you told him it was just a sticker.
he grinned. "nah" he said. "it’s from you. that’s different."
later, you caught him humming to himself, still wearing it, still smiling like the day had gone a little better than expected.
and when your eyes met, he gave you a small, knowing wink.
∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘
KOFI KINGSTON
kofi was already smiling when you walked up.
he always was, but this one felt expectant, like he knew you were about to do something and was excited to see what it’d be. "hey" he said brightly. "what’s goin’ on?"
you held up the sticker. certified handsome.
he laughed instantly, head tipping back. "ohhh, okay" he said. "so that’s the vibe today."
you asked if he wanted one.
he leaned in a little, eyes warm and teasing. "i mean" he said, "if you’re offerin’? i’d be crazy to say no."
you pressed the sticker onto his chest, right over his heart. he looked down at it, then back at you, smile softening into something more sincere.
"certified handsome" he read. "wow."
he shook his head, amused. "that’s a confidence boost right there."
you told him you were just stating facts.
"see, that’s the thing" he said gently. "you say stuff like that, and suddenly my whole day’s better."
someone nearby called out, laughing. "kofi, you don’t need that!"
kofi just grinned and pointed at the sticker. "nah" he said. "but i like it."
when the moment quieted again, he glanced at you, tone dropping just enough to feel personal. "thanks" he said. "means a lot, especially comin’ from you."
later, when you caught sight of him dancing down the hallway, the sticker was still there, slightly crooked from all the movement.
he noticed you watching and flashed you a bright smile.
certified, indeed.
∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘
RANDY ORTON
randy didn’t look surprised when you stopped in front of him.
he rarely did.
he glanced down at you, slow and assessing, arms crossed, that familiar smirk already tugging at his mouth like he knew you were about to start something. "you look real confident" he said. "that usually means trouble."
you held up the sticker. certified handsome.
that got a reaction.
just a small one, but you caught it. the slight lift of his brow. the way his eyes flicked from the sticker back to your face, lingering.
he chuckled under his breath. "you’re bold" he said. "you know that?"
you shrugged. "someone had to tell you."
he stepped closer, invading your space without asking, one hand settling casually at your lower back like it had every right to be there. "i don’t need a sticker to know that" he murmured. "but i’ll admit, i like where your head’s at."
you pressed the sticker onto his chest, fingers brushing warm skin just above the neckline of his shirt. he didn’t move, didn’t help, didn’t stop you, just watched you with that heavy-lidded focus that made your pulse jump.
"certified handsome" he read slowly.
his hand tightened slightly at your back. "careful" he said, voice low. "you keep touchin’ me like that, people are gonna get ideas."
you told him maybe that was the point.
that earned you a quiet laugh, rough and amused. "yeah" he said. "that’s what i figured."
someone passed by, glanced at the sticker, muttered something under their breath. randy didn’t even look at them.
instead, he leaned down, lips close to your ear. "you like markin’ your territory?" he asked softly.
you didn’t answer.
you didn’t have to.
later, when you reached for the sticker to peel it off, his hand closed over yours, firm, deliberate.
"nah" he said. "leave it."
you looked up at him.
he smirked. "i like reminders."
and the way his thumb brushed your wrist told you he wasn’t just talking about the sticker.
∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘
OBA FEMI
oba noticed you immediately.
he always did.
you felt his attention before you saw it, steady, unshaken, so when you stepped into his space, he simply looked down at you, expression calm, unreadable, waiting.
"yes?" he said.
you held up the sticker. certified handsome.
he stared at it for a moment. then one corner of his mouth lifted, just barely. "this" he said, "is unexpected."
you told him you thought he’d earned it.
that made him laugh, low, brief, like the sound surprised even him. "you have courage" he said. "or poor judgment."
"maybe both."
"hm", he stepped closer, towering now, but never threatening. just present. "go on, then."
you reached up and pressed the sticker to his chest. he stayed perfectly still for you, eyes following your movements, dark and intent. when you pulled your hand back, he glanced down at the sticker, then back at you.
"certified handsome" he read. "a bold declaration."
you asked if he disagreed.
"no" he said immediately. "i question your timing."
you tilted your head. "why’s that?"
"because" he said, voice lowering, "now i’m aware of how you see me."
his hand came up, not to remove the sticker, but to rest over it, palm warm and solid. protective.
someone nearby muttered something under their breath. oba didn’t look away from you.
"they may speak" he said calmly. "it does not concern us."
you smiled.
that earned you another small smile in return, rare, genuine. "you enjoy provoking me" he added.
you shrugged. "you enjoy it too."
he considered that. then nodded. "yes" he said. "i do."
as you turned to leave, his fingers brushed yours, intentional, grounding. "do not stop" he said quietly.
you glanced back. "stop what?"
his eyes flicked once to the sticker. then back to you.
"reminding me."
∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘
ETHAN PAGE
ethan noticed the sticker before you even said a word.
he glanced down at it in your hand, then back up at you, lips already curling into that familiar, self-satisfied smile. "well" he said, "this is clearly for me."
you laughed. "you didn’t even read it."
"i don’t need to" he replied smoothly. "i already know."
you held it up anyway. certified handsome.
he paused.
just for a second.
then he nodded, like he was accepting an award he’d totally rehearsed for. "okay" he said. "yeah. that tracks."
you asked if he wanted it.
"from you?" he said, stepping closer, voice dropping just a touch. "that’s not even a question."
you pressed the sticker onto his chest, and he watched you do it with an intensity that felt a little more real than his usual bravado. when your fingers lingered to smooth it down, his breath hitched before he could stop it.
"certified handsome" he read aloud. "damn."
you teased him for sounding surprised.
he scoffed lightly, but his smile softened. "hey" he said. "i work very hard for this confidence. but it helps when someone i care about agrees."
someone nearby muttered something sarcastic. ethan didn’t even look at them, just slid an arm around your waist, casual but unmistakably claiming.
"jealousy’s ugly" he said cheerfully.
when it was just the two of you again, he leaned in closer, forehead nearly touching yours. "you know what the best part is?" he murmured.
you hummed. "what?"
"now i get to say i’m certified" he said, smirking, "and you’re the reason."
later, you caught him in the mirror, adjusting the sticker so it sat just right, perfectly centered, impossible to miss.
he caught your eye and winked.
mission accomplished.
∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘
JIMMY USO
jimmy spotted you and immediately perked up.
"ohhh" he said, pointing at you like he’d just figured something out. "i knew you was up to somethin’."
you held up the sticker. certified handsome.
he barked out a laugh. "see? i been tellin’ people!"
then he leaned closer, squinting at it. "hold up. that’s legit?"
you nodded. "official."
"say less." he puffed his chest out proudly. "where you want it?"
you pressed the sticker onto his chest, and jimmy watched you do it like it was the highlight of his day. he glanced down, then back up at you, grin stretching wide.
"yeahhh, that’s fire."
you teased him about how fast his ego inflated.
"hey" he said, holding up a hand. "if i’m certified by you, i’m allowed to celebrate."
jey walked by and immediately clocked it. "man"
jimmy cut him off. "nah, nah, don’t hate" he said, tapping the sticker. "i earned this."
jey shook his head, laughing, and kept walking.
jimmy leaned back toward you, voice dropping just a little. "lowkey though" he said, smile softening, "that’s kinda nice."
you told him it was meant to be.
he nodded, serious for half a second. "yeah" he said. "i know."
later, you caught him still wearing it, dancing down the hall, hyping himself up like he’d won something important. when he saw you watching, he pointed at the sticker and mouthed, certified.
and somehow, that grin was just for you.
∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘
SAMI ZAYN
sami looked up the moment you stopped in front of him, already smiling like just seeing you had made his day better.
"hey" he said warmly. "what’s up?"
you held up the sticker. certified handsome.
he blinked. once. twice.
"is that for me?"
you nodded.
his laugh came out soft and disbelieving, hand rubbing the back of his neck. "okay, see, this feels like a prank" he said. "but, like one of the nice ones?"
you promised it wasn’t a joke.
he studied the sticker, then looked back at you, eyes bright. "wow" he said. "i mean yeah. wow."
you asked if you could put it on him, and he immediately straightened up, trying to look serious even though his smile wouldn’t quit. "yeah, yeah, go ahead."
you pressed it onto his chest, smoothing it down. he glanced down at it, then back up at you, expression softening into something almost shy.
"that’s actually really sweet."
you teased him for not believing it.
he shrugged. "i know, i know" he said. "coming from you? that hits a little harder."
someone nearby made a comment, and sami waved it off immediately. "nope" he said cheerfully. "this is official."
when it was just the two of you again, he leaned in slightly, voice quieter. "thanks" he said. "you’ve got no idea how much i needed that today."
later, you caught him still wearing it, still smiling, like the sticker had somehow become a permanent part of him. when your eyes met, he lit up all over again.
certified handsome.
certified happy.
all because of you.
∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘
JD MCDONAGH
he was already watching you.
he always was.
you noticed it the moment you stopped near him, the way his attention sharpened, head tilting slightly as if he’d been expecting you. he didn’t smile. he just waited.
you held up the sticker. certified handsome.
his eyes flicked to it. then back to you.
"that’s for me?" he asked quietly.
you nodded.
for a moment, he looked genuinely confused. not offended, just surprised, like the idea hadn’t occurred to him. "you’re serious" he said, more a statement than a question.
you told him you were.
something in his expression softened then, subtle but unmistakable. "interesting" he murmured.
you stepped closer and pressed the sticker onto his chest. he watched your hand the entire time, unblinking, like he was memorizing the moment. when you pulled back, he glanced down at the sticker and read the words under his breath.
"certified handsome."
a faint smile tugged at his mouth. rare. crooked. just for you.
"you notice things", he said quietly. "most people don’t."
you told him you paid attention.
he hummed, pleased. His fingers came up, brushing the edge of the sticker, not to remove it, just to feel it. "i’ll keep this" he said. "if that’s alright."
nearby dom snickered, muttering something under his breath. jd didn’t react. didn’t even look at him.
his eyes stayed on you. "that doesn’t matter" he said calmly.
when you turned to leave, his voice stopped you. "hey."
you looked back.
"thanks" he said. simple. earnest. "i won’t forget it."
and the way he watched you walk away told you he meant that in every possible way.
∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘
KEVIN OWENS
kevin was already mid-complaint when you walked up.
"i’m just sayin’, if they wanted it moved, they should’ve said someth-"
he stopped when he saw you, scowl easing automatically. "hey."
you waited until he finished taking a sip of water before holding up the sticker.
he stared at it.
then he snorted. "oh, come on."
you raised an eyebrow. "what?"
"that’s not serious" he said, though there was no bite to it. "that’s gotta be a joke."
you shook your head. "it’s not."
he looked at you for a long moment, searching your face like he was checking for sarcasm. when he didn’t find any, his shoulders relaxed just a little.
"alright" he said. "if you say so."
you stepped closer and stuck the sticker onto his chest. he didn’t look down right away, just watched you, eyes softer than his voice ever was. when he finally glanced at it, he scoffed quietly.
"certified handsome" he read. "you’ve got questionable taste."
you told him to stop fishing.
"i’m not fishing", he said immediately. then paused. "okay, maybe a little."
someone nearby laughed, muttering something under their breath. kevin shot them a look that shut it down instantly before turning back to you.
"don’t listen to them" he said. "they’re idiots."
you smiled.
he reached up, adjusting the sticker like he wanted it to sit right. "you know" he added, voice lower now, "i don’t really care what anyone else thinks."
you told him you knew.
"but" he admitted, glancing at you, “I care what you think.”
later, when you tried to peel it off for him, he caught your wrist gently. "nah" he said. "leave it."
you teased him.
he shrugged. "what, it is special coming from my girl"
and for the rest of the night, he wore it like it was the easiest thing in the world to believe.
∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘
FINN BALOR
his eyes flicked to it in your hand, then lifted to meet yours, a slow smile already forming like he knew exactly how this was about to play out. "what’ve you got there" he asked, voice light but curious.
you held it up. certified handsome.
he laughed softly. "well", he said, "i can’t argue with that."
you asked if he wanted it.
he stepped closer instead, lowering his voice. "depends" he said. "who’s it from?"
you didn’t answer. you didn’t have to.
"that’s what i thought" he murmured.
you pressed the sticker onto his chest, fingers brushing warm skin as you smoothed it down. He stayed still for you, gaze never leaving your face, like he was memorizing the moment. when he glanced down at the sticker, his smile softened into something quieter.
"certified handsome" he read. "that’s dangerous information to give a man."
you told him you trusted him with it.
his brow lifted slightly. "you shouldn’t" he teased. then, more softly, "but i'm glad you do."
his fingers brushed yours, deliberate and slow.
"this one stays" he said. "yeah?"
you nodded.
later, when the hallway had emptied, you caught him adjusting the sticker carefully, like it mattered where it sat. when he noticed you watching, he smiled, small, private.
"don’t worry" he said. "i know who gave it to me."
and the way he said it made it feel like a promise.
∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘
JOE HENDRY
joe absolutely knew what you were doing.
you hadn’t even finished walking up to him before he turned, already smiling like he’d been waiting for his cue. "well" he said, arms spreading slightly, "this feels important."
you held up the sticker.
he laughed, delighted. "see?" he said. "told you they’d come around eventually."
you rolled your eyes. "it’s from me."
that made his smile change, sharper, more pleased. "ah" he said. "even better."
you stepped closer and stuck the sticker onto his chest, smoothing it down like you’d done a hundred times before. he looked down at it dramatically, then back at you.
"certified handsome" he read.
he leaned in, voice dropping to a flirtatious murmur. "that’s basically an endorsement."
you told him not to let it go to his head.
"too late" he said easily. "you’re the one who keeps encouraging me."
someone nearby laughed, making a comment. joe didn’t miss a beat, he slung an arm around you, pulling you in close like it was second nature.
"yeah" he said cheerfully. "my girlfriend thinks i'm handsome"
when they walked away, he looked down at you, eyes bright, teasing. "you realize you’ve just made my ego completely unmanageable."
you smiled sweetly. "that sounds like a you problem."
he laughed and dipped his head closer. "maybe" he said. "but i don’t see you complainin’."
later, when you caught him humming to himself, still wearing the sticker like a badge of honour, he caught your eye and winked.
"best review i’ve ever gotten" he said.
and you knew he meant it.
∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘
AUSTIN THEORY
austin was already flexing when you walked up.
you weren’t sure if it was on purpose or muscle memory at this point but the grin he flashed you was absolutely intentional. "hey" he said. "you see somethin’ you like?"
you held up the sticker.
his eyes lit up instantly. "oh hell yeah."
you laughed. "you didn’t even read it."
"i don’t have to" he said, stepping closer. "but go on. say it."
you tilted the sticker toward him anyway.
he read it out loud, slower this time. "certified handsome."
then he looked back at you, smug. "see? knew it."
you asked if he wanted it.
he scoffed. "want it? from you?" he puffed his chest out. "that’s basically a title win."
you stuck the sticker onto his chest, and he immediately posed, just for you, arms flexed, chin lifted. "how’s it look?" he asked. "straight? centered? you proud of me?"
you told him he was ridiculous.
