#randis fics

[bi-bi-want-dragon]

Hiccstrid Week 2024

Day 1: make or break || cuddles

Astrid shivered violently as a gust of wind assaulted her from the west. “Thor Almighty!” She groaned to herself. “Ugh, I should’ve told Hiccup I needed a few more days.”

She didn’t mean that, of course. As much as she loved spending time with her newborn, she had been growing restless at home. Then again, maybe one day of very, very light training was enough to hold her over a few more days. At least until this winter storm had passed.

The village appeared all but dead behind the screaming of the wind; not a soul could be found wandering the buried streets, save Astrid. Snotlout had been walking with her, wanting to make sure she got home safely, but Astrid insisted he didn’t need to walk so far past his own home for her sake. He wasn’t pleased about it, but he also knew Astrid’s mind wouldn’t be changed. They compromised that Snotlout would at least walk her to the Great Hall, where he could both warm up before walking back home and also make sure Astrid at least made it partway up the path to the Chief’s residence. By the time he would lose sight of her in the trees, she would be nearly within sight of home.

She turned around as the trees closed in on her, finding Snotlout still standing outside the Great Hall. She waved to him to let him know she was okay, and he waved back before retreating into the warm refuge of the Hall.

Just a few moments later she could see the glow of a fire spilling through the windows of the main room. She also could see a slight glow from Valka’s home a bit further up the path and wondered how Hiccup was doing with the kids by himself. She stepped through the door and quickly shut it behind her, shaking off the cold and relishing in the warmth of the house before peeling off the extra layers of clothing. Though as she hung up some of the snow-caked outermost garments, she realized the house seemed far too quiet. No screaming babies, no running feet, no little squealing laughter, not even Zephyr and Nuffink concocting their next elaborate plot.

Where is everybody? Astrid walked past the kitchen and turned the corner into the main room. Any lingering chill in her body melted away as she took in the scene before her. Hiccup was sitting in his oversized chair, head leaned back and eyes closed. The top of his tunic was messily untied, and lying belly down on his bare skin was little newborn Willow, fast asleep in her father’s protective hands. To Hiccup’s right was a sleeping Nuffink, back leaned against Hiccup’s side and head lolled lazily against the back of the chair, arms and legs splayed out in every direction. To Hiccup’s left was Zephyr, turned in towards Hiccup with her head resting on his arm. Her body was curled protectively over her little brother Spero, who was snuggled in nicely between Zephyr’s and Hiccup’s torsos. She had her arms draped around him, and Spero was hugging one of her arms in his sleep.

Hiccup opened one eye as Astrid stepped in the room. “Hello, milady,” he whispered with a smile. “Join us?”

Before he had even invited her over, she was already leaning over Nuffink, brushing his sandy hair gently away from his sleepy eyes. She stole a kiss from Hiccup and laid her hand over baby Willow’s back when she stirred. She quickly settled back into her father’s embrace, and Nuffink blinked blearily. “Hi Momma.”

Astrid smiled. “Hi, sweetheart. Can I sit?”

He pulled himself up and curled his legs under his body, leaving plenty of space for Astrid to slide in next to him, but once she sat down he crawled into her lap instead. She chuckled and hugged him tight, kissing the top of his head before leaning her head on Hiccup’s shoulder. Hiccup kissed the top of her head in return, making her chuckle quietly. Keeping one arm wrapped around Nuffink, she slipped the other around Hiccup’s waist. She felt Zephyr’s hand touch hers, so she turned her own hand over to hold Zephyr’s.

Hiccup sighed in content. “They missed you today.”

Astrid smiled. “Maybe I’ll take tomorrow off again.”

”You earned it. I’ll let Snotlout know in the morning.” He rested his head on top of Astrid’s. “Maybe I’ll take off, too.”

”I think we���d all like that.”

”Yeah, Dada,” Nuffink said before pausing to yawn. “Stay home with us.”

Hiccup chuckled. “Alright, bud, I’ll stay home tomorrow.”

Willow began to stir again when Hiccup’s chuckle bounced her. He shushed her and rubbed her head with his thumb, settling her back to sleep. Astrid knew she needed to eat soon, but she’d raised enough babies to know you never wake them when they’re asleep. So until little Willow made it clear she was awake and ready, Astrid was going to enjoy the warm cuddles of the family she built out of love and devotion with the best father she could have asked for.

[pedgito]

𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒 | Harry Castillo x reader

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summary | Five years of being his assistant and five years of failed attempts at finding love with your help, but maybe the obvious answer has been there the entire time. Alternatively, you fucked your boss? Uh-oh.

author's note | harry...randy...who knows. i'll change it if needed but given the name tag, this is what i'm sticking with for now. skip the lecture about not writing until the movie is out, this isn't hurting anyone so don't bother me about it, xo. the horny demons always win. i listened to this song i repeat while i wrote, felt fitting.

content warning | 18+ MDNI, power imbalance (boss/assistant), work wife/work husband type beat, mentions of failed dating, being superficial, mentions of sugar daddy things, expensive gifts, reader is a godly assistant with a will stronger than mine, he smokes, they drink, sex while inebriated, he's down so bad, also oral!, tense morning after, open-ended

word count — 4.5k

You knew him better than anyone.

From his breakfast order down to his specific choice of underwear, like you weren’t making the weekly purchases and filling up his rarely used fridge in the apartment that was way out your price range, arranging his schedule down to the minute, booking his flights, packing his bag.

Really, Harry should just marry you.

…it was more of a joke, but you’ve teased him about it once or twice.

He called you his work wife anyways, but in reality, you were just his assistant.

He did trust you with his life, though.

More importantly, his love life.

“Kim flaked,” he tells you over coffee, perched at his kitchen island as you typed away on your laptop, looking up briefly with eyes that begged for him to explain, he does and makes a show about, mimicking a more feminine voice as he relays the message she gave him, “same song and dance—you’re great and fun but I can’t do anything serious right now,”

“Were you nice?” you ask curiously.

Harry rolls his eyes at that, like it was a stupid question to ask. But, eventually he nods.

“Did you ask questions?” you continue, fingers folding over the screen of your laptop to close it.

“Plenty, she works in finance, loves the color blue, wants to travel,” he could go on and on, throwing his hands up in defeat before they slump to his side, “maybe I should try out a real matchmaker—not that you’re bad at it—”

“You think I’m bad at it,” you smile knowingly, “don’t you?”

“No,” you’re unconvinced, “besides—you’re my assistant, I never meant for that type of responsibility to fall on you, you know?”

“I’m doing both of us a favor,” you remind him, “I think…it just takes time.”

And fortunately, all you had was time.

It felt pointless for Harry to spend a chunk of cash to have someone pair him up with the supposed love of his life, though you knew that money wasn’t a problem, you felt a weird responsibility to protect him, unsure how quickly someone would take advantage of his kindness.

“There’s a gala,” you tell him offhandedly, “next week. I already cleared your schedule for it. I think…maybe you should just peruse this time.”

“Peruse?” he chuckles, eyes creasing in amusement, his crow’s feet deepening with the emotion, “You’re a control freak, you sure about that?”

“That’s just mean,” you retort, “you’re paying me anyways—if you didn’t like it you’d fire me.”

He knew you were right, sipping quietly at his coffee in response.

He was frustrating, predictable, and painfully superficial. 

Every date was an exercise in appearances—perfectly tailored suits, dinner at the most exclusive places, charm turned up to eleven. And yet, none of it ever stuck. He was overcompensating and you weren’t sure why.

