very evil

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.