"yeah" he said easily. "but you’re still smilin’."
someone nearby snorted, making a comment. austin shot them a look and pointed at the sticker. "hey" he said. "don’t argue with credentials."
then he leaned back toward you, voice dropping, grin turning a little softer. "lowkey though", he added, "means more comin’ from you than anyone else."
you told him not to get sentimental.
he laughed, shaking his head. "too late."
as you walked away, you heard him behind you, talking to himself. "certified handsome" he muttered proudly.
when you glanced back, he caught your eye and winked, tapping the sticker like it was proof of something he’d been waiting to hear all along.
and honestly?
he was.
∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘
BONUS BLURB: CODY PART 2
you didn’t notice at first.
you were halfway down the hallway, still riding the small, giddy buzz of the day, when cody called your name. you turned to find him standing there with that familiar, easy smile and something tucked behind his back.
"hey" he said. "hold up a second."
you raised a brow. "what’s up?"
he stepped closer, just enough to make the moment feel personal, even with people moving around you. then he brought his hand forward.
a sticker.
certified pretty girl.
you laughed, surprised. "you did not."
he chuckled softly. "i did" he said. "felt like the right thing to do."
you asked when he’d gotten it.
"after you gave me mine", he admitted. "didn’t want it to be one sided."
there was something different about him then, less performative, more earnest. he looked at you like he wanted to be sure you understood he meant it. "is that okay?" he asked. "if i?"
you nodded.
he peeled the backing carefully, like it mattered, and pressed the sticker onto you with the same gentleness you’d shown him earlier. his fingers lingered just a second longer than necessary before he pulled away.
"certified pretty girl" he read quietly.
you teased him about copying your idea.
he smiled, fond. "maybe" he said. "but i wanted you to know i see you the same way you see me."
when you started walking again, you caught sight of your reflection in a nearby mirror, the sticker bright against you, impossible to miss.
5 Tiny Writing Tips That Aren’t Talked About Enough (but work for me)
These are some lowkey underrated tips I’ve seen floating around writing communities — the kind that don’t get flashy attention but seriously changed how I write.
1. Put “he/she/they” at the start of the sentence less often.
Try switching up your sentence rhythm. Instead of
“She walked to the window,”
try
“The window creaked open under her touch.”
Keeps it fresh and stops the paragraph from sounding like a checklist.
2. Don’t describe everything — describe what matters.
Instead of listing every detail in a room, pick 2–3 objects that say something.
“A half-drunk mug of tea and a knife on the table”
sets a way stronger tone than
“There was a wooden table, two chairs, and a shelf.”
3. Use beats instead of dialogue tags sometimes.
Instead of:
"I'm fine," she said.
Try:
"I'm fine." She wiped her hands on her skirt.
It helps shows emotion, and movement.
4. Write your first draft like no one will ever read it.
No pressure. No perfection. Just vibes. The point of draft one is to exist. Let it be messy and weird — future you will thank you for at least something to edit.
5. When stuck, ask: “What’s the most fun thing that could happen next?”
Not logical. Not realistic. FUN. It doesn’t have to stay — but chasing excitement can blast through writer’s block and give you ideas you actually want to write.
What’s a tip that unexpectedly helped with your writing? Let me know!! 🍒
Other Words for "Look" + With meanings | List for writers
Many people create lists of synonyms for the word 'said,' but what about the word 'look'? Here are some synonyms that I enjoy using in my writing, along with their meanings for your reference. While all these words relate to 'look,' they each carry distinct meanings and nuances, so I thought it would be helpful to provide meanings for each one.
Gaze - To look steadily and intently, especially in admiration or thought.
Glance - A brief or hurried look.
Peek - A quick and typically secretive look.
Peer - To look with difficulty or concentration.
Scan - To look over quickly but thoroughly.
Observe - To watch carefully and attentively.
Inspect - To look at closely in order to assess condition or quality.
Stare - To look fixedly or vacantly at someone or something.
Glimpse - To see or perceive briefly or partially.
Eye - To look or stare at intently.
Peruse - To read or examine something with great care.
Scrutinize - To examine or inspect closely and thoroughly.
Behold - To see or observe a thing or person, especially a remarkable one.
Witness - To see something happen, typically a significant event.
Spot - To see, notice, or recognize someone or something.
Contemplate - To look thoughtfully for a long time at.
Sight - To suddenly or unexpectedly see something or someone.
Ogle - To stare at in a lecherous manner.
Leer - To look or gaze in an unpleasant, malicious way.
Gawk - To stare openly and stupidly.
Gape - To stare with one's mouth open wide, in amazement.
Squint - To look with eyes partially closed.
Regard - To consider or think of in a specified way.
Admire - To regard with pleasure, wonder, and approval.
Skim - To look through quickly to gain superficial knowledge.
Reconnoiter - To make a military observation of a region.
Flick - To look or move the eyes quickly.
Rake - To look through something rapidly and unsystematically.
Glare - To look angrily or fiercely.
Peep - To look quickly and secretly through an opening.
Focus - To concentrate one's visual effort on.
Discover - To find or realize something not clear before.
Spot-check - To examine something briefly or at random.
Devour - To look over with eager enthusiasm.
Examine - To inspect in detail to determine condition.
Feast one's eyes - To look at something with great enjoyment.
Catch sight of - To suddenly or unexpectedly see.
Clap eyes on - To suddenly see someone or something.
Set eyes on - To look at, especially for the first time.
Take a dekko - Colloquial for taking a look.
Leer at - To look or gaze in a suggestive manner.
Rubberneck - To stare at something in a foolish way.
Make out - To manage to see or read with difficulty.
Lay eyes on - To see or look at.
Pore over - To look at or read something intently.
Ogle at - To look at in a lecherous or predatory way.
Pry - To look or inquire into something in a determined manner.
Dart - To look quickly or furtively.
Drink in - To look at with great enjoyment or fascination.
Bask in - To look at or enjoy something for a period of time.
Calling all aspiring storytellers with hearts full of whimsy! Get ready to sprinkle a touch of enchantment into your scenes with my Scene Wo
683 members, 435 posts about #creative writing #creative writers #helping writers • Guiding Writers to New Heights
You’ve been in a nasty mood all night long. John decides you need your attitude fixed.
pairing: john shelby x reader
word count: 2.3k words
warnings/tags: SMUT!!! MDNI, fem!reader, no use of y/n or descriptions, established relationship, quickie, praise kink (?), spanking, use of foul language, porn with no plot, semi public, brat taming (if you squint), p in v, creampie/unprotected (please use protection!! lmao),
A/N: any feedback (comments, asks, reblogs, etc) is very welcome!
It really hadn’t been your fault. From the second you’d woken up it had seemed like the world was against you– a stiff neck as soon as you’d opened your eyes, a run in your stockings, your boss being more of a cunt than usual, a sudden downpour that ruined your hair on the way from work, so it was no surprise that by the time you met John for drinks at the Garrison, you were on a war path.
It wasn’t John’s fault either, truly. You’d lasted scarcely 30 seconds at the bar top before you were spitting fire, snapping at anyone who got in your way, and petulantly shoving your glass down on the bar. It was an hour of your ranting and raving before John gave a low chuckle halfway through your sentence, removed the toothpick from his mouth, pressed his hand firmly against the small of your back, and brought his lips to the shell of your ear.
“Right then. That’s enough of your lip for one night, girl. We’re goin’.”
You’d protested, squirming in his firm grip as he guided you towards a back door and into an empty storeroom just feet away from the bar. The door slammed shut, turning the roar of the Garrison to a dull hum.