He was a good guy, down to his core, and in the five years you had worked with him there was never a moment you thought he didn’t deserve love, he was perfect. Too perfect.

That was the problem.

“You know, you’re like prime age to be a sugar daddy,” you tease him, knowing how he felt about the topic, “there’s plenty of apps that I can—”

“You’re relentless,” he grumbles, “if you ever did that, I’m firing you on the spot.”

“You wouldn’t,” it was a gentle challenge, smirk flashing across your face as he returned it with fondness, “without me you would crash and burn, Mr. Castillo.”

And he knows it.

–

The gala is a bust.

So, as a bandaid to his wounded ego, you order takeout and keep him company in his big, lavish apartment—it wasn’t the first time, it wouldn’t be the last.

You knew what the issue was, but there was a sinking feeling in your stomach that told you he wouldn’t receive the information well.

It was after every failed date, every expensive dinner.

They saw him at the surface, the charming man with an easy, warm smile.

You saw the man who kicked his shoes off and stripped himself of his suit jacket the second he walked through the door, who couldn’t resist a late-night binge of his newest streaming obsession, someone who insisted on stirring his coffee counterclockwise because it made it taste better, a man would text you pictures of squirrels in the park that he would feed on his way home.

It wasn’t that you were pining over him. You just knew him better than anyone.

“Why are you so dead set on marriage?” you ask him over dinner, turned toward him on the couch as he reaches for the remote to pause the show on screen.

He’s had this conversation before, but he’s never asked you any questions on the matter.

“What’s your opinion on it?” he’s avoiding, clearly, but you’ll bite.

“I don’t date, I’m not interested, signing a piece of paper isn’t going to signify my feelings toward someone if it came down to that,” you admit, “I’m not cynical, marriage is fine, but this stuff takes time,”

“Well, I’m not getting any younger,” Harry gripes, arms reaching over the back of the couch as he mirrors your position.

“Oh, please,” you scoff, “you’re forty-nine.”

“Almost fifty,” he corrects, “I’m ancient.”

“O-kay,” you sigh, “do you want honesty?”

“I’d hope you were being honest with me all the time.”

“No,” you laugh softly, “like…brutal fucking honesty?”

He’s silent, but attentive. 

“You keep choosing women who treat you like they’re next getaway vacation and you fall for it every time,” his forehead creases at the words, looking hurt by your words, “I see your bank payments every month, the activity—”

“It’s not like money is an issue,” he defends, causing you to sigh dramatically and fall back against the arm of the couch in faux distress.

“This is impossible,” you groan, staring up at the ceiling before you feel his hand circle around your wrist, tugging gently,

“Okay, I’m listening,” Harry says softly, pulling you upright, “I’m sorry—I am.”

“You want it to work so bad,” you tell him, “I see it—every time you approach someone you put on that smile and it works, but you’re giving so much and yeah, maybe some of them like that, but I’m sure a few would just enjoy a nice dinner here, or something simple. I think you forget to realize that someone can just be interested in you, for you, not for what you are or have,”

It’s profound, the way his face softens at your words, his touch still lingering around your wrist.

You’ve never even considered or entertained the idea that you might find Harry attractive or even attainable—for one, you had signed a contract that agreed to a professional work relationship, as a benefit for both of you, not that he ever had any intention to begin with.

You’ve been with him for so long, it feels, a fresh and young mind to help keep him active and busy, constantly refreshing ideas and helping him not feel like he was stuck, and you were damn good at taking care of him when he’s often tended to neglect himself.

The only thing you know is that he’s never looked at you like that.

Like you could see straight through him, all his flaws on display.

But, that was because you knew all of them.

You knew everything about him, even the worse bits.

His bad habits, his self-inflicting ones, everything that he refused to bring to the surface.

Harry’s fingers still lingered around your wrist, the weight of your words sinking in. 

But then, just like he always did, he broke the tension with a huff of laughter and frowns as he brushed you off.

“You just think I’m a sucker, don’t you?”

You shook your head with a faint smile, returning your arm to your lap.

“No—I think you like to see the good in people. So much good that you’re willing to ignore red flags.”

“Jeez,” he chuckled, clutching his stomach like you had physically wounded him, “that hurt.”

You shrugged and reached for the remote to resume the picture on screen, “You’ll survive.”

–

It was your day off—Sunday, the one day.

“Have you seen my cufflinks laying around?” he asked over the video call, “Shit—my tie, too. I can’t find it anywhere. I thought you said you laid it out for me.”

“No, I said I had it hung up and for you to lay it out before you showered,” you correct him, laying tiredly on your couch as you watched him search around frantically, hair damp and his bare shoulders on display, only catching the briefest glimpses of the towel around his waist as he turned the camera around, “Waitwait—go back!”

“There’s no fucking way you saw it,” Harry argues, “I’ve been looking for the last ten minutes—”

“In the pocket of your suit, the tie is there,” you tell him, “and given that you probably tossed the suit on the bed like you always do, the cufflinks are probably somewhere hiding under the blanket,”

He tosses you against the mattress, your screen succumbing to darkness as you wait, some shifting of the sheets before you hear him make a sound before he appears again, cufflinks pinched between his fingers and a look of defeat on his face.

“What would you do without me?” you ask with a cocky grin, finger hovering over the end call button as he shakes his head.

“What was this for again?” Harry asks curiously, laying you down upright as you caught a glimpse of his bare chest as he shrugged the crisp, white button down over his shoulders.

“It’s a charity auction, your favorite,” you chirp, “and you’re flying solo, so—don’t do anything stupid or…crass,”

“If I paid you double a day of work would you go?” Harry asks after a long pause, glancing down at the screen, “Triple?”

“Triple?!” you gawk, “see—you’re insane, this is what I’m talking about,”

He chuckles despite your response, “You’re good at keeping the sharks away,”

There were particular hawking businessmen who made it their mission to hunt Harry down at events and keep him occupied, eager to do business, whatever it may be—you were the unspoken master of redirection, as much as he refused to admit it.

“Can we grab dinner on the way?” 

“Burgers?” Harry asks, perking up slightly.

It was a constant go-to for you and him.

You nod through the screen, “Don’t even bother with the tie either, I’ll do it.”

–

“I can’t believe you roped me into this on my day off,” you whisper at his side, earning a half-smirk from him.

The charity auction was as lavish as you’d expected.

Crystal chandeliers, gold accents, and far too much champagne and hors d'oeuvres. 

Harry’s hand found the small of your back the moment you arrived, steering you through a sea of designer gowns and tuxedos, feeling uncomfortable in the tight dress and stilettos that you only wore on rare occasions, biting at your heels.

“You’ll survive,” he grins, grabbing you both a glass of champagne and pressing it into your waiting fingers, “I’m gonna…peruse, alright?”

“Don’t say it—that just makes you sound like a creep,” your face scrunches up in disgust as you sip at the alcohol, “just go—go, I’ll…handle everything else.”

The evening passed in a blur of small talk and polite smiles, but somewhere between the endless speeches and bidding wars, you found yourself on the balcony, the cool night air a welcome relief in the stuffy ballroom.

You smell him before you see him, the thick and rich scent of his cologne so familiar you swear you could find him on that alone, turning over your shoulder to see him closing the door quietly, cigarette pack tucked in his palm as he approached with a neutral expression.

“You okay?” you ask, leaning against the railing of the balcony.

Harry sighed, rubbing the back of his neck and then plucking a single cigarette from the box, “Honestly? I’m just tired of it.”

