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Judgement day break up being directly caused by Danhausen is actually hilarious

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My needy Samoan

The flash of your camera strobes, freezing a moment of pure athletic violence—Jey Uso mid-superkick, his opponent crumpling to the mat. Through the lens, you see him scan the crowd, a predator's habit, but you know he's looking for something else. For you.

You've been on the road for three weeks straight, a whirlwind of arenas, hotel rooms, and editing bays. Your schedule has been a chaotic mess of RAW, SmackDown, and international tours. His schedule has been the same. You've been two ships passing in the night, exchanging only hurried text messages and missed FaceTime calls. The last time you felt his arms around you feels like a lifetime ago.

After the match, you’re backstage, reviewing shots on your camera's display, leaning against a stack of equipment cases. The adrenaline of the show is still pumping, a low hum in the concrete hallway. You feel him before you see him—a shift in the air, a familiar cologne cutting through the scent of sweat and arena dust.

"Three weeks," his voice is a low rumble, directly behind you, his chest pressing into your back. You don't turn around, a small smile playing on your lips.

"Hey, champ. Great match."

He doesn't respond to the compliment. Instead, you feel his hands settle on your hips, his fingers gripping your hips through your leggings with a gentle but insistent pressure. He leans down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. The warmth of his breath sends a shiver down your spine.

"Three weeks," he repeats, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that’s meant only for you. "You know how long that is? You know how many nights I’ve lain in a hotel bed, in a different city, pumping myself, thinkin’ about the way you smell? The way you feel?"

You swallow, your fingers tightening on your camera. "Jey… people are gonna walk by."

"Let 'em," he murmurs, not moving an inch. His nose traces a line down your neck, just below your ear. "I don't care who sees. I missed you, mama. Missed everything about you." His hands slide from your hips, one moving to rest flat against your stomach, pulling you back just flesh against him. The other hand… the other hand slides down, palm curving over the curve of your ass with a slow, possessive squeeze. It's bold, and it’s over in a second, a secret language spoken in a public place.

Your breath hitches. "Jey…"

"I've been goin' crazy," he continues, his whisper a little more urgent now. He nips at your earlobe, just enough to make you jump. "Standin' in that ring, all I could think about was findin' you. Gettin' you alone. The things I wanna do to you…" His voice trails off into a low growl that vibrates against your skin. "I ain't been this close to you in too long, and it's drivin' me insane."

You can feel the need radiating from him, a tangible heat. The carefully constructed professional distance you've both maintained all night crumbles in this dark corner. You finally turn in his loose embrace, your camera a barrier between you. His dark eyes are intense, searching yours, full of a raw longing that makes your knees weak.

"Patience," you whisper, though your own voice is shaky.

He scoffs softly, a small, needy sound. "Nah. I'm fresh out." He glances down the hall, sees it's momentarily clear, and dips his head again, his forehead resting against yours. "You gonna let me make up for lost time ma, or what?" His hand finds yours, his thumb stroking over your knuckles. "Because I swear, if I have to go one more night without touchin' you, I'm gonna lose my mind."

You don't answer him with words. You answer him by grabbing the front of his gear and pulling him toward a darkened equipment alcove just off the main hallway. A door with a prop "Private" sign on it clicks shut behind you, and suddenly it's just the two of you in the near-dark, the only light spilling from a crack under the door.

Your camera gets set down carefully on a stack of cases, and then his hands are on you again—both of them, framing your face, tilting it up so he can finally, finally kiss you like he's been dying to. It's deep and desperate and tastes like the cherry ChapStick he always uses before a match.

You walk backward until your spine meets the cool concrete wall. His body presses against yours immediately, caging you in, and the heat of him is overwhelming. Your leg lifts, hooking around his hip without thinking, and the movement shifts everything.

A low groan rumbles in his chest as your hips align. You feel him tense, feel the way his breath stutters against your mouth.

"Oh," he breathes, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and blown wide. "Oh, you tryna kill me, mama?"

You don't answer. Instead, you roll your hips forward, a slow, deliberate grind against him. The friction through your leggings and his gear sends a spark of heat through your entire body. His forehead drops to your shoulder, a shaky exhale warming your skin.

"Yeah," he whispers, his voice wrecked. "Yeah, just like that."

His hands slide down, gripping your ass again—both hands this time, fingers digging in, guiding your movements against him. You do it again, slower, and his hips push back instinctively, meeting you halfway.

"Fuck," he hisses, the word muffled against your neck. "You feel that? You feel what you do to me? Three weeks, and I ain't forgot a single thing. Not one."

Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging just enough to make him lift his head. His eyes are hazy, needy, locked on yours.

"Yeah?" you whisper back, your voice breathy. "Show me what you remember."

A sound escapes him—something between a laugh and a groan. He rolls his hips against yours in a slow, torturous rhythm, and your head falls back against the wall with a soft thud.

"I remember how you sound when I kiss you here," he murmurs, lips brushing your collarbone. His hips move again, pressing hard against you. "And here." His mouth finds the spot behind your ear, and you shiver. The grinding continues, a steady, heated rhythm that has your thoughts getting fuzzy.

His voice drops even lower, rougher, right against your ear. "I remember how you beg. Soft and sweet, like you're embarrassed about it. But you don't gotta be embarrassed with me, ma. Not ever."