Before you could snap at him again, John’s palm was flat against the wall beside your head, his body a sudden solid barrier of wool and muscle. He brought the other hand up to your chin, tilting your face until you had no choice but to meet his eyes.
“Don’t know what’s gotten into you, you little firebrand,” he breathed, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that made your pulse skip and warmth bloom in your stomach. “You’ve ‘ad your say out there, yeah? Spat enough venom to kill us all.”
Your next retort had barely gotten past your lips before John’s hand snapped from your chin to the nape of your neck, fingers inching into the locks of your hair with a firm tug. Not enough to hurt, but just enough to make you gasp, back arching against the brick.
“Enough,” he growled, the word vibrating to your core. “I’ve been awfully patient, ‘aven’t I? Sat there and listened to you snap at the ladies and bark at me like a stray dog for the last fookin’ hour.”
He released your hair and let his hand press against your cheek, calloused and warm. Gently, he trailed his thumb against the plush of your lower lip, drawing a shaky breath from between your lips.
“You’ve got a proper nasty attitude today, love,” he murmured, purring, teasing, sending the warmth lower, from your stomach to in between your thighs. “And I think we both know what ‘appens when you start actin’ like the boss of me.”
John let his other hand fall from where it had been planted on the wall, twisting the hem of your skirt up in his hand, and let his palm brush the warm skin there. One of his legs pressed firmly between yours, right against your mound, the pressure sending shockwaves through your body.
“Fuck, John, I– I’m sorr–” you began, only to be silenced by John’s thumb pushing past lips and teeth and pressing against the tip of your tongue. The taste of him flooded your senses– salt, smoke, and faint traces of gin. On instinct, your lips molded around him, a desperate, tugging heat that had him groaning into your ear. You felt the anger in your heart cool; the embers of desire began to catch fire in your heart instead.
John laughed, low in his chest. “We’re past the point where you talk your way out of things, love,” he whispered against your ear. “I think someone needs an attitude adjustment, yeah?”
In an instant, his lips replaced his thumb, a violent, bruising kiss, all tongue and teeth that made you moan in his mouth. You drew his lower lip between yours and bit, just a graze of your canines against flesh. John groaned, rolling his thigh in between your legs, and you thought you’d buckle without him supporting you.
He pulled you flush against him, hiking your skirts up in his fist, humming into your mouth as he felt along the round of your ass and the curve of your waist. His hands were greedy, searching every inch of you like they hadn’t done a thousand times. Then he pulled you back, flipping you so you were bent over a nearby crate. You felt the wood bite into your hips and braced your arms against the planks.
John pulled you back, the curve of your ass meeting his pelvis. The silk of your dress met the rough, heavy wool in his trousers, and he rolled, sending that heat up your body again.
“Christ, you feel what you do to me, girl?” he drawled. It was true– you could feel the length of him growing harder by the second, in perfect contrast to the damp growing just below your garter belt. As if on cue, John’s nimble fingers rolled your skirts up, exposing your backside to the cool air of the storeroom and sending goosebumps down your legs. You felt him drag the pad of his middle finger over your slit, chuckling behind you. “Look at you. Mouthin’ off all night long, and you’re already drippin’ for me. Proper little firebrand.”
His hands disappeared, drawing a whine from your lips. “Ah-ah,” John muttered, “No whinin’ tonight. Be patient for me.”
You huffed. “John, please, I really am sorry– I won’t do it again, I swear–” you protested. The wood of the crate was splintered and icy cold under your forearms, a stark contrast to John’s heat that made you feel ridiculously empty.
“Nah,” he tossed back. “You will. You’ll be a nightmare again by Tuesday– but lucky for you, I love puttin’ you right back in your place.” John’s hand came down sharp, a firm smack to your backside that made you gasp, then moan as he brought two, three, four more. “Besides, I think you love it too, don’tcha?”
His hand dipped again, this time seizing the lace band of your underwear and yanking, ripping them from your body in a burst of fabric. You twisted around, eyes wide, and met his own. His pupils were blown wide, consuming the blue beneath. He was smiling with a crooked grin, cocky as ever.
“God, John! Those were expensive!” The words were half gasp, half laugh, more in shock at his pure strength than anything. John leaned forward and captured the lobe of your ear between his teeth, grazing the soft skin there and traveling up to the shell.
“I’ll buy you a new pair. Ten more. A whole bloody factory, if you want. Besides–” he brought two fingers to your entrance and plunged into the heat, making you yelp in pleasure and surprise. “This is what you wanted anyway, right?”
His fingers were doing a masterful job of pushing every button that needed to be pushed, tripping every nerve ending. You could feel yourself growing slicker by the second, tensing and relaxing over and over again. The noises you were making grew increasingly lewd by the second, from soft hums to gasps and moans, broken by the occasional cry of his name.
“Please, John– John, please– I’ll be good, I swear– just– please–” you breathed out, fingers clenching against the wood of the crate tighter.
“Mmmh,” John hummed. “Would like to take my time with you. Y’sound so pretty when you beg like that.” His fingers left for a moment, leaving you whining even more, but you quickly stopped when you heard the metal of his belt buckle clinking and the shift of the wool pushing past his waist. “Suppose that’ll have to wait for later. Arthur’ll be wonderin’ why I haven’t come back with the whiskey.”
He shifted, the broad head of him, probing at your entrance, and you felt him stutter, steeling himself. “But I think they can wait five minutes,” he groaned, his voice moving to that dark whisper you loved. “I’ve got a girl who needs reminding exactly who she belongs to.”
In one fluid motion, he was inside you, and it took every fiber of your being not to yell out his name. Christ, it never got old, no matter how many times you did it– the heat of him filling you, the way your walls clenched around him and welcomed him home, and the stretch pushing back against your core. It always felt like he was going to split you, right up the middle, and that was enough to make you even wetter than before, the slick close to dripping from your thighs.
John groaned your name, a laugh at his lips, and his thumbs meeting the curve of your hips. “That’s it, love. Fuckin’ hell, gets better every time.” He rolled himself against you, grunting again, then thrusted slowly, once, twice, speeding up until the only noise you could make were desperate whines and moans under him.
“More, more, more– more, John, please– fuck–” you crooned, lifted your torso upwards until your head was thrown back on his shoulder. The lewd slaps and soaking heat between the two of you were starting to make your head spin. You loved this angle, your ear just next to his mouth, where you could hear his gasps and moans. He was huffing your name, over and over, his voice getting tighter by the second. He was gripping your hipbones so tight you were sure he’d leave his fingerprints indented into your skin. John leaned over, capturing the delicate flesh of your neck in his lips and bit. He sucked a mark into it, right below where your jaw met your ear, and then more, trailing down your neck and shoulders.
“Shit– you’re perfect. D’ya hear me? Perfect. My perfect, wicked girl.” John groaned. He pulls his hands from your waist and straight to your chest, caressing your breasts and pulling you even more flush against him. He was deep, so, so deep– you wanted to feel every inch. Every vein, every thrust. “Tryin’ to kill me, aren’t ya? So tight I can hardly think.” His hands moved again, this time one was looped around your waist, holding you tight, and the other tangling into your hair.
His pace was growing more frantic by the second, less controlled, more desperate, and frankly, the heat was getting to you too. The clenches and shudders were wracking your body, sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your body. John released the hand in your hair and snaked it down your body, pushing the silk of your dress at the front of your body upwards and gently pressing a finger to your clit. You gasped, the pressure going closer to critical by the second, and then he began rubbing circles that had your knees shuddering and you coming undone in his hands, drenching your thighs.
