you wonder if danhausen will come to you like he promised
author's notes: read part one here. this is nsfw. mdni. reader is on top. the awaited conclusion. ao3 link.
You pace your hotel room, skin still buzzing. It had been a while since SmackDown had finished filming, and you were still waiting on Danhausen to find you. You wonder if he had forgotten, if winning his match had caused him to move on to a victory lap instead of finishing what you started in the dressing room.
Your mind has been stuck in that room all night. Watching Danhausen wrestle, even on the monitors, was almost painful. Seeing his arms flex, his bare chest rise, his face twist and contort, made your thighs clench, and your thoughts return to his dressing room.
You stop at your door, letting out a frustrated sigh. You still haven’t come down from the exchange.
Your phone buzzes in your sweats. You snatch it out before it can stop.
Unknown number.
There is no hesitation when you answer.
“Hello?”
“Ah! This is Danhausen!”
You hear him clearly on the phone, but you can also hear the muffle of his voice coming from the other side of the door.
“Are you… are you here?”
“What! How did you know that?”
“I can hear you through the door, Danhausen.”
A pause.
“It is true,” he confesses. “You have very powerful hearing. Perhaps you are a bat.”
“I’m not a bat, you know this. I’m a human woman,” you breathe, frustration bleeding into the words.
There’s shuffling from the other side of the door.
“Let Danhausen in, battie. We have unfinished business.”
You open the door. He slips inside, buzzing like you are. His eyes are bright despite the late hour, and his smile is wide, dimples deep, jaw sharp. You smile back, your want settling into something softer.
“You won. I watched the match like you asked.” You crossed your arms and settled your weight on your hip. “No teeth this time?”
He steps closer, slow, like he’s giving you room to decide whether to run or to pull him in. “No, no teeth. The other wrestlers are not fond of that finisher.”
You let out a breath that sounds too much like a laugh and too much like a whine. “You know, I’ve been waiting for you.”
Something flickers across his face: surprise, then satisfaction, then that soft, dangerous patience you remember from the dressing room.
“Waiting?” he repeats.
“I thought you forgot,” you admit. The honesty makes your throat burn. “I thought you… won and got swept up in everything and, well, it’s been some hours.”
Danhausen’s brows lift. He reaches out and hooks a finger beneath the hem of your shirt, just enough to tug and feel the warmth of you. “Forgothausen?” His voice goes quieter. “Danhausen would never forget.”
You let him pull you to him, your arms finding his strong shoulders.
His thumbs brush the soft dip above your hips through the fabric of your sweats. You lean in, pressing your forehead to his with a sigh.
“You are very tense,” he murmurs, voice amused, as if your wanting is a secret you failed to keep. “Did you think Danhausen left you with… nothing?”
“I thought you left me with too much,” you whisper before swallowing. “It’s been looping in my head.” A blush spreads across your face. The urge to hide it, to tear yourself away from him and tell him he needs to go, is ever-present. But you decide this time you’ll do what you desire.
Before he can say anything smart or goofy, you lean in and capture his lips.
There's tongue immediately—hot, greedy, a little messy. Danhausen's mouth opens for you with a soft groan that vibrates against your lips; you feel it down your spine. His hand slides up your ribs, broad and warm through thin cotton, while the other settles at your neck, fingers curling in your hair. Your body is on fire, finally getting what you've craved for hours.
You kiss him harder, stepping into him until you can feel how solid he is through your clothes. He tilts you just enough to steal your balance, just enough to make you grab at him.
“Ah,” he breathes against your mouth, rougher than the silly cadence he’d used on the phone. “You were waiting. Danhausen is very…glad you waited. Very nice.”
You cannot speak, your whole body feels like it’s been tuned too tight, strung between embarrassment and hunger. So you answer the only way you can: you kiss him again.
You take his jaw in your hands, thumbs brushing the edges of his smile, and pull him down into you until the last inch between you is gone. His mouth is warm and insistent, tongue sliding against yours as his fingers flex at the back of your neck.