You whimper—actually whimper—and he swallows the sound with another kiss, sloppy and perfect. Your hips move together like a secret language, finding a rhythm that makes the heat coil tighter and tighter in your belly.

"I thought about this every night," he confesses against your lips, breath mingling with yours. "Just this. Just us. You movin' against me like you can't help yourself. Like you need it as bad as I do."

You roll your hips harder, and his groan vibrates through your whole body.

"That's it," he praises, voice thick. "That's my girl. Missed you so damn much."

His hand slides up your side, under your shirt, palm flat against the warm skin of your stomach. He doesn't go higher, doesn't push further—just holds you there, grounding himself in the contact while your bodies move together in the dim light.

"I ain't letting you leave again," he murmurs. "Not like that. Next time, you come with me. I don't care if I gotta pull you on the damn tour bus myself."

You laugh breathlessly, but it turns into a moan as he angles his hips just right, hitting a spot that makes your vision blur.

"Say yes," he whispers, urgent and raw. "Tell me you're done being away from me."

"I'm done," you breathe, and it's the truth. "I'm right here."

His smile against your neck is worth every lonely night. "Damn right you are."

The rhythm of your bodies against the wall becomes a language all its own. His hands roam your sides, your back, your hips—everywhere and nowhere all at once, like he's trying to memorize you by touch alone. Your leg stays hooked around him, pulling him closer with every slow grind.

"Tell me," he breathes against your throat, voice strained. "Tell me you thought about me too."

You roll your hips in answer, a little faster now, and his grip tightens.

"Words, ma. Need to hear you say it."

"I thought about you," you whisper, your forehead pressed to his. "Every night. Every city."

His eyes flutter shut, a pained sound escaping him. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Thought about your hands. Your mouth. The way you—" You cut yourself off with a sharp inhale as he grinds harder, deeper, stealing your words.

"The way I what?" he pushes, voice wrecked. "Tell me."

"The way you feel," you finish, barely audible. "The way you make me feel."

He kisses you then, sloppy and desperate, all teeth and tongue and need. His hips stutter against yours, losing their rhythm, and you feel the change immediately—the way his body tenses, the way his breathing turns ragged against your mouth.

"You can't say stuff like that," he gasps, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes are glassy, vulnerable in a way the world never gets to see. "Not right now. Not when I'm already—" Another grind, slower but harder, and his whole body shudders. "Damn, girl."

Your fingers card through his hair, gentle despite the intensity. "You okay?"

He laughs, breathless and broken. "Okay? I'm—" He drops his head to your shoulder, hips still moving in small, desperate circles against yours. "I'm tryna hold it together, and you're in my ear with that voice, and you smell like heaven, and I ain't touched you in three weeks, and—"

His voice cracks. Actually cracks.

You hold him tighter, your legs wrapping around him more securely, anchoring him to you. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

"I know," he murmurs into your neck. "I know. I just—" His hips press hard against yours, a long, slow roll that makes both of you moan. "I need this. Need you. Need to feel you close like this."

You rock against him in answer, matching his rhythm, letting him set the pace. His breathing gets heavier, his movements less controlled, more instinctive. The hand on your back slides up, gripping your shoulder like a lifeline.

"I'm close," he admits, voice muffled. "I'm so close, and I ain't even—you just—"

"Shh," you soothe, lips brushing his temple. "I've got you. Let go. I'm right here."

He shakes his head against your neck, but his hips keep moving, faster now, chasing something he can't quite catch. "Wanted to make it last. Wanted to—ah, damn—wanted to take my time with you."

"You are taking your time," you whisper. "This is time. This is us. It's perfect."

His laugh is wrecked, desperate. "You're perfect."

The words tumble out of him like a confession, raw and unguarded. His hips lose their rhythm entirely, grinding in short, urgent pulses against you. His whole body trembles, muscles coiling tight.

"Ma," he breathes, and it's almost a prayer. "Ma, I—"

"I know," you whisper. "I know. Let it go. I'm here."

His grip on you turns bruising—not painful, but desperate, like you're the only thing keeping him upright. His face buries in your neck, and you feel the heat of his breath, the wetness of his lashes against your skin as his body tenses and then—

He shatters.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a long, shuddering exhale against your throat, his hips pressing hard and still against yours, his whole frame trembling like a leaf in your arms. He holds you so tight you can barely breathe, and you don't care. You just hold him back, fingers stroking through his hair, down his back, grounding him.

For a long moment, there's only the sound of his ragged breathing and the distant hum of the arena settling after the show.

Finally, he lifts his head. His eyes are wet, raw, completely open. He looks at you like you're the only real thing in a world full of smoke and mirrors.

"Damn," he whispers, voice shot.

You smile, brushing a thumb across his cheekbone. "Damn."

A weak laugh escapes him. He drops his forehead to yours, eyes closed. "I love you. You know that, right? I love you so much it scares me sometimes."

Your heart clenches. "I know. I love you too."

He kisses you then—soft, sweet, nothing like the desperate urgency from before. When he pulls back, there's a peace in his expression that wasn't there earlier.

"Come on," he murmurs, finally loosening his grip but not letting go entirely. "Let me take you home."

You nod, reaching for your camera. He takes your hand instead, lacing his fingers through yours, and leads you out of the alcove and into the noise of the backstage chaos.