“The auctions? Charity?” you inquire, a small smile tugging at your face.

“All of it.” He looked at you, his gaze lingering as he lit the tobacco, “The events, the dates, searching for—I don’t even fucking know at this point,”

“The offer stands…” you say jokingly, though he knows exactly where this is heading.

“If I wanted a sugar baby I’d find one.”

Your eyes roam over his figure as he puffs at the cigarette, pulling a deep laugh from his chest before you’re pushing him away playfully.

“Let’s go,” he tells you with a deep sigh, stubbing out the end of the cigarette and tucking it away for later, tossing his arm over your shoulder as he readied to guide you through the crowd, always protective in spaces like this, another thing that was special to him.

–

The ride home is quiet, like it always is, both of you sitting in the backseat with the partition up, watching as he looked through his phone with a scowl, occasional typing and sending a message.

Eventually, he looks at you.

“Thank you,” He says with a soft tone, “I know this isn’t your favorite thing to do.”

You tilted your head into the headrest and smiled, crossing one thigh over the other as you worked at your heels to remove them, “Oh, it wasn’t that bad—the free alcohol is always a plus.”

He chuckled at that, silently helping you remove your shoes with a soft squeeze to your foot.

That was normal—but, it forces you to pause.

His natural instinct to help, to touch, to comfort you.

Your brow furrows at the gesture before you shake it away, blaming it on the buzz of alcohol in your system, watching as he continues the gesture with the other foot.

“Having you there makes it bearable, is all,” he explains, looking up at you briefly as he undid the tie around your ankle, “you…calm me, I guess.”

You swallowed. Hard.

The warmth of his words lingering in your chest, in his touch against your ankle, “You’d do the same for me.”

And he would—if you ever needed anything, anything, Harry was there.

“Yeah,” he agreed quietly, “without question.”

The sincerity caught you off guard. 

You turned to study him, the familiar slope of his nose, the line of his jaw. There was something about the way he looked tonight—tired, maybe, but softer. 

And he keeps looking at you, checking.

The car moved smoothly through the dimly lit streets, the city blurring past in streaks of gold and blues and reds. The hum of the engine was steady, the faint sound of music barely audible from the front, through the glass, the back lit up dimly by the trim of lights on the roof and door.

Harry leaned back, one hand moved against the seat, his other hand dragging slowly over his thigh—restless. 

Instinctually, without thinking, you reached for his hand.

It wasn’t purposeful. Just a simple act of absentmindedness.

You’ve done it a hundred times before. 

Tugged at his sleeves to fix his cufflinks, brushed lint from his lapel or pants, adjusted the collar of his shirts. Constantly fixed his hair, touching him wasn’t new.

His skin was warm. Not hot, not cold.

You felt the slight twitch of his hand, like he was debating whether to move. Instead, his fingers shifted, just a fraction, enough that the edge of his thumbnail brushed over the inside of your wrist.

The contact was thoughtless, nothing.

But, in the same moment, it felt like everything.

The way his eyes watched the movement, roamed your body like they had before but with a different implication, his eyes half-lidded and relaxed, wondering how much alcohol he had consumed himself—this wasn’t friendly.

And it definitely wasn’t professional.

Harry’s gaze was on you now, your face, as you couldn’t tear your eyes away from his hand.

Then his thumb moved. 

Up. 

Barely. 

A soft drag along your pulse.

It was half a decade of avoidance, defeat in his heart and mind, and fear in your own.

Broken, by the car rolling to a stop outside of Harry’s apartment building.

“We’re here, Mr. Castillo,” the voice of the driver came from the front, a nod of acknowledgement as his hand slipped from yours.

“Oh, hold on,” you were scooting aside to let him out, readied for the next stop as he cocks his head toward the building, “I’ve got something for you—I’ll drive you home, don’t worry,”

“Harry,” you stress, looking down at his hand that waves you toward him, extending out for you to grab, insistently as his fingers wiggle in wait.

Turns out, he wasn’t totally lying.

That something was accompanied by a seven thousand dollar bottle of Leroz Aux Brulees—you knew that because you had purchased it during his trip to France, the supposed city of love.

“I’m going to murder you,” you tell him as he places the bottle on the counter and keeps the closed case of mystery at his side, “hide your body, flee country—I hate surprises, you know that.”

“I think you’ll like this one,” he grins, popping the cork on the bottle and pouring two hefty glasses, eyeing the deep red as it glugged into the glass.

“You know, if you wanted company you could have just asked,” you tell him, “I get it, you’re lonely,”

He knows you’re only teasing but it stings nonetheless, both of you taking a long and heavy sip as his fingers swirl over the velvet casing before he’s pushing it over quickly, tapping it with his fingers, “Open it,” he encourages, eyeing you over the rim.

You place your glass down and pry it open slowly, carefully, like you were deconstructing a bomb, but as the piece inside comes into view you find yourself at a loss for words or thoughts.

Your eyes are wide, staring up at him with parted lips that tingled from the lingering alcohol, knowing you should have cut yourself off at one glass of champagne and refused to come inside, that you should have just went home and enjoyed what little bit of the day you had left to yourself.

Now, you were looking back at a necklace so delicate you were afraid to stare at it too long, embedded with a cluster of diamonds and nearly two years of your rent if you were doing the math correctly in your mind.

Always about the numbers, Harry constantly teased.

“I saw how you looked at it the other day,” he admits, “and I owe you a hell of a lot more, but it…I’m trying to say thank you for…being you,”

“I’m not taking that,” you refuse with a laugh of disbelief, sliding back over to him gently, downing the rest of your wine in one go to forget how fast your heart was beating in your chest.

“You are,” Harry insists, “consider it a bonus—Christmas is in a couple months, too.”

“You know…this is exactly that kind of stuff a sugar da—”

Harry makes a noise, shaking his head.

You bite your lip in thought, ignoring his subtle annoyance at your comment.

It was fucking beautiful, really.

You sigh, using one finger to turn the case back toward you, examining it closely.

Quietly, Harry presses his glass into the counter and rounds the edge toward you, his chest at your shoulder as he reaches for the jewelry, working carefully at the clasp before he’s motioning for you to relax your shoulders.

It wasn’t the stillness of the moment, but his touch, again.

He’s methodical in the way he touches you, dragging his hand around your neck as he fits the necklace into place, his fingertips pressing against the column of your throat in a way that tickles slightly, shifting uncomfortably until you hear the faint click and he breathes behind you, hands resting at your shoulders.

You’re not sure why he hasn’t moved, but you find yourself turning to speak.

“I’m just going to call an uber,” you tell him, “probably shouldn’t drive since we’ve both been drinking,”

“Yeah,” he agrees, but it sounds hollow, his eyes not following you as you move.

You hop from the chair and bend down to grab your shoes, but his hand is curling around your bicep and pulling you up and he’s staring again, the charge of his touch sending a jolt through your body as freeze,

“Come here,” he beckons, too natural.

And you listen.

He’s soft, every part of him. Skin, clothes, hair, lips.

He’s kissing you gently, like you might break, but you can tell he wants more.

Needs more.

“Are you going to regret this tomorrow?” you find yourself asking as he parts from you, licking at his lips as you both take a breath, letting the moment settle.

He shakes his head, “Are you?”

“Maybe,” you answer honestly, “maybe…not—fuck, I don’t know,”

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” he promises, but you knew that was a lie.

Still, you nod in understanding.

–

He’s so tender with his touch, slipping you out of the dress in the dim light of his room.