You push him back, never letting your mouth leave his for long—your lips trail to his jaw and back again. The carpet gives way beneath you as you guide him toward the bed. All you know is you need him under you.
He bumps into the mattress edge and laughs—soft, surprised—like he didn’t expect you to be this hungry in a quiet hotel room with boring beige lamps and the hum of the air conditioner.
“Ah. You are very determined,” he says, voice low, though his grin is still there, wicked and pleased.
“Get on the bed,” you breathe, and it comes out like an order before you can soften it.
Danhausen’s brows lift, and for a heartbeat, he looks almost impressed. “Yes, yes. Very bossy. Danhausen likes this.” He sits back onto the mattress, hands braced behind him, posture casual. You want to tell him he looks cute as hell, but there are more pressing needs right now.
You climb on after him, knees sinking into the comforter, and the second you’re close enough, you haul him into another kiss. He meets you like he’s been thinking about it too, his mouth opening and tongue sliding against yours with a sound that turns your stomach hot. Your hands find his shoulders again, then his chest, pushing him down until his head hits the pillows with a muffled huff.
“There,” you murmur against his mouth, smug and breathless. “Better.”
“It is… acceptable,” he says, and then he ruins the teasing by kissing you back like he means it. His hands glide up your sides, fingers spreading under the hem of your shirt this time, and you shiver when his palms find bare skin.
You shift your weight so you’re straddling him, thighs on either side of his hips. The position makes you painfully aware of everything: the heat pooling low in your body, the way your clothes suddenly feel too tight, the unmistakable hardness beneath you.
Danhausen’s eyes darken when he calculates where you’ve put yourself. His gaze drags down your body like a touch. “Battie is on top.”
“Don’t call me that,” you whisper, but it has no bite. You’re already rocking forward without thinking, chasing what you’ve needed from him.
His breath catches. The smug little smile he wears falters into something more evil. He slides one hand into your hair at the back of your head, fingers threading through it slowly.
“Then what should Danhausen call you?” he asks, voice too calm for the way his hips shift up into you.
You swallow, trying to form an answer that isn’t just a noise. “Call me—” You lose it when he tugs.
It’s not hard. It’s not cruel. It’s just enough to make your scalp zing, just enough to make your eyes go wide and your body go loose with it. A soft sound escapes you, embarrassed and helpless, and his expression turns satisfied in an instant.
“Yes. That sound is correct.”
“You’re—” you start again, but the sentence dissolves when you grind down again, slower this time. You can feel him through his pants, the shape of him pressing hot and insistent against you. It makes your head spin. You kiss him to keep from saying something stupid; kiss him hard, biting at his lower lip until he groans and lifts his hips in response.
Danhausen’s hand stays in your hair, holding you in place while his other hand slides down your spine, steadying your lower back, guiding your rhythm like he’s teaching you.
“You watched the match,” he says between kisses, voice rough now. “You did what Danhausen asked.”
“I did,” you pant, forehead dropping to his for a second. “And now I—”
“Now you want your reward,” he finishes, eyes flicking down to your mouth as if he can’t decide whether to kiss you or bite you.
You rock against him again, continuing to chase the building pressure.
“Very nice,” he breathes, and then he glances down like he can’t help it. When he looks back up, he’s chewing his lip, eyes bright and hungry, and the sight of him like that makes you feel powerful in a way that’s almost dizzying.
“You’re enjoying this,” you say, trying to tease.
“Danhausen is suffering,” he says immediately, deadpan, and then he ruins the joke by thrusting up into you again. “But yes. Also enjoying.”
“Good. Because I need… more.”
Danhausen’s eyes track you as you shift off of him, and the second you’re not straddling him anymore, he makes a frustrated sound, eyebrows knitting. “Hey! Batt—” He catches himself, smirks. “Human woman. Why do you abandon Danhausen?”
“Because I’m going to take these off,” you say, and your hands go to the waistband of your shorts.