“That’s it,” John rasped, as you let out a desperate cry. “That’s my girl. Give it to me. Come on, love…give it all to me.” He was still moving with a centered, heavy focus, the heat boiling over as his hips snapped against yours even more violently–
“Right there,” he groaned, the sound vibrating your entire frame. “Stay right fookin’ there, don’t you move–”
– and then you felt it– the heavy, pulsing heat of him finally breaking while John loudly moaned your name against your neck, pressing wet kisses against your shoulders.
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the sound of your combined, ragged breathing and the distant, muffled thump of a piano starting up in the main bar. John didn’t move for a long minute, his forehead resting against the back of your neck, his weight still a warm, anchoring pressure against your spine.
Slowly, he let out a long, shuddering exhale. He pressed one last, lingering kiss to the skin behind your ear before stepping back, the sudden absence of his heat making the cool air of the storeroom feel sharp.
"Right," he cleared his throat, the familiar cocky rasp returning to his voice. "Think that’s sorted, then."
You turned around, legs feeling like jelly while you adjusted your garter and stockings and smoothed your skirts again. You watched as he calmly adjusted his trousers and buckled his belt. He looked remarkably put-together for a man who had just spent twenty minutes undoing you over a crate of Irish whiskey. He looked up, catching you staring, and that slow, lopsided grin you knew and loved spread across his face.
"Don't look at me like that, love. You're the one who wanted to start a war," he teased, reaching out to pull you into the circle of his arms. He didn't mind the mess; he just tucked a stray, dampened lock of hair back behind your ear, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with uncharacteristic tenderness.
He took his handkerchief from his pocket and gently dabbed at a smudge of dust on your cheek. "There. Nearly decent again."
He leaned in, kissing the tip of your nose. "Now, we’re gonna go back out there. You’re gonna sit down, you’re gonna finish your drink, and you’re gonna be a proper sweetheart for the rest of the night. Yeah?"
He didn't wait for an answer, already knowing he’d won. He draped his heavy wool overcoat over his arm and reached for the door handle, but paused, looking back at you one last time with a dark, playful glint in his eyes.
"And if you start gettin' mouthy again..." he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "well, I s'pose I’ll just 'ave to bring you back 'ere and do it all over again."
He winked, pushed the door open, and led you back into the golden light and smoke of the Garrison, his hand firmly and possessively claiming the small of your back.
Summary: When your estranged father shows up unannounced in Birmingham, slipping into your home like he still has a right to be there, you do what you’ve always done, stay quiet, keep the peace, and pretend the past can’t hurt you. But Tommy Shelby isn’t a man who misses the signs, and when he discovers the bruises you tried to hide, he makes one thing clear: no one lays a hand on what’s his and walks away unscathed.
Word count: 5.2k
Warnings: domestic abuse, physical violence, and trauma, including past and present abuse by a parental figure, choking, panic attacks, and PTSD. Mentions of war trauma, blood, minor injuries, and threats of violence
A/N: welp, I’ve fallen back down the peaky blinders rabbit hole.
The day started like any other.
The warmth of the fireplace crackled softly in the background as you sat curled on the couch, a book in your lap. Tommy was at his desk, going through paperwork, cigarette smoke curling lazily in the air. It was a rare quiet evening, one of those moments where the weight of the world seemed just a little lighter.
Then, there was a knock at the door.
Your brow furrowed slightly. It was late– far too late for visitors. Unless it was Arthur staggering by, drunk again. You glanced at Tommy, who sighed, flicking his cigarette into the ashtray before standing. He made his way toward the door, his steps slow and deliberate.
“If Arthur's pissed on the doorstep again, I swear to God…”
Tommy pulled the door open, expecting Arthur’s drunken frame to be swaying on the other side, slurring apologies for waking the house.
But it wasn’t Arthur.
His stance shifted ever so slightly, his sharp blue eyes scanning the man before him.
You barely registered Tommy’s hesitation because the moment you saw him, the breath in your lungs turned to ice.
Because suddenly, there he was.
Standing on your doorstep, smiling like he belonged there.
Your father.
Your hands clenched in your lap.
“Surprise,” he drawled, stepping forward slightly. “You’re not going to invite your old man in?”
Your body remained frozen. “What… what are you doing here?”
Your father let out a chuckle, his eyes scanning the entryway as if he was appraising it. Then, he stepped forward without waiting for permission. “What? A father isn’t allowed to come see his only daughter once and a while?”
You blinked, your stomach twisting. “How did you get the address?”
He waved a hand. “Your brother gave it to me. Had to practically bully it out of him.”
Your jaw tightened.
“What a place,” he mused, looking around before his eyes landed on Tommy. “And you must be the husband, aye?”
Tommy stood there, unreadable, his gaze cool and detached. He stepped forward, offering his hand, because that’s what men like him did– offered respect until given a reason not to.
Your father shook it.
“Thomas Shelby,” Tommy introduced himself, his voice measured.
Your father smirked. “Oh, yeah, I’ve heard of you alright.”
Tommy merely hummed, but his attention flickered back to you. He saw it then– the way your arms had wrapped around yourself, your fingers gripping your sleeves, your body tensed like a coiled spring.
You barely spoke all evening.
At dinner, Tommy tried to gauge your mood, throwing you small glances, subtle touches, but each time, you withdrew. When his hand brushed yours under the table, you flinched.
Just slightly. But Tommy noticed.
That night, after you’d made up the spare room and your father went to bed, Tommy pulled you into the hallway. His fingers tilted your chin up, his thumb brushing against your jaw.
“Everything alright?” His voice was soft, but there was something in it– something heavy.
You forced a small smile. “Of course. Just tired.”
Tommy studied you for a long moment, his gaze searching. He didn’t look convinced.
You exhaled, glancing toward the closed door of the spare room, then back at him. “I’m sorry he just showed up like that. I– I didn’t know he was coming.”
Tommy shrugged slightly, his thumb still absently stroking your cheek. “It’s alright. Family’s always welcome here. Lord knows mine barges in whenever they damn well please. It's kind of nice having it be yours for a change."
You let out a dry laugh, but it was hallow as your stomach twisted. “Right. Thank you.”
He watched you for a beat longer before sighing. “You sure you’re alright?”
You nodded, almost too quickly. “I’m fine.”
He exhaled through his nose, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face gently. Tommy watched you for another second, his thumb pausing at your cheekbone before he finally nodded.
“Alright, love.” His voice was quiet, but you knew him well enough to hear the doubt behind it. He wasn’t convinced.
You both made your way to the bedroom in silence. Tommy moved around the room, shrugging off his vest, unbuttoning his shirt. You sat at the edge of the bed, staring at your hands, the weight of your father’s presence pressing heavy on your chest.
You should have told Tommy the truth.
You should have said something.
But you couldn’t. You didn’t know if it was the shame that stopped you– not wanting Tommy to know where or what you really came from…
He saw you as strong, capable, resilient.
But if he knew… If he knew that you used to be a girl who flinched at raised voices, who held her breath when footsteps neared, who learned how to measure a person’s anger like a storm on the horizon, would he still look at you the same?
The thought made your throat tighten.
You lay beside Tommy, facing away from him, curled in on yourself. A moment later, his arm draped over your waist, pulling you into his warmth.
“You’re tense,” he murmured against the back of your neck.
“Just tired,” you said again.
He studied you for a moment before sighing, obviously unconvinced. But he kissed your shoulder anyway. “Get some rest, then.”
It took a long time before you finally did.
…
The days stretched on.
Your father made himself comfortable in your home, slipping into the space between you and Tommy like he had a right to be there.
He drank Tommy’s whiskey like it was his own, spoke to him like they were equals, like there was no history of violence, no reason for you to avoid looking him in the eye.