Even softer as he guides you to your back and spreads himself on his belly between your legs, fingers interlocked with his at your hips as he buries his nose between your folds, his tongue splitting your cunt open in a sharp gasp that has you throwing your head back. His lips traced a slow, deliberate path down your body, igniting sparks along every inch of your skin. 

He kissed along the curve of your thighs, teasing, tasting, until the tension was unbearable and with each flick of his tongue, each gentle suck, it pulled you deeper into a haze of heady desire. 

This was reckless, dangerous, but neither of you found the moment to pause and think.

You wonder if things had been building to this for a while—if it was always supposed to happen this way or if he was acting off of greed; lust and companionship, even if just for a night.

You know you can ask him to stop at any point and he would, but even as his tongue brings you to your first orgasm of the night and he’s guiding you to your stomach, reaching blindly into his bedside table for a foil wrapping the crinkles loudly in the silence, you want this.

It was embarrassing how badly you wanted this.

He fucks you slow, too. 

It was torturous, his chest flat against your back as he palms his cock and feeds it into you.

You don’t talk, neither does he.

But, his low moans and stuttering breaths speak for him.

If you could see him, you’d know how furrowed his brow would be, a hand sliding over the curve of your ass until he can reach your thigh, beckoning for you to raise it without speaking.

You oblige, the angle of his thrusts changing on a dime.

“I can’t believe you’re real sometimes,” he admits like he’s confessing a sin.

“Please,” you plead—please stop talking, please keep going, please fuck me.

You couldn’t decide.

You feel him nod where his forehead is pressed between your shoulder blades as his fist curls into the sheet beside your head.

“Another, gimme another,” he pleads, the fingers on his other hand curling under your neck to life your chin, not expecting to meet his eyes as he leans over you.

The expression on his face so raw it makes you flutter around him, his lips parting in a deep, guttural groan, “I know you can,” he nods hurriedly.

And damn, does the praise work.

Your whimper breaks him, breathing out shakily as you locked eyes when he comes, slow and forceful thrusts until you’re nothing but an exhausted pile of tangled limbs.

“Greedy girl,” he comments through the haze, a weak giggle bubbling from your chest.

He pulls out slowly, a low grunt as he does so.

You’re not sure when you fall asleep, but you wake to a startling amount of weight over your stomach, an arm splayed possessively, the faint outline of a ring as you drag your hand over the limb.

It’s only as your eyes pry open that reality hits you, stumbling out of bed quickly.

No…nononono, where the fuck were your clothes? Jesus.

You stumble around half awake, searching for the silk dress on the floor, feeling accomplished when you find it and hastily redressing yourself as Harry stirs in bed, encouraging you to hurry, to slip out before he can say anything.

Your shoes are already on and you’re reaching for the doorknob when the voice comes, the weight of the necklace that still remained on your neck, two empty glasses of wine on the counter, a night of hasty choices and urgency laid out like a crime scene as his voice rings out from behind you, pleading.

“Don’t—don’t go,” Harry begs, “You don’t have to go,”

So much of this was wrong—it complicated everything.

Your life, your job, your relationship with him.

He can see you slipping, fingers inching toward the knob as he approaches you in a hurry, barefoot and shirtless, the kind of scene you shouldn’t be comforted with, like this was all normal to the both of you.

You’ve seen him like this a thousand times, but not when he’s looking at you so vulnerable, heart tore open and stapled to his chest, beating against your own as his hands splayed out over your cheeks.

“I don’t regret it,” he assures you again, “so please—stay, okay?”

“What changed?” you ask, voice trembling, “Five years, Harry. Five.”

“I’ve been running in circles this entire time,” he admits, “you know it—I know it.”

You had been there the entire time, learning every part of him without judgement, cataloging his flaws and skills, learning how he ticked and what motivated him. You had never quite settled on the ideal person to fit in his life as his partner, it surely wasn’t you.

It couldn’t be you.

“Please, don’t go,” Harry echoed once more.

The sick, cruel joke of it all was that this was your job. 

You had nowhere to go. If it was any other morning, you would just be arriving, leaving his breakfast in the kitchen and starting your day.

You nod solemnly, “Of course, Mr. Castillo.”

It was painstaking, forcing the mask back on.

But, you couldn’t deal with this now.

Or ever, even.

Harry looks at you with a confused sadness, thumbs rubbing at your cheekbones before his hands fall to his side.

You’d figure this out, you always did.

[sopuu]

🙋 everyone should check out @enden-agolor‘s forest deity au methinks

[eringobragh420]

🎉 = series 🎀 = parts of series 👑 = standalone/one-shot 🏹 = masterlist 🌹 = works in progress ✨ = sequel 🔮 = headcanons

────୨ৎ──── 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒈𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔

🌹 Is That Alright? — Damian Priest ♥︎ f!Reader (18+) [sequel to Can You Hold Me?] 🌹 Strike Three — CM Punk ♥︎ f!Reader (18+)

────୨ৎ──── 𝒄𝒎 𝒑𝒖𝒏𝒌

👑 I Want It — CM Punk ♥︎ f!Reader (18+) ✨ I Got It — CM Punk ♥︎ f!Reader (18+) 🌹 Strike Three — CM Punk ♥︎ f!Reader (18+)

────୨ৎ──── 𝒄𝒐𝒅𝒚 𝒓𝒉𝒐𝒅𝒆𝒔

👑 Animal In Me — cuck!Cody ♥︎ f!Reader ♥︎ Roman (18+) ✨ Piece of Your Action — cuck!Cody ♥︎ f!Reader ♥︎ Roman (18+) 🔮 Cody Rhodes Dating Headcanons — Cody ♥︎ f!Reader (18+)

────୨ৎ──── 𝒅𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒂𝒏 𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔𝒕

🏹 Masterlist (18+)

────୨ৎ──── 𝒅𝒆𝒙𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒍𝒖𝒎𝒊𝒔

👑 Panty-Sniffing — Dexter ♥︎ f!Reader (18+)

────୨ৎ──── 𝒈𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓

👑 Circles — Gunther ♥︎ f!Reader (18+) 👑 Muscle Worship — Gunther ♥︎ f!Reader (18+)

────୨ৎ──── 𝒋𝒆𝒚 𝒖𝒔𝒐

👑 She Bad — Jey ♥︎ f!Reader ♥︎ Rhea (18+) 🎉 Coming Undone — Roman ♥︎ Jey ♥︎ Jimmy ♥︎ f!Reader (18+) [hiatus] 🎀 Part One 🎀 Part Two 🎀 Part Three

────୨ৎ──── 𝒋𝒊𝒎𝒎𝒚 𝒖𝒔𝒐

🎉 Coming Undone — Roman ♥︎ Jey ♥︎ Jimmy ♥︎ f!Reader (18+) [hiatus] 🎀 Part One 🎀 Part Two 🎀 Part Three

────୨ৎ──── 𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒚 𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒐𝒏

👑 Lost In The Moment — RKO ♥︎ f!Reader

────୨ৎ──── 𝒓𝒉𝒆𝒂 𝒓𝒊𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒚

👑 She Bad — Rhea ♥︎ f!Reader ♥︎ Jey (18+)

────୨ৎ──── 𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏 𝒓𝒆𝒊𝒈𝒏𝒔

🎉 Coming Undone — Roman ♥︎ Jey ♥︎ Jimmy ♥︎ f!Reader (18+) [hiatus] 🎀 Part One 🎀 Part Two 🎀 Part Three 👑 Animal In Me — Roman ♥︎ f!Reader ♥︎ cuck!Cody (18+) ✨ Piece of Your Action — Roman ♥︎ f!Reader ♥︎ cuck!Cody (18+) 👑 Double Penetration — Roman ♥︎ f!Reader ♥︎ Damian (18+)

────୨ৎ──── 𝒔𝒆𝒕𝒉 𝒓𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒔

🎉 Reputation (Just To Save Yours) — Seth ♥︎ f!OC (18+) [in progress] 🎀 Part One 🎀 Part Two

────୨ৎ──── 𝒘𝒘𝒆 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕

🏹 KINKLIST - REQUESTS CLOSED (18+) 🎀 Muscle Worship — Gunther ♥︎ f!Reader (18+) 🎀 Panty-Sniffing — Dexter Lumis ♥︎ f!Reader (18+)

[dad-dumpster]

smells lik gay in her e

[sodapopper]

Hi hello I’m just thinking about the time Ponyboy compared Bob & Randy to Soda & Steve and recognized that if Steve died, Soda would react the same way Randy did—lose the will to fight—whereas if Steve lost Soda, he would become angrier and fight even MORE.