His gaze drops instantly, like gravity has a new center. The playful mask slips again, he’s chewing his lip harder now, throat bobbing when he swallows. He looks almost stunned.
“Ah,” he whispers, barely audible. “Yes. That is… a good plan.”
You hook your thumbs under the waistband, peel the shorts down your hips, and step out of them. They fall to the floor beside the bed, and when you look back up, Danhausen is still staring like you’ve put a spell on him.
You crawl back toward him on your knees, closing the space you created. “Still think I’m too tense?” you ask softly.
His hand lifts, fingers hovering like he’s asking permission without words, and when you lean into the touch, he cups your cheek, thumb brushing your lower lip. “Danhausen thinks you are the perfect amount of tense,” he says, voice thick. “But Danhausen can fix it.”
He immediately pulls down his waistband, and his thick cock springs free. You’re looking down at it, a ravenous expression on your face. He pumps it once, twice, then uses his thumb to swipe the precum off the tip. You shiver. His other hand finds your hip, and you know what you must do.
You raise yourself above him and angle your hips, working with him as he positions himself beneath you. The blunt head of his cock presses to your entrance, and you suck in a sharp breath. Sink down on him one inch at a time, lips stretching around his impressive girth.
“Fuck’s sake, Danhausen…”
His muscles tense at the sound of his name on your lips. “No cursing,” he hisses, voice cracking on the first sound as his hands clamp down on your hips.
You sink another inch, then another, slow enough to feel every drag, slow enough to watch his face change as you take him. The paint on his cheeks makes it look like he’s eternally flushing, but you can tell he’s in the throes of pleasure.
“Too much?” you whisper, breath shaking.
“No,” he answers instantly—too fast, too honest. “It is… very good. Very—” He swallows hard. “Danhausen is big.”
“I noticed,” you breathe, and then you drop the last little distance in one decisive motion.
He jolts, a sharp curse tearing out of him, and for a second, his eyes squeeze shut like the sensation is almost violent.
“You said no cursing.” You brace one hand on his chest and the other on the pillow beside his head, hovering there while your body adjusts. The fullness is obscene, heady, the kind that turns thought into lush.
Danhausen opens his eyes again, and he looks utterly wrecked already, mouth parted, breathing through his teeth.
“Human woman, you took all.”
You roll your hips, just a testing motion, and he makes a sound that’s half laugh and half broken groan.
“You like that?” you ask, voice barely there.
“Danhausen likes everything,” he pants, then tries to recover his composure and fails immediately when you do it again. “Especially this.”
You start to move, slow at first, letting your body set the pace. The drag of him inside you makes the room fall away, leaving just the two of you and your connection. Danhausen’s hands slide up your ribs again, then back to your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft curve as he repeats the motion with each. He watches you ride him with a kind of hungry awe, gaze flicking between your face and where you’re joined.
“Look at you, battie…”
The praise makes your thighs tremble.
You lean down and kiss him, messy and open-mouthed, and he kisses you back like he’s been starving, tongue sweeping in, chasing your breath. His hips lift to meet you without thinking, and the change in angle makes you gasp into his mouth.
“There,” he whispers against your lips, smug even while he’s shivering. “That one. Do that.”
So you do.
You grind down until a sharp pulse of pleasure blooms, and your body reacts before your pride can catch up. A whine slips out, raw and helpless, and his eyes go bright.
“Yes,” he breathes, and his hand threads into your hair again, not pulling, just holding. “That sound. Danhausen likes that sound.”
You rock faster, chasing the building pressure, and he starts to lose the rhythm of his teasing. His jaw works, brows knitting; the mask of performance slips, leaving nothing but want and the effort to stay in control while you use him.
“You are—” he starts, then cuts himself off with a rough groan when you clench around him.
You sit up, breath coming in short bursts, hands on his chest for balance. “Say it.”
His eyes flick up to you, defiant for a beat, and then he breaks. “Beautiful,” he says, voice wrecked. “So beautiful.”
Heat floods you so hard that your vision shimmers.