And yet, you did what you had always done…
You played the part: the dutiful daughter. The quiet peacemaker. The one who let his sharp words roll off her back like they didn’t cut.
But the part that made you sick to your stomach, was how easily you fell back into it. How, in his presence, you became her again– that pitiful version of yourself… that scared little girl who walked on eggshells, who measured her words carefully, who held herself so still when he passed by, like movement alone might set him off.
You hated it– hated that he still had that power over you. Hated that, despite the years of distance, despite the fact that you had built a new life for yourself, he still made you feel so small.
You tried desperately to keep Tommy from seeing that version of yourself. You smiled when you needed to. Laughed at the right moments. Acted like everything was fine.
But the longer the visit stretched out, the harder it was to hide your discomfort.
Days passed. Then nearly a week. Your father showed no sign of leaving.
One afternoon, while Tommy was away at work, you found your father in the hallway, stretching, rolling his shoulders like he’d spent the day laboring instead of lounging.
You took a deep breath.
“Dad.”
He looked up, raising a brow as if you had interrupted something important.
“How long are you planning to stay for?” you asked, keeping your voice even, cautious.
He shrugged, running a hand through his graying hair. “Dunno. Not sure yet.”
You shifted your weight, forcing yourself to hold your ground. “I just– Tommy has a lot going on, and I don’t want to impose.”
Your father scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “Oh, please. Your husband’s got plenty of room. He’s not hurting, is he?”
You swallowed your frustration and tried again.
“Did you tell Mom you were coming?”
His expression changed.
The lighthearted arrogance drained away, replaced by something darker, more dangerous. His posture stiffened, and his gaze turned sharp.
“That’s none of your business,” he said coldly.
You should’ve stopped there. Should’ve let it go. But something inside you, some small ember of defiance, pushed forward. “It is my business. And this is my house–”
The slap came so fast, you barely saw it coming.
The sharp crack echoed in the hallway, and before you could register what had happened, you were stumbling back, one hand flying to your cheek as heat bloomed across your skin.
Your breath hitched. Your father loomed over you, his face twisted in a sneer. “You don’t get to speak to me like that. Do you understand me? What I say or don’t say to your mother is between me and her. Understood?”
You nodded quickly, pressing your lips together, trying to swallow down the lump in your throat. “Sorry– I– I was just–” you stopped yourself. “Sorry.”
Your cheek burned and your heart pounded in your ears as you turned on your heel and walked away.
You closed yourself into the bathroom, locking it behind you before turning to the mirror.
The mark was already forming. A bright red outline, the shape of his palm clear against your skin. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You inhaled deeply, steadying yourself, gripping the edge of the sink until your knuckles went white.
…
That evening, you made dinner. A nice dinner. A meal you knew Tommy liked– something warm, familiar. A distraction. Maybe even something to please your father.
You set the table carefully, your hands only shaking slightly as you arranged the plates. You kept your face turned slightly away, hoping the dim lighting would mask the worst of it.
When Tommy got home, the door creaked open, and the familiar weight of his presence filled the space.
You were stirring something at the stove when his arms slipped around your waist from behind.
His touch was warm and grounding. His lips pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder as he murmured, “Smells good in here.”
You smiled– forced and practiced. “I thought I’d make us something nice.”
His arms tightened briefly. “God, it’s been a long day,” he murmured.
Then, as he leaned in, pressing another kiss just below your ear, he turned his head slightly, just enough for his gaze to catch the side of your face.
You felt him go still. His hands, steady on your waist, tensed.
His lips parted. “What’s this?” he asked, finger ghosting along the edge of your cheek.
Your stomach twisted. You knew what he had seen. The mark. The redness that you couldn’t fully hide.
You turned your head slightly, brushing him off. “Oh, it’s nothing. I–” You exhaled, forcing a lighthearted tone as you stepped away from his embrace. “I walked right into that hallway shelf. Must not have been paying attention. I was stupid.”
Tommy didn’t say anything for a long moment. You could feel his eyes trained on you, sharp and assessing, as you moved around the kitchen. Before he could challenge your excuse, another voice cut in.
“Tommy!”
Your father stepped into the room, grinning, swirling a half-full glass of whiskey in his hand. “Good to see you, son. How’s business today?”
Tommy and your father sat at the table, engaging in light conversation. Your father asked about business. Tommy responded, his voice steady, polite.
But his eyes kept flicking to you.
You barely spoke. You moved carefully, quietly, only nodding when necessary.
Tommy noticed. He saw the way you kept your head slightly down. The way your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes. The way your hands trembled slightly when you reached for a glass.
You forced yourself to sit through dinner, every bite feeling like it might turn to ash in your mouth. Every sip of water was just an excuse to avoid speaking.
You were suffocating. You needed to get out.
So, when the dishes were cleared, and the conversation between Tommy and your father began to stretch into the evening, you pushed your chair back and stood.
“I think I’ll turn in early,” you murmured, keeping your voice light. “Didn’t sleep very well last night.”
Tommy’s gaze snapped to you immediately.
Your father barely glanced up. “Night, sweetheart,” he muttered, already swirling the last of his drink in his glass.
Tommy, though– he studied you. You didn’t meet his eyes.
He opened his mouth like he might say something, might challenge you, might ask you to stay, but after a moment, he simply nodded.
“Alright, love.” His voice was careful. Measured.
You forced a small smile before slipping from the room.
…
It was late when Tommy finally came to bed.
You heard him before you saw him, the slow creak of the bedroom door, the quiet sound of his footsteps across the floor.
He moved carefully, as if not wanting to wake you.
You kept your breathing steady and your eyes closed and pretended to be asleep.
The mattress dipped slightly as he crawled in beside you. For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Then, slowly, his hand came to rest on your hip. His touch was gentle, hesitant. You didn’t move. Didn’t react.
A deep sigh left his lips, and you felt the warmth of his breath against the back of your neck. His grip on your hip tightened slightly, just for a moment, before he exhaled again and let it relax.
You waited for him to say something– to ask, maybe demand answers.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he did what Tommy Shelby never did. He hesitated.
And it was at that moment you realized, he was waiting for you.
Waiting for you to come to him.
But you weren’t ready. So, you remained still, your heart hammering against your ribs as his thumb trailed lazily along your hip. Then, he stretched his arm carefully around your waist and pulled you close.
…
You kept up the act– kept making dinner. Kept playing hostess. Kept pretending like the walls of your own home weren’t closing in on you.
A few nights later, you found yourself in the kitchen, stirring a pot on the stove, when you heard the front door swing open.
The sound was jarring, clumsy, forceful, followed by the sound of staggering footsteps.
The hair on the back of your neck stood up before you even turned around. Your father stepped into the kitchen, his shirt wrinkled, his eyes glassy, the stench of whiskey thick in the air.
He wasn’t just drunk, he was angry. A cold wave of fear ran down your spine.
You froze, hands gripping the edge of the counter as he loomed in the doorway.
“Look at you,” he slurred, waving a hand at the dinner on the stove. “Little housewife, cooking for your big, important husband.”
“Dinner’s almost ready,” you said, picking up a glass cup from the counter and trying to keep your voice steady. “You should sit down.”
His eyes narrowed. “What? You're giving me orders now?”
Your grip tightened on the glass. He took another step closer.
“You always were a smug little thing, weren’t you?” He muttered, shaking his head. “Always had something to say.”
You held your breath as he took another unsteady step forward, his eyes dark and unfocused, but sharp enough to cut straight through you. “I didn’t mean–”
“Now that you've married a Shelby, you're arrogant, too. Tell me,” he interrupted, the word twisted with venom. “Was it him who kept you from coming home all this time? Or was it you? Think you’re too good for your own family now? With your rich fucking husband at your beck and call?”