[ovaryacted]

Real shit tho, I’m not gonna shut up about this movie anytime soon fr. I mean, the fact that Pedro is this rich man of color who is handsome, romantic and passionate, and like Dakota’s character says “a unicorn”…it means so much to me. Like I’ve been said I wanted to see Pedro in a romantic movie in a lead role, and this seems like such a perfect role even if he won’t get picked in the end cause sure, choose the brokie I don’t really care. I just really hope he’s in the movie for a longer period of time and I feel more confident that he might be after watching the trailer. But ugh, he’s written in a romantic narrative by a woman and I can’t wait to gobble it all up. I manifested this sooooo bad. He’s all I care about and I’m so serious. FAWK CHRIS EVANS AND HIS DEEP SIDE PART!

But I better see the fix-it fics for his character. Let that man happily be romantic by someone who wants him as much as he wants them! And I already know y’all are gonna have a field day with the sugar daddy fics, I can’t wait for that!

[ollyollyaxe]

been redrawing doujin panels i like for fun and uh,, that's the only excuse i have for this

[daddyhausen]

Face sitting hcs with Randy Orton please?

｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡ 「 FACE SITTING HEADCANNONS 」 ｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡

｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡ ｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡ ｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡ ｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡ ｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡

「 MASTERLISTS 」 | 「 WWE MASTERLIST」 | 「 RANDY ORTON MASTERLIST 」

「 COMMISION INFO 」 | 「 LIKE MY WORK? BUY ME A COFFEE — KOFI — DXDDYHXUSEN 」

｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡ ｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡ ｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡ ｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡ ｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡

「 SUMMARY 」 — face sitting headcannons w/ randy

「 WARNINGS 」 — 18+, [ MINORS DNI ], face sitting, oral sex [ female recieving ], female orgasm, squirting

「 WORD COUNT 」 — 264

「 PAIRING 」 — fem!reader x randy orton

「 GENRE 」 — smut

｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡ ｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡ ｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡ ｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡ ｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡

「 TAGLIST 」 — @thewrestlingbitch @omg-im-such-a-masochist @bayleymania @wardlow @alexisquinnlee-bc @sammiejane22 @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @omegasluvbot @melissahausen @writtingrose @drummergrl1310 @unoficialy-married-to-ace-austin @bonehead-playz @legit9thlunaticwarrior @crowleysqueenofhell @romanreigns-supreme @janetreader @thenerdybaker523 @sunshinevirus @nicoleveno14 @rubyred1980 @harmshake @igncrxntripley @ripleyswhore @embermdk @thepalaceofmelanie @seeingstarks @kennysbadkitten @darkangelchronicles @ripleyswife @selena-tyler-564

「 COMMENT IF YOU WANT TO BE ADDED TO THE TAGLIST 」

he may come off as a selfish bastard most of the time

but when it comes to your pleasure, oh boy is he a gentleman 

he will pull you atop his chest, practically begging you to sit on his face

 despite your protests that you’d suffocate him

all the better he thought, what a wonderful way to go out, trapped between the luscious thighs of the woman he desired most 

tongue hunrily lapping up your juices like a man starved 

he’s greedy in the sense

not letting up until you’ve cum thrice on his tongue 

sucking and nipping at your swollen clit 

calloused hands holding down your lips as his tongue explores every deep cervice of your gorgeous cunt 

his words muffled against your fold 

tongue soaked with your slick as he devours you 

the more sensitive you grow the more languid his movements become 

not trying to overstimulate you, edging you so he taste you a few more time over 

will shower you with praise, despite his words being mumbles into the cacophonous void of your cunt, drowning him out as your hips buck and writhe against him 

he gets off on the though of you squirting all over his face 

so much so he begins to pump his cock the moment your cunt made contact with his tongue 

and when you do eventually spill over, he cant help but cum, white hot ropes coating his knuckles 

he’ll plant soft kisses to your inner thighs after, allowing you to cum down from your high momontarily before stuffing his fat cock deep inside you 

｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡ ｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡ ｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡ ｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡ ｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡

[deancaspinefest]

The Width of a Circle

Author: imogenbynight | Artist: Randi

Posting on Sunday March 30

Years ago, while investigating a missing teenager, Dean made an account on a blogging platform in the hopes of tracking down the monster that took her. He’d planned to delete the app once they wrapped the case, but one thing led to another, and the next thing he knew he had a surprisingly popular blog on his hands. Over the years, he’s become kind of dependent on the outlet his "Circlr" community affords him, especially when going through hard times. Hard times like now. Because Cas just came back from the dead, and he’s already taking off again. Leaving Dean behind to raise Jack in Washington where he’d died not so long ago, hoping to give the kid the time and space he needs to get a handle on his volatile powers. Feeling abandoned and rejected, Dean needs pocket friends more than ever. Cas, meanwhile, has no idea how to raise a teen. Luckily, the internet has directed him to a blogging platform full of helpful advice, recipes, and semi-anonymous people to befriend...

Keep reading for a sneak preview!

There are very few circumstances in which Dean is relieved to see Sam and Cas having a conversation without him. It’s not a jealousy thing. Not entirely, anyway.

Mostly, it’s a danger thing.

Even individually, Cas and Sam can be reckless and single-minded. When they team up, Dean’s learned to brace for impending disaster.

So when he shuffles into the kitchen a little later than usual the morning after they get back from Dodge City to find Sam in his workout gear and Cas sitting stone-faced opposite him at the table, he knows before either of them even turn to meet his eyes that he’s not going to like what’s coming.

“Everything okay?” he asks anyway.

Sam grimaces.

“Yeah.”

“You lie to cops with that face?”

“I have to talk with you about something,” Cas cuts in, and indicates the empty seat next to Sam. Dean’s favorite mug is sitting there like a peace offering. Dean eyes it with distrust.

“How bad is it?”

“It’s not bad at all,” Cas insists, and gestures again toward Dean’s seat.

Dread rising despite the reassurance, Dean takes the seat and wraps his hands around the mug. Breathes in the usually comforting scent of coffee prepared just the way he likes it, and tries not to catastrophize before he’s heard what Cas is going to say.

“As I was just telling Sam, I spoke with Jack last night after you went to bed.”

Dean’s gut twists, suddenly certain that Jack has told him in excruciating detail how awful things had been when they first brought him home. How angry Dean was.

I told Jack I’d kill him, and I meant it, Dean thinks. And now Cas is gonna say he’s done with me.

His eyes burn. His throat feels tight. Cas keeps speaking before he can think of a single damn thing to say in his own defense.