You ride him harder, letting the wet slap of skin fill the room, letting the bed squeak under the rhythm. Danhausen’s hands are everywhere—hips, thighs, lower back—guiding you, steadying you, greedy.
“Danhausen will—” he warns, breathless.
“Not yet,” you gasp, and the command surprises you as much as it thrills you.
He laughs, strangled. “Ah. Bossy again.”
You lean forward and bite his lower lip, just a quick sting, and he swears again. His hips jerk up into you.
“Tell me when,” you whisper, mouth at his ear.
“Now,” he groans. “Soon. Very soon.”
You circle your hips, keeping the exact angle he liked, and the tension in his body snaps tight. His fingers dig into your thigh like he’s holding himself together by force.
“Human woman,” he pants. “Please.”
The word makes your stomach flip. You nod once and let yourself chase it too, letting the pleasure build until it’s all you can hear.
Danhausen’s head tips back into the pillow, throat working, eyes squeezed shut. He bucks up into you, and then he comes with a harsh sound that’s almost a sob, hips stuttering while his hands hold you down, keeping you seated on him as he empties inside you.
The way he pulses sets you off, too, heat crashing over you in waves that steal your breath. You cling to him, nails scraping lightly over the fabric of his hoodie as your body shakes.
When it eases, you collapse forward onto him, forehead against his, both of you breathing hard.
For a moment, he’s quiet, simply holding you, hands smoothing over your back like he’s checking that you’re still real.
Then, softer, almost shy, he utters, “Danhausen did not forget.”
“I would have been upset if you did. Unsatisfied even. The opposite of now.”
“Oppositehausen,” he corrects and pats your hair. “There was no forgetting. Was always going to come find you, battie.”
You laugh into his shoulder, the sound worn out at the edges. “I’m going to start charging you for that nickname.”
“Yes, yes,” he says, smoothing your hair again. “Danhausen will pay in… kisses.”
“I’ll take kisses.” You chew on your lower lip. “You can stay, you know.”
“Stay?”
“Yeah, like. Stay in bed. Like this. With me.”
There is a beat of silence.
“Danhausen thought that was a given.”
You groan, rolling your eyes as you slide off of him onto the other side of the bed. Unable to get too far, he snatches you back to him, pulling you still naked to his front.
“Hey, hey, no escaping.”
“Okay, okay… goodnight, Danhausen.”
“Goodnighthausen.” He presses a kiss to just behind your ear and then somehow immediately falls asleep, complete with snores.
author's notes: first time poster, have been lurking and reading other's fics. here we have a good ol' fashioned make-out session with maybe a pinch of rutting. ao3 link.
Danhausen is already halfway down the arena hall when you spot him, his cape flicking behind him with each step. You sigh; you did like the guy. He was wacky and weird, his schtick was fun, but the chaos he created backstage was becoming a problem. The curses were pissing off the talent, and Danhausen had a knack for not picking up cues to leave them alone. You’ve been given explicit instructions to keep him away from everyone at all costs.
You catch a flash of The Miz turning the corner ahead of Danhausen.
“Shit.“
And now, you’re running after him down the hall.
“Danhausen!” you call, pitching your voice like you have something important to tell him.
He halts mid-stride, abruptly ending his exaggerated, bouncy walk. His head twists around to find you.
“Ohhhhh, hello. You are chasing after Danhausen… why is that?”
You stop just short of running into him, chest heaving with nerves, shoes squeaking on concrete. Up close, every line of precise face paint and white eyeliner makes his eyes huge, cartoonishly bright in the overhead fluorescents. Even his lashes look darker.
Danhausen tilts his head, studying you like you’re a strange new prop. “Are you… trying to tackle Danhausen?”
“No! Not at all,” you laugh nervously. Why are you nervous? As long as you’re nice, he won’t curse you… right? “We’ve got a dressing room for you.”
It lands like a firework.
His mouth falls open in a perfect O. “Danhausen has his own room? A room of dressings?”