Your grip on the glass tightened. “You’re drunk.” You tried to turn away, but your father reached out to clutch your wrist.
“Don’t walk away from me.” His grip tightened, his fingers digging into your skin like a vice.
Your stomach twisted violently. “Let go,” you said, your voice shaking despite your efforts to sound firm.
He didn’t. Instead, he yanked you back toward him, forcing you to stumble. The glass in your hand wobbled precariously, liquid sloshing over the rim.
“The king of fucking Birmingham, aye? And you’re what? His housewife? Or his whore?”
“Stop it,” you cut in, trying to wrench your wrist free. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I don't care who you're married to. You don’t get to fucking tell me what to do,” he spat.
Your pulse hammered, panic rising in your chest. “Dad, just stop– you’re drunk.”
He let out a bitter laugh, the sound jagged, cruel. “Drunk?” He sneered. “I’ve been drinking since before you could fucking walk, girl. You think you know better than me? Think that slimey Shelby husband of yours turned you into something special?”
“Tommy,” you swallowed thickly, forcing the words out. “Is a good man. I know that term might be hard for you to comprehend–"
A dark flash crossed his face. And then– the slap. It struck you with enough force to snap your head to the side, the sting burning hot across your cheek. The room blurred for a moment, your ears ringing.
Your father didn’t give you time to react. Before you could move, before you could process, he shoved you hard against the wall.
The glass slipped from your fingers, hitting the floor and shattering, fragments scattering across the kitchen tiles.
Your back collided with the surface, your breath leaving you in a sharp gasp. The pain barely registered before his hands were on you again– this time around your throat, squeezing.
Your hands flew up, clawing at his wrists, your body struggling instinctively. But his grip was tight, unrelenting.
Your chest heaved.
Your lungs burned.
A strangled sound escaped you, but it wasn’t loud enough. Not enough to stop him.
His breath was hot against your face as he leaned in. He was seething. His teeth clenched together as his eyes bore down on you with pure hatred.
Your vision blurred. Your limbs weakened. The edges of your consciousness began to flicker, the darkness creeping in.
In the hazy distance, you vaguely heard the sound of the front door opening, followed by heavy footsteps.
Then, the pressure around your throat disappeared instantly as your father was ripped away from you. You collapsed to the floor in a heap, gasping, your hands flying to your throat as air rushed back into your lungs. Your body shook violently, but you barely noticed.
Because in front of you, Tommy had your father by the collar, slamming him against the kitchen table with enough force to rattle the dishes.
The look on Tommy’s face was lethal.
Your father coughed, groaning, trying to push himself up. But Tommy was on him before he could move.
His fist connected with your father’s jaw– once, then twice. The crack of bone meeting bone echoing through the room.
Blood splattered across the floor. Your father groaned, but Tommy wasn’t done. He grabbed him again, dragging him up by his shirt, slamming him against the wall this time.
Your father choked, spitting blood.
Tommy leaned in, his voice eerily calm now. “You ever touch her again, and I’ll kill you with my barehands. You hear me?”
Your father wheezed, coughing weakly. “Fuck you–”
In an instant, Tommy pulled his gun.
He pressed the barrel beneath your father’s chin, tilting his head back slightly, forcing him to meet his gaze. The air in the kitchen was thick, the only sound the ragged breathing of the men in front of you.
Your father’s eyes widened, his drunken haze fading into something closer to fear.
Tommy’s finger flexed on the trigger.
Your stomach twisted violently.
“Tommy,” you pleaded, voice barely above a whisper.
His grip didn’t loosen.
At least not right away. His chest heaved, his knuckles white around the handle of the gun.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Tommy exhaled sharply and lowered the gun.
“Get the fuck out of my house,” he spat before releasing your father’s collar.
Your father crumpled to the floor, coughing, gasping.
Your father didn’t wait to be told twice.
His hand clutched where Tommy had struck him, his movements shaky as he scrambled to his feet. Blood dripped from his split lip onto the kitchen floor, but he didn’t bother wiping it away. He staggered toward the door, barely able to walk straight, a mix of pain and drunken stupor slowing his steps.
He didn’t even bother to grab his things. Or have the courage to look back at you.
Just stumbled toward the exit, his breath ragged and uneven, one last curse muttered under his breath as he shoved the door open and disappeared into the night.
Tommy followed him to the threshold, his cold gaze never leaving the man’s retreating figure.
Then, click. The sound of the lock sliding into place echoed through the house.
Tommy exhaled sharply, pressing his palm against the door, as if physically barring your father from ever stepping foot in this house again. His shoulders were tense, the muscles in his arms flexing as he gripped the wood tightly.
Your focus shifted to the glass– the shattered pieces lay scattered across the floor, sharp edges gleaming under the dim kitchen light.
Your hands trembled as you scrambled forward, sinking to your knees, desperate to clean it up. You needed to fix this. You needed to make things right.
Tommy was angry. You knew he was.
And if there was one thing you had learned in your life, it was how to keep the peace. How to stay quiet, to smooth over the damage, to do whatever it took to make things okay again.
So you reached for the shards, ignoring the way your fingers shook. One after another, you gathered them in your hands, barely noticing when a sharp edge knicked your skin.
A thin line of red beaded at your skin, but you kept going.
If you could just get it all cleaned up–
Strong hands stopped you, fingers curling around the wrist you had collected pieces in.
“Love.”
The word was soft, but firm.
You hadn’t even realized he had moved, but now he was crouched in front of you, his hands gently prying your fist open so that he could take the glass from you.
You tried to protest, shaking your head. “I– I just need to clean this up, Tommy, I–”
“Leave it,” he said quietly, reaching his arm up and discarding the shards on the countertop.
Your lip trembled. “I– Tommy, I–”
You couldn’t finish the sentence. Because the panic was setting in now, hitting you all at once. Your hands shook violently, the tremors traveling up your arms, your whole body beginning to quake. Your breath came in short, sharp gasps, your chest rising and falling too fast.
You were unraveling.
“I– I can fix it, Tommy, I have to–” Your words broke apart into a sob as you tried to pull away from him, your limbs weak and frantic all at once. “I can fix it–”
Tommy didn’t let you go. “Hey, hey, hey,” he said gently. "It's alright."
Your eyes flickered back to the rest of the shattered glass, your mind spiraling. “It’s a mess, I made a mess, I– I didn’t mean to, I–”
“Love, stop…” His voice was a tether, grounding you even as you spiraled.
But you couldn’t stop.
Your fingers clawed weakly at his arms, desperate for something, anything, to keep you from sinking completely.
“I’m sorry,” you choked out, your whole body trembling so badly you could barely keep yourself upright. “I– I didn’t mean to–”
Tommy swore under his breath. Then, without hesitation, he pulled you in. His arms wrapped around you, strong and steady.
You let out a broken sound, your fingers gripping his shirt in fists as sobs racked your frame. You were shaking so hard it felt like you might come apart completely.
But Tommy held you together.
His hand cradled the back of your head, anchoring you to him. “Shh,” he murmured, his voice thick with something you couldn’t quite name. “Stop, just stop.”
The words tumbled out anyway. “I– I swear I didn’t mean to make him angry, I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to–”
You felt the way his breath hitched, the way his hold on you tightened just slightly.
“Do not apologize,” he said, voice low and steady. “Do not apologize for that man. You hear me?”
You shook your head, barely able to breathe. “But I– I should’ve just–”
“No.” Tommy’s tone left no room for argument.
His hand slid from your back to cup your face, forcing you to meet his gaze. His blue eyes were burning now– not with rage, not with violence, but with something unwavering.