“He told me he’s afraid of his powers.”

Dean’s hands tingle with confused, unspent adrenaline. He loosens his grip on the mug.

“He is?”

“What happened with the security guard… he’s scared that something like that could happen again. He has all this power but no true understanding of how to safely wield it, and he’s terrified that he’ll harm another civilian. Even more so that he’ll hurt one of us, or inadvertently set off some magical weapon here in the bunker.”

“Again,” Sam adds.

Glancing at him, Dean frowns.

“Again?”

“Apparently the day before I was resurrected, he accidentally destroyed a curse box in the storage room while practicing the ‘pencil trick’ Sam had been teaching him. I checked the storage records and the room last night after he told me. The curse it had contained was very short-lived, and it has long since dissipated, but I’m sure you can understand how lucky it was that it didn’t affect Jack or anyone else.”

“So what do we do?” Dean asks, glancing between Cas and Sam, and Cas seems to steel himself.

“I’m going train him,” he says.

Dean slumps in relief.

“Fuck, okay, yeah, I figured you would. Is that what you—”

“Somewhere else.”

The words hit Dean like a kick to the chest, and he feels a little like he’s going to throw up. Swallowing roughly, he drops his gaze to the table.

“So you're leaving,” he says, and though he tries to mask it, he knows his hurt is as plain as if he’d said it aloud. “When?”

He’s not sure why he’s bothering to ask.

Keep reading on Ao3 after Sunday March 30 🌲Find more 2025 Pinefest previews here 🌲

[chthonicarcher]

it isn’t the first time you’ve had this dream.

(that’s how you already know it’s a dream, you guess.)

the small, almost claustrophobic dwelling you find yourself standing in is dimly lit with lamplight; it’s been kept tidy enough, but the mismatched chairs and the ragged rug and the wooden shelves and all the odd little things on the shelves are just a bit too bent and banged and tattered, and everything seems dingy at the edges; the spare concrete floor and the thick windowpanes are encrusted with salt, making the scenery appear as an abstract blur, only really discernible from the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks.

it’s a sound you’re very familiar with. whenever you aren’t dreaming, you live in a hive by the sea, too.

you take a seat by the dying fire, glancing at the pages of the open book that’s been left there. you won’t be able to read the looping words scrawled there by some unsteady hand—you already know that from the many other times you’ve had this dream. that doesn’t stop you from trying, though.

there is a distinct feeling of absence here, you think, after you give up and settle deeper into the comfortably worn chair. it’s too big for you. you aren’t short by any means, but your feet almost don’t reach the floor.

absence—as if someone was here just moments ago, just before you arrived. you can’t explain it, only feel it: a charge in the air, someone’s unbreathed breath left behind, somebody’s trail of thought you’ve tripped across. something infuriatingly intangible that’s here but that isn’t yours.

from the small adjacent kitchen comes a wavering scream, steadily increasing in volume—shit, that always happens after you sit down in the chair and try to read the writing. somehow, it still manages to startle you, just like it did the first time.

even now, you are far too nervous to laugh at yourself for it, even though you know it’s only the kettle.

dutifully, you get up to turn off the hob. the scream dies down to a sigh.

you follow the same steps you always do when you visit this place. one by one, you examine the items carefully laid out there in the kitchen: the chipped mug, the leaf juice bag, the spoon and the small bowl of sugar.

(what if you tried something different this time?)

so, ignoring the arrhythmic banging sound coming from behind you—you know it’s only the door, left ajar and caught by the wind—you fix yourself a cup of tea. there’s no grub milk to be found anywhere, but you suppose you can do without it, under the circumstances.

normally, after turning off the kettle, you’d retreat away from the kitchen, further inside—away from that repeatedly slamming door. you would find your way to a long spiraling staircase made of thick rusting metal and begin to climb, up and up, toward the steadily turning light at the very top, driven there by a burning curiosity.

and just before you would reach it, you would wake up, pump biscuit thumping hard in your chest from the long, strenuous climb, and you would go find your lusus and tell him about it, maybe, or just go back to sleep, or give up and just get out of your recuperacoon for the night—see if maybe anybody was online to troll yet.

well, not this time. this time, you stand in the cramped kitchen and sip your tea, and you wonder about the writing in the book, and the absence.

(why not try going through the open door?)

you stand rooted to the spot, leaning against the counter oh so casually, and warily watch that door slam itself against its frame again and again while you drink the tea.

a little shiver tears through your body, though you aren’t cold. you wonder if Einnal would make fun of you for being afraid, if he was here. that’d be rich. he’s probably the biggest coward you know.

you set the mug down decisively and stride toward the door, catching it mid-swing.

the waves are high, but not the worst you’ve ever seen. the salt spray catches you in the face as you lean out the door. it’s nice, though, familiar.

from a glance, it’s maybe an hour before dawnfall. the clouds are boiling, tumultuous as the sea, the sky beyond them still dark as a bruise. every half minute or so, the sweeping beam of the lighthouse briefly illuminates the stormclouds. every time, though, it’s gone too soon, leaving only a bright afterimage behind.

you lean further out of the doorframe, into the chill wind, to squint up at the pale shapes lurking among the clouds. they’re big—very big. that’s about as much as you can see from here.

there’s nobody else out here. you are alone.

you grip the edges of the doorframe tightly when your feet begin to leave the ground, but it’s no use. you’re airborne in moments, along with several sizeable chunks of rocky coastline.

(it’s easy enough to keep yourself calm. it’s only a dream, after all.)

slowly, you float up and up and up, parallel to the lighthouse tower. it’s massive, yet still dwarfed by the jagged, rocky landscape it’s nailed into like a stake. you don’t recognize this shoreline at all.

fleetingly, through the windows, you can see a shadowy figure inside the tower, steadily climbing up those spiral stairs—he looks like you, could that really be you? yourself, dreaming a different dream? or…

you’ve lost sight of him. you can’t see through the windows at this angle.

you look down. the sea is wild beneath you. it’s colder now, up here, caught as you are in the whims of the wind. you sort of wish you had worn a sweater to sleep.

at last, your flight has brought you level with that massive beacon at the top of the lighthouse—and then higher still, with no way to stop or slow down.

the figure emerges from the staircase, stepping out onto the top level.

it can’t be you, after all. it’s someone else, someone—older, maybe, though there certainly is a resemblance.

his long cloak billows dramatically in the wind.

he’s missing his right arm.

he’s looking right at you.

you stare back at him as he gradually recedes into the distance, smaller and smaller, until he’s no more than a speck.

you’ve flown so high—you’re about to be swallowed by the turbulent swirl of thick, dark clouds above you. for some reason, you find yourself holding your breath, as though you’re afraid you might drown in them, but no such thing happens. the moment you’re submerged into the sea of clouds is perfectly painless.

you can’t see anything anymore, though. you have no sense of direction left at all. even the sounds of the ocean are significantly muted, way up here.

a few minutes pass before you realize

(you’re not alone)

there are gigantic creatures circling you from a distance—the same ones you saw from the ground, perhaps.

that distance is rapidly shrinking, though. they’re swimming closer every minute. dream or not, you’re finding it more and more difficult not to outright panic—you have nothing here to defend yourself with, you’re not even wearing shoes, for fuck’s sake—

but then—then—

you emerge from the dark clouds entirely, abruptly, clumsily. you’re still ascending, Alternia’s ever so slight curvature now visible to you at this dizzying height. the impending dawn is threatening the horizon in earnest now.