“A dressing room,” you correct. “It’s yours, and it’s away from… everyone. Let me show you the way so you can get ready for your match.”
Danhausen snaps to attention as if summoned. He falls in beside you, practically bouncing, his cape swishing against your arm with every overenthusiastic step.
“Does it have snacks?” he asks immediately. “Does it have mirrors? Does it have a small throne for Danhausen to sit and curse from?”
“Umm… it does have a chair.”
“A thronehausen,” he decides, delighted.
You’re taken with his whimsy as you walk. He’s a strange bird—sharp angles and dramatic pauses, always listening for a cue only he can hear.
You keep him moving, steering through a service door into a quieter corridor, where the air cools and the foot traffic thins. The farther from the main artery, the louder his footsteps echo.
“Danhausen thinks you are doing a very good job of taking Danhausen away from the normal humans,” he says, solemn as a judge.
“Thanks,” you manage. “That’s… literally my job.”
He nods as if you’ve just confirmed a sacred truth.
You stop at a door with a piece of tape slapped across it. The handwriting is fresh and slightly crooked: DANHAUSEN.
Inside, it’s not glamorous — but it’s private. A small room with a vinyl couch pushed against one wall, a mini fridge humming in the corner, and a lone chair near the mirror, like it’s been appointed guard duty.
Danhausen steps in and spins once, cape fluttering.“A chair,” he says reverently.
“A throne,” you correct automatically, because apparently you’ve decided to enable him.
“Thronehausen,” he whispers, satisfied. Then he looks around again, eyes traveling over the couch, the fridge, the cramped square footage. His nose wrinkles. “It is a bit small.”
“It’s all yours,” you say firmly, as if ownership matters most. Like the words will make him stay.
His expression softens into something almost sweet beneath the paint. “All of it? Even the cold box?”
“Even the…fridge.”
He beams, then immediately beelines past you to the clothing rack jammed with garment bags and hangers. He starts rifling through his outfits with both hands, muttering to himself like he’s selecting weapons.
“Not this cape,” he announces. “Too short. Not enough swoosh.”
You sit on the couch, stuck watching him.
He finds something and makes a pleased noise, yanking free a longer cape in glossy black that trails almost to the floor.
“Yes,” he says to no one. “This one makes Danhausen look like a very wealthy bat.”
Before you can respond, he turns to his coat. He starts unbuttoning it with theatrical concentration, his fingers fumbling as if the buttons have personally offended him.
He tries once. Twice.
Growing frustrated, he lets out an annoyed huff, grabs the coat by the hem, and, ignoring the buttons, pulls it forcefully over his head.
You stare, honestly incredulous. “You know you could just—”
But it’s too late. The coat comes free in a messy triumph, and he tosses it onto the couch as if it’s been defeated.
And now he’s shirtless.
Your brain tries to catalog too quickly and fails. Tight pants. Bare torso. Strong arms. Solid pecs shifting as he moves. A softer curve at his stomach makes him look more real—still fit and powerful, but lived-in.
Oh.
Oh no.
You always liked the weird ones, didn’t you?
Danhausen turns, cape draped over one arm, and catches you standing there like you’ve forgotten what your job is.
“You are staring at Danhausen,” he says, matter-of-fact.
A hot wave of embarrassment crawls up the back of your neck, prickling your skin.
“Oh— yeah. Uh.” You scramble for something harmless, something professional. Your eyes flick, desperately, to the ink on his skin. “Your tattoos are cool.”
He looks down at himself, surprised to find them there.
Danhausen slides over like he can’t not be in your space once he’s decided you’re safe.
“You want to see them?” he asks, already halfway into the answer, excitement bubbling in his voice like a kid about to show off a new toy. Before you can even decide what your face is doing, he’s perched on the couch beside you—too close, shoulder nearly brushing yours, cape pooling in a shiny heap on the cushion like spilled ink.
He reaches for your hand with both of his, gentle but absolute, and lifts it like he’s about to introduce you to something important.