“Now you listen to me,” he murmured, his thumb brushing away a tear from your cheek. “He did this. Not you.”
A sob caught in your throat, but he didn’t let you look away.
Tears blurred your vision, but the panic still gripped you tight, its claws lodged deep in your ribs. You shook your head weakly. “I– I should have done something.”
Tommy’s gaze darkened, his hands firm but gentle as they cradled your face. “Like what?” His voice was unwavering, pushing you to say it.
You swallowed, your breath coming in shallow gasps. “I should’ve just kept quiet. But I pushed him. I should’ve known better.”
The moment the words left your lips, shame burned through you like acid. It felt filthy to say it out loud.
Tommy inhaled sharply, his grip tightening ever so slightly. His thumb skimmed over the fading red mark on your cheek, the bruises forming along your throat, and something behind his eyes fractured.
“He would’ve done it anyway,” Tommy said, his tone quieter now. “No matter what you did. No matter what you said. Because men like that don’t need a reason to hurt people.”
Realization washed over you.
He didn’t blame you.
Tommy didn’t blame you.
You had spent your whole life believing it was your fault. That every slap, every harsh word, every cruel punishment was something you had earned.
But Tommy didn’t see it that way. He saw him as the problem. He saw him as the one at fault.
Not you.
The weight of that realization shattered something inside you, splintering through your chest like glass. You let out a broken sound, your body crumbling under the weight of all of it.
And Tommy caught you. He pulled you into his arms again, crushing you against him, holding you so tightly it felt like he was trying to anchor you to the world, to him.
And you let him.
You clung to him, your fingers twisting into his shirt, needing to feel the solidness of him, the warmth, the safety.
Tommy pressed his lips to the top of your head, lingering there as his breath shuddered against your skin. And he didn’t let go. Not when your sobs finally quieted, not when your breathing finally steadied, not even when your body had stopped trembling in his arms.
He just held you.
His hands ran slow, soothing strokes down your back, grounding you in the steady rhythm of his touch. His breath was warm against your hair, his chest solid beneath your cheek, rising and falling in time with yours.
For a long time, neither of you spoke.
Then, finally, his voice broke the silence. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
You stiffened slightly, but his grip didn’t loosen.
“I would’ve thrown him to the wolves the second he walked through the fucking door,” he murmured, his jaw tightening against your forehead. “Christ, I thought you wanted him here.”
You swallowed, gripping the fabric of his shirt in your hands, but you didn’t answer. You didn’t know how.
Because how could you explain that some wounds never really heal? That no matter how far you run, no matter how much time passes, the fear always lingers– deep, insidious, always waiting for an excuse to crawl back up your throat and choke the words before they ever leave your lips?
You felt Tommy sigh against you. His arms tightened, just slightly, like he was bracing himself.
And then, his voice dipped lower. “I should’ve pushed harder,” he murmured. “I knew– I knew something was wrong. And I let you tell me it wasn’t.”
That got your attention.
Your breath hitched, and you pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands still fisted in his shirt.
“Tommy, no.” Your voice was hoarse, shaky, but firm. “This isn’t your fault.”
His jaw tensed.
“I just wasn’t ready to talk about it,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.
Tommy studied you for a long moment, his blue eyes unreadable. Then, finally, he nodded, exhaling slowly.
“How long?”
You gazed up at him questioningly.
"How long has he been hurting you for?"
His blue eyes burned into yours, steady, patient, but unrelenting.
You took a breath, one that barely filled your lungs, and whispered,
“I think I was six the first time. I accidentally left the laundry out in the rain. Ruined his favorite suit."
You felt the shift in him. The way his hands, still cradling your face, tightened slightly. The way his breathing turned just a shade too slow, too controlled, like he was forcing himself to stay calm.
"I figured I deserved that one. It was an expensive suit and… well, we didn't come from money."
You swallowed, your throat tight, forcing the words out even as they scraped against something raw inside you.
“But the next time it happened, it was something smaller. I don’t even remember what I did.” You let out a weak, humorless breath. “I think I knocked over a drink. Or maybe I spoke when I wasn’t supposed to.”
You shifted slightly, staring at the spot on the floor where the glass had shattered earlier, as if it might somehow piece itself back together.
“Eventually, the reasons stopped mattering, I guess,” you murmured. “He’d get angry over anything. If you looked at him the wrong way, or even if you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Your fingers twisted into the fabric of Tommy’s shirt, a subconscious need to hold onto something solid.
“When I was nine, he threw me against the table." Your throat felt tight, but the words were coming now, unraveling like thread. “I hit the edge. It cracked a rib, I think. I couldn’t breathe right for weeks.”
Tommy exhaled, sharp and controlled, like he was holding something down, something dangerous.
“The next day, he brought me flowers.” A bitter smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. “To say he was sorry.”
Your voice wavered. “I don't know why but kept them in my room until they wilted. Because no matter how badly he hurt me... I think I still wanted to believe he loved me.”
The words felt foreign coming out of your mouth, like admitting them made them more real. More pathetic.
"I don't know what happened," you admitted. "He showed up here and I just... I panicked. It felt like I was that nine year old girl again. Just trying to make him happy, despite how scared he always made me. It felt like... Like I didn’t belong to myself anymore."
Tommy's hand rose to cup your face, his fingers brushing tenderly over your bruised cheek. His thumb traced the fading outline of your father’s fingers, and his gaze darkened, his lips pressing into a firm line.
Then, after a long pause, he spoke. “Fear that deep that never goes away,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, distant. “Not completely.”
You blinked at him, something heavy settling in your chest. He wasn’t just talking about you anymore.
“France?” you whispered.
His jaw tightened slightly. “Aye.”
His thumb brushed absently over your skin, but his gaze had drifted, staring past you now, as if he was seeing something else entirely.
“I used to think I’d come back and it would be over,” he continued, his voice steady, but different. He was using that careful, guarded tone he used when speaking of the war. “That the things I saw, the things I felt... they’d stay behind, buried in the trenches where they belonged.”
A humorless breath left him. “They didn’t.”
A silence stretched between you. You wondered if he had ever admitted that the war hadn’t ended when he stepped back onto English soil.
Just like your past hadn’t ended when you left home.
Your fingers curled slightly against his chest, your breath uneven. “How do you live with it?”
Tommy’s eyes refocused on you.
“I haven’t quite figured that one out yet,” he admitted.
His thumb brushed absentmindedly over your collarbone. “But it helps to find things that keep you here.” His voice dropped lower, his eyes locked onto yours. “Things worth staying for.”
Tommy exhaled, his fingers pressing lightly against your skin. “And maybe one day, you wake up, and you realize that even though it's still there, that fear doesn’t own you anymore.”
You swallowed thickly, your voice barely above a whisper. “And what keeps you here, Tommy?”
His hand on your chest tightened slightly, his fingers curling over your heart. His breath brushed against your skin. Then, softly, almost so softly you didn’t hear it, he sighed. “I thought that was obvious.”
His hand slid up, fingers trailing along your jaw before cupping your cheek with a tenderness that made your chest ache.
“I’ll always protect you,” he murmured, his voice low, steady. Certain. “I mean it,” he said. “You never have to be afraid in this house again. Not while I’m breathing.”
The way he said it– it wasn’t just a promise.
It was a fact.
A truth carved into the very foundation of who he was.
You swallowed thickly, pressing your forehead against his chest, letting his warmth, his presence, his words wrap around you like armor.
Tommy’s arms came around you again, strong and steady, holding you like he never planned on letting go.
𝓴𝓸𝓸𝓵𝓴𝓪𝓽 @notlikemostlunatics - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