the sharks don’t follow you out into the open air, preferring to remain half-concealed in the clouds instead. you almost can’t believe your luck. you watch their fins circling below and can’t help but exhale a shaky breath, but…

but before you can feel too great a sense of relief, you look up,

and see a creature there far larger than any shark, of either the sea or sky variety: a giant sky-squid, white as bone. its tentacles alone seem to span half (maybe more) of the length of the shoreline, far below.

it’s marked with countless scars, from countless battles. there are thousands of tridents and spears and harpoons stuck in its massive body, the great majority of them broken, it seems. one of its tentacles has been entirely blown apart, the ragged stump now long-healed, by the looks of it.

it’s seen you now. it seems to regard you not only with blank, stupid, wild-animal hostility, but…with caution. maybe you’re only imagining it.

one thing you know for certain, though, as you stare unblinking into its huge and ancient eye: this is the bastard that took your arm.

no doubt about that.

in spite of its great size, it’s fast, and you’re unarmed. you never stood a chance.

you scramble for one of the weapons stuck in its mantle, anything—but none are even close enough to reach, let alone to pry loose. the last thing you see before you’re swallowed whole is the lighthouse, far below, still signaling steadily across the waves as the sun begins to rise.

---

[bi-bi-want-dragon]

Hiccstrid Week 2024

Day 3: to discover / to explore || braids

Astrid groaned as the morning sun cut through the door of her hut. She was in bed much later than usual, and she was still in no hurry to get up. Her whole body ached from the previous day’s Dragon Hunter attack, particularly her-

“Ah!” Astrid hissed as she absentmindedly tried to use her right hand to sit herself up. She immediately took her weight off the hand, falling back in bed and cradling it to her chest. Dammit, Hiccup was right. It was broken for sure, at least her fingers were. She groaned internally as she imagined the “I told you so” that would surely be coming.

Getting dressed was an uphill battle to say the least. By the time she was finished the aching in her hand had gotten so bad she could confidently count her heartbeat from her fingers. She thought maybe she’d be lucky enough that her braid had held up through the night, but when she felt her hair with her uninjured left hand she could tell it had fallen out. She sighed. This was going to hurt.

She had managed to undo her hair and brush through it with her left hand alone. She pulled the top of her hair back and tried to braid without bending the fingers of her right hand, but that proved quite difficult. So she thought she could just push through the pain and get it done quickly.

That quickly ended in screaming and cursing. Mostly cursing.

“Uh, Astrid? Everything alright?”

She stifled a groan. Here we go. “Yeah, Hiccup, I’m fine.” She must have missed the sound of his footsteps under her yelling.

She expected a sarcastic quip, but when he didn’t say anything she turned to look at him. He was just staring at her from the doorway, eyes wide and mouth just slightly ajar. Astrid blushed, realizing he’d never seen her with her hair down. Even Toothless noticed his best friend’s trance, though he merely rolled his eyes and found a comfy place to lay down and watch the show just inside the door.

She pushed the hair on the left side of her face behind her ear. “I, uh… Just having trouble with the braid.”

Hiccup slowly blinked back to life. “T-trouble with the… Because of your hand?”

She flinched. “Maybe.”

Hiccup hesitated - a first, Astrid noted - before he stepped into her hut and slowly crossed the distance between them. His eyes stayed mostly on the floor until he reached out his hand as he approached her. “Let me see,” he gently requested.

Astrid quietly held out her right hand, struggling to find a comfortable way to hold her fingers.

He leaned over and gently cupped her hand in his, hovering his other hand over them as he carefully inspected the damage. He turned her hand over in his a few times, just barely grazing over her skin with his rough, worn fingers. It felt nice, like stroking a piece of old, well-worn leather.

Hiccup shook his head. “I don’t like the way this bruising looks. I knew we should have splinted it last night.” He looked up at her, and Astrid couldn’t help but notice his eyes stealing glances at her hair. “If you come by after you’ve gotten something to eat, I should have something ready for you by then. Shouldn’t take me too long to make.”

Astrid sighed. So much for training today. “Alright, fine. I’ll come over soon. If I can ever get this hair braided, that is,” she added, brushing the loose strands back again. She hated how it blocked her vision when it fell forward.

“Well it looks pretty like that,” he offered.

Astrid blushed.

Hiccup’s eyes widened slightly. “P-p-pretty d-different, I mean, it’s-it’s different. Good different! It looks- It’s a good look on you, it’s good.”

Astrid couldn’t help smiling. “Thanks, Hiccup.”

He nodded, avoiding eye contact now. “Uh… You know, if, uh…” He scratched his face and pushed his hair back. “I-I could braid your hair for you, if you want.”

Astrid raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“I mean, I braid my hair all the time,” he quipped, gesturing to the tiny braids behind his ear.

Astrid chuckled. “Are you sure? I do have a lot more hair than that.”

He shrugged in that bouncy, hand-waving, Hiccup-y way. “Talk me through it. I’m a fast learner.”

Astrid smiled and held out the tie for her hair. “Alright, go for it.”

She had to admit, it felt nice having someone else brush her hair. A strand or two would occasionally catch on a break in his skin on his hand, but she didn’t mind. He was gentle and slow, making sure to not pull too hard. Astrid found herself closing her eyes and relaxing into his touch far too easily. She smiled softly to herself. She could already feel that it wasn’t going to be the tightest or neatest braid she’d had by far. But he could only get better with practice, right?

Maybe letting him do her braids for a while wouldn’t be so bad.

[beetlearmand]

saw this picture and started thinking about all those fics where benson hunts down randy and chases him through the woods as foreplay...goddamn.

[hey-whats-the-holdup]

Do u think in the benson lives au where randy and benson go on the run that like ten years later someone asks hailey about her brother and shes just like “yeah my brother got kidnapped by his coworker. Theyre probably married in alaska by now”

[eringobragh420]

♣️ Pairing — Randy Orton ♡ f!Reader (past Miz ♡ f!Reader) (no use of y/n) ♣️ Summary — Takes place in late 2010. Randy’s had feelings for Kelly Kelly’s cousin, a new interviewer for WWE, but she’s been dating The Miz. Following their breakup, and a monumental cash in on a random episode of Monday Night Raw, Randy doesn’t want to pretend anymore. ♣️ Word Count — 1.8k 🛑 Warnings — None ♣️ Taglist — If you'd like to be added, please click here! ♣️ Requested By — Anonymous. Hope you enjoy! (I also had to take a few liberties with the idea to make it work, so I hope that’s okay.) ♣️ MASTERLIST

She stood waiting patiently as the hair and makeup artists put their final touches on her camera-ready face. She clutched the microphone with the iconic WWE logo, a company she’d never dreamed of working for, her palm still sweaty even after nearly a year working here. She was becoming more and more comfortable with each passing week, and less and less depressed about the break up with Mike. And she wondered, like everyone else, why she’d even been depressed in the first place, considering the asshole had cheated on her. She looked up toward the ceiling as the makeup artist applied some last minute touch ups to her eyeliner. She couldn’t thank her cousin, Kelly, enough for getting her foot in the proverbial door, but she would surely hold a grudge against her for the foreseeable future for also introducing her to the Miz.