“This one,” he says, reverent.
He presses your fingertips to the ink on his upper arm. The skin under your touch is warm, solid.
“…is a scary alien.”His eyes are wide and bright beneath the paint, watching your reaction.
Then, without letting go, he guides your hand a few inches down, tracing the path with his other finger as he narrates it.
“And this one…” His voice drops as if he’s telling you a secret. “…is ANOTHER scary alien.”
“Danhausen,” you say, and it comes out softer than you mean to, like you’re trying not to smile but losing.
He beams anyway.
He shifts again, closer, his knee bumping yours as he repositions himself like a cat finding the warm spot. He brings your hand up, across the plane of his shoulder, then pauses. There’s the smallest hesitation, like he’s checking for permission without asking for it.
And then he sets your palm to his chest.
“This one’s a big demon. Very evil,” he says, pleased with himself, like he’s saved the best for last.
Your fingers splay, as if acting before your brain can catch up, a surge of energy sparking beneath your skin. Your hand lingers for an awkward amount of time, the warmth of his chest sinking into your palm.
Danhausen tilts his head to look at you.
“You are… holding the demon,” he observes.
“I’m just—yeah,” you manage, voice too small.
He seems to consider this, gaze dropping briefly to your hand, then back up to your face.
“Danhausen…. ehm, isn’t usually touched like this. Aside from punches and slaps and… kickhausens.”
“Me too,” you blurt, taking your hand away from his chest. “Well, I don’t get kicked or anything, but…”
Danhausen is silent. Uncharacteristic of him, as you usually hear him chattering about all over the place. You turn away from him, cheeks burning. Great job.
The couch dips.
Two fingers slip beneath your chin, and Danhausen turns your face back toward him. His thumb lingers at the corner of your mouth, the pad of it catching on your lower lip. The look on his face is… soft. Not the cartoon villain grin, not the wide-eyed goblin delight. Something quiet and intent, like he’s finally tuned in to the same frequency you’re trembling on.
“Danhausen,” you start, because you don’t know what else to do with the air between you.
His mouth brushes yours.
It’s awkward at first, the angle is wrong, and your hands are unsure where to touch. For a creature that pinballs his way through life, he is being surprisingly gentle.
He pulls back just enough that you can see him.
Your brow furrows, confusion snapping through the haze. His black lips should’ve smudged. You can feel his face against yours, the faint drag of makeup, and yet when he moves away, there’s no streak on your skin. No transfer. No messy print of him on you.
You stare at his mouth, then at his cheeks, which were also pristine.
“Oh,” he says quietly, like it’s not a big deal at all. Like everyone knows. “It does that.”
“What—” you whisper.
But before you can tug the thread, before your brain can build the sensible scaffolding of questions, he kisses you again.
This time you’re ready.
Your lips part on instinct, and he follows the invitation like he’s been waiting for it. His fingers stay at your chin, guiding instead of holding, the pressure light but certain. He tastes faintly like mint? Had he been chewing gum?
You make a soft, involuntary sound, and he answers it with a low, pleased noise of his own.
Not a joke. Not a bit.
He deepens the kiss. Your hand finds his shoulder, your other hesitates, then settles at his side, feeling the heat beneath the firm muscle, and shifting skin as he breathes. He nudges closer, knees pressing against yours.
Danhausen tilts his head, hungry for a better angle, and the kiss goes deeper.
Your thoughts splinter, scattering in every direction. Your heart pounds. All you can feel is heat and the hungry press of him against you.
His mouth goes a little messy, a little greedy—like he’s getting used to the idea of you and doesn’t want to let go of it.
Teeth. Not a bite, not yet, but the scrape of them at your lower lip, the quick catch and release that sends a sharp spark straight down your spine. You make a noise you do not mean to make.
Your fingers fist in his cape at first, then you let it go and slide one hand up, threading into his hair at the back of his head. It’s softer than you expect, damp with sweat at the roots, and when you tug—just enough to angle him—he follows like you’ve given him a cue.
“Ah,” he breathes against you, and it turns into another hungry kiss before the word is even finished.
The angle is wrong again, then right, then wrong in a new way as he climbs closer, knee wedging between yours, his bare skin hot and solid under your palm. Your legs tremble, the slick pull of arousal building fast, embarrassing and unavoidable.
He nips your lip again, harder this time, and you gasp.
He takes advantage immediately, mouth open, tongue pressing in, the purr returning—low, satisfied—while your hand stays tangled in his hair.
You can’t tell who moves first, but suddenly you’re both shifting, hips rolling without thinking, your body chasing friction. The couch creaks. His breath stutters. He makes a sound that’s half laugh, half groan.
And then—
A knock at the door.
Danhausen freezes like someone hit pause.
Another knock, sharper. “Danhausen! Two minutes. Gear check, now.”
Your stomach drops in the most ridiculous way. Reality snaps back around you: fluorescent lights, a cheap couch, tape with his name on it, the arena humming just beyond the walls.
Danhausen pulls back, breathing hard, paint still perfect, eyes blown wide and bright as if he’s just realized something delightful and dangerous at the same time.
He looks at your mouth. Then at your hand still in his hair.
Slowly—reluctantly—you let go.
He swallows. “Danhausen is being summoned,” he says, voice rougher than it was a minute ago.
“Yeah,” you manage, because you’re still trying to remember how to be a person.
He stands up too quickly, as if he sits back down, he’ll do something unwise. He grabs his coat, then hesitates, glancing at you as if he’s not sure whether he’s allowed to leave this unfinished.
“You will watch Danhausen?” he asks.
The earnestness of it hits you right in the chest.
You nod, almost breathless. “Yeah. I’ll watch.”
His shoulders drop like you’ve handed him something he didn’t know he wanted. “Good,” he says, pleased.
The knock comes again, impatient.
He huffs, turning toward the mirror like he’s trying to reassemble himself. He grabs the longer cape, swings it around his shoulders, and fumbles the clasp with fingers that still look a little shaky.
Then he looks back at you, eyes narrowing with sudden determination.
“After,” he says.
“After?”
He steps closer again—close enough that you smell mint and sweat and whatever faint, weird magic makes his makeup refuse to smear.
“After the match, Danhausen will come find you,” he says. “Is that… okay?”
Your pulse kicks.
“Yes,” you say, simple and honest. “Come find me later.”
His grin flashes—sharp, wicked, delighted. “Very good,” he murmurs.
He leans in like he’s going to kiss you again, and you feel your whole body brace for it.
Instead, he bumps his forehead against yours—quick, affectionate, almost childlike—and then he’s gone, cape swooshing as he yanks the door open.
“Danhausen is coming!” he announces to whoever’s waiting outside, and then the hall swallows him.
You sit there on the couch, lips tingling, heartbeat in your throat, trying to get your legs to stop trembling.
In the distance, you can hear the crowd’s roar swell like a storm.
Great work, good job, this was fantastic for a first post and I enjoyed it muchly 👏
I'm headcanoning that this happens right before this particular interview where he's tearing up the tape and the stickers and the couch and anything else he can try to tear up because he's frustrated and wants OUT of that interview so he can get back to that cramped little room to finish what ya started.
💬 0 🔁 0 ❤️ 3 · Ok yknow that thing when you start peeling at whatever is around to peel (like tearing the label off a soda bottle or the l
I'd personally be wearing that sticker on my skin in a place where I wanted his attention in that kinda way 👀
So I'm scrubbing through a large quanity of random SKZ footage because a damn Gif Project is in my head and I discovered this
I could've gone MY WHOLE LIFE not knowing what he sounds like when he's trying to wake up, the grumbles and the groans, but NO. NOW I KNOW AND IM WORSE OFF HONESTLY SIFKLSDKLFSD
dailybridgerton
theartofmadeline
amandla
stormborns
turnnoffyourmind
gummygunk