She heard a familiar voice nearby and her heart began to gallop. Why couldn’t Randy Orton have been the one to sit next to her and her cousin in catering on her first day instead of Mike? Not that anything would have happened between them necessarily, but if he’d been sitting there, maybe Mike wouldn’t have stopped, introduced himself and laid those baby blue eyes on her. Oh well, none of it mattered now. The only thing weighing on her shoulders was conducting this interview as professionally as possible. When she was finally able to look straight ahead again, she spotted the WWE Champion headed toward her in all his six foot five inch, 250 pound magnificence. He wore his trunks, and his tanned, sculpted body had already been lubed up to accentuate those muscles. The title was slung over his shoulder proudly, just where she and everyone else expected it to be after the upcoming match with Wade Barrett.

Peeling her eyes away from Randy, she went over the questions she was supposed to ask him once the interview started. There wasn’t much room for improv or interpretation, not with Vince around, so their interaction had already been laid out in front of her in black and white. She anticipated no issues. And when she anticipated no issues, in her experience, that’s usually when the issues arose. She turned the page of her script, and a pair of black boots stepped into her line of sight. She could smell him—cleanliness mixed with whatever he’d doused his body in to make it glisten. Her gaze rose from his boots to his dense thighs, to his trunks and a bulge she instantly looked away from, only to land on his six pack. She then followed those muscles outward to the tattoos on his arms, his well-defined biceps. His chest was ample and solid, half covered by the sparkling title belt, and she wasn’t sure she’d make it out of this interview with dry panties.

This wasn’t the first time she’d conversed with Randy, on camera or otherwise, but there seemed to be an aura of unrealized tension between them. Was he simply in his head trying to prepare for the match? Was he somehow unhappy with her work? Would he rather have had someone else ask the questions? He’d always been cordial to her, joking, and sometimes she thought he might have been flirting with her, but then she realized she was her and he was Randy and no way would he ever be interested in her, especially with all the gorgeous Divas running around half-naked.

Oh well, she thought, whether he likes it or not, the show must go on. She handed her script and notes to a nearby producer as she was told the time they had left before the commercial was over and they were live again. 

“So,” Randy spoke, voice deep and quiet, not interested in having the rest of the world hear their conversation. She looked at him, thinking for sure he wasn’t speaking to her, and so she looked behind her, finding nobody there. She turned back to Randy, he was smirking, and she felt her cheeks ignite. “I’m talkin’ to you,” he assured her. “How are you?”

“Oh,” she stammered, swallowing thickly. “I’m good, thanks. How are you?”

“I’m great,” he replied, nodding at the belt over his shoulder, “but I meant more like … how are you? I heard you and Miz broke up.”

She gaped up at him, eyes round and drying quick. It was true, everyone knew―not that she’d been the one to tell anybody, no, that had been Mike. The man was actually proud he’d cheated, blaming it on her and telling anyone who would listen how terrible of a lay she’d been, so naturally he’d had to seek out other women to satisfy his physical needs. Or some dumb shit. The last thing she wanted to do while in the company of Randy Orton was think about Mike or talk about Mike.

“Of course you did,” she sighed. “Honestly, I really don’t wanna talk about it—”

“Oh, I don’t either,” Randy cut her off. The producer warned them they had thirty seconds before they were to go live. “Just wanted to be sure you’re okay.” 

Her head tilted, and after a moment she smiled. “I’m okay,” she replied softly. “You’re actually the first person to say that, aside from Kelly. So thank you. It means a lot.”

Randy massaged the back of his neck, and were his cheeks tinged in pink? “Yeah, well, uh,” he stammered, and she hid her grin behind the microphone. “Miz is an ass. You deserve better.”

Her gaze dropped to the floor momentarily as her body waged a Great War with her mind. Her body wanted to fling itself at Randy in the hopes that he’d catch her, dip her, and kiss her, like they did in the old movies. Her mind screamed that she was a moron and if she did throw herself at him, it would likely end badly, both with Randy and the WWE. It was a quick battle, her mind coming out victorious when she convinced her body that the man was probably just being polite, and there was no double meaning behind you deserve better, no matter how bad she wanted there to be.

“That’s really sweet,” she resigned to say. “I appreciate it. Maybe someday I’ll meet a guy as charming as you are.” Although Mike had been quite charming in the beginning, he was more of a creepy charming, in that he would say something cute, but finish it with something dirty.

“Actually—” Randy started, but he was cut off by the producer with another warning about time. 

The interviewer and interviewee both checked themselves for anything out of place, and Randy readjusted the title on his shoulder before they were given the countdown from ten. When the camera went live, she forgot all about Mike and even the sweet thing Randy had said to her, as she focused on remembering the questions and her proper responses and reactions. But Randy was different. She wasn’t sure if anyone else noticed, but he seemed to hold her gaze for longer than he normally would when replying to her interrogation. He even reached out and touched her arm a few times during the segment, and she had to steel herself to keep from actually, physically, literally swooning. 

It had been so long since a man had handled her so softly, and that’s why her reaction had been overdramatic, she reasoned. He was just a nice guy, trying to make her feel better. Nothing more, nothing less, she thought, just as she sent the broadcast back to Michael Cole, Jerry Lawler, and the newest commentator to the team: CM Punk.

“So, listen,” Randy started.

“Sorry, we have another quick segment to film,” the producer interrupted.

The interviewer turned to Randy. “Thanks again,” she said. “Have a good match. Kick Barrett’s ass.” 

She was whisked away to another room backstage, and it was in this room, after taping the segment and toward the end of the show, where she would watch on the hanging television as the members of Wade’s faction, Nexus, attacked Randy as he was headed to the ring for their title match. She was all but biting her nails through the contest, which already saw the Viper at a disadvantage, and her heart stopped when John Cena interfered, consequently allowing Randy to RKO Barrett and retain the title. She jumped from the uncomfortable couch, clapping, and her heels clicked as she jumped up and down.

Sensing a presence and noticing something out of the corner of her eye, she glanced through the opened door to the hallway. Mike stood there in full gear, Money in the Bank Briefcase in hand, and his entire body was trembling. His once crystal clear eyes were now overcome with absolute abhorrence, and she tried to do some quick mathematics to see if she’d have enough time to close and lock the door before he could get inside. Hearing the commentators erupt on the television, she impulsively looked to see what was going on. Nexus was again battering Randy, and her body deflated as fear overwhelmed her. She remembered Mike. Looking back to the hallway, she found it empty.

“Mike!” she yelled, running into the hallway, but it was too late. She took her heels off so she could jog a little faster, taking a different route than Mike had to get to the ring. She stood in the background, powerless, as Mike cashed in, as Randy received a skull crushing finale, as Randy was pinned, and as Mike became the new WWE Champion.

Back in Gorilla, she waited, bouncing from one bare foot to the other, as Randy carefully made his way in her direction. Mike, however, came through the curtain first, brandishing the title and that stupid, shit-eating grin on his face.

“What do you think about that?” he taunted, shoving the belt in her face. “Huh? Who’s the man now? I got—”

A fist came out of nowhere, clocking Mike right in the temple, and he toppled to the floor, landing on the belt. She barely had time to look from the mess of Mike on the floor to who owned the face before Randy was wrapping his hand around the back of her head and pulling her lips to his. He was sweaty and bloody, skin the temperature of lava, and he was huge and imposing, but his kiss was soothing and adoring. Her arms snuck around his neck as she returned the gesture in kind, although her kiss might have been a little more desperate. She felt his lips curve into a smile just before he wrapped one arm around her waist, hoisting her into the air, and she threw her legs around him before she fell back to the floor. They separated to catch their breath, foreheads pressed together.

Replying to Mike’s earlier question, Randy rumbled, “I’m the man,” and kissed her again as she giggled.

[ubeng-ubas]

feels like being out of your own body