୨ৎ .ᐟ 𝐇𝐄’𝐒 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐍𝐄 ── randy orton.
. ݁₊ ⊹ plot: you’ve been with the wwe for as long as you can remember and randy orton has always been around you (being great friends) since you arrived, but he’s nicer to you than he is to others. so, when you insist that he’s just being “nice”, everyone can tell you don’t know any better. however, when candid photos of you and randy start going around that look like you two are more than just friends, it dawns on you that randy has wanted to be more than just “nice” for a while now.
. ݁₊ ⊹ notes: this is a request from an anon, so this is for them, whoever they may be!!
you’re in your zone, pacing down the hallway in the td garden, ipad in one hand, phone on speaker, reciting a hotel confirmation number to one of the wwe's travel agents while texting someone at the same time.
your leather satchel is slung low on your shoulder. your other bag, a rolling carry-on with travel documents inside slams into your ankle. "shit...! ow.", you curse under your breath, adjusting the strap of your satchel—you were very clearly stressed.
suddenly, out of nowhere, randy orton popped up behind you, quiet as a church mouse. you and randy have been good friends for the longest.
it was surprising how acquainted randy could get with a random talent relations coordinator, but when you first met him and treated him like a human and not "the viper", not fangirling over him hysterically, like a regular person...
...well, he found that intriguing. and once he started to find you alone time and time again backstage, you started slowly opening up and boom, you two are friends! quick, to say the least.
safe to say, it happened that fast because you never went out of your way to try to impress him. that’s just how you did things.
anyhow, randy came out of the blue, helping you out like he loved to do. "what'd the hotel mess up this time?", he asks, grabbing your satchel without being asked.
he’d known you for long enough that he knew when something had happened.
"zayn and breakker (you travel coordinated for all brands) were somehow sent to a days inn with a bug problem. ugh.", you sighed, tucking your phone between your shoulder and your ear, now on hold by the hotel, because of course you were.
switching your bag from his left to his right, the backs of his fingers brush your arm; slow and easy. now realizing that he'd taken your bag off of you, you snort. "sheesh. you know i lift in my spare time, right?"
"yeah", he drawls. "still like doin' shit for you." he follows you to where you're going: a room near gorilla just for holding the superstars between whatever they have scheduled for tonight, with tv monitors playing and multiple chairs scattered everywhere.
this room is where you were always stationed if you weren’t anywhere else in an arena at the moment.
you step into the room, reading the sign next to the door before entering. "talent holding".
this room was completely optional for the wrestlers to be in, so it was a coin toss if anyone would be in there at any time throughout the night.
once situated, you check the list on your ipad of superstars who are here tonight and making sure they're registered for the same hotel as everyone else. you don't need another sami/bron situation.
you also checked the master timesheet and call list, making sure those lined up. that last part isn't your job, but you like to make sure everything's correct so no issues can be had later. you loved a stress-free environment when it could be had.
after randy sits your carry-on in an empty corner of the room, he gets closer to you to look at your ipad screen with you. he hooks an arm lazily around your waist.
it's not a possessive grab. more of a faint graze that might as well have been nothing. you stop what you're doing for long enough to look over your shoulder and see randy looking like a curious cat. "need something?" he smirks.
"you." your heart jumped to your ass before he continued, "to tell me if my promo got bumped." you let out the heaviest sigh through your nose, wondering why the hell he would phrase that sentence like that.
still, you scroll through the file, not noticing the way his eyes briefly fall to your ass as you do so. finding his name next to his designated promo time that was still the same, you zoom in to show him. "nope.", you said, popping the "p". "you're still closing hour two. relax." he leans closer. too close.
"can't relax when you seem this stressed, sweetheart. need someone lookin' out for you.", he replied. you roll your eyes, laughing at your friend's ridiculousness.
after smackdown's over, everyone's tired out and they seem to all be in catering. since it was packed to the brim this particular night, you find the last available table, wanting to eat whatever they were serving too.
your ipad's with you once again, like it always is, sitting next to your plate of roasted brussels sprouts and jasmine rice pilaf, plus a small slice of boston cream pie (you told yourself you earned it after running around all night), and some iced coffee.
notes, reminders, and schedules already lit up the device for any extracurricular events and for next friday.
randy comes out of nowhere again, flopping into the seat next to you like he owns it.
in the chatter of everybody else in the area, he murmured, "you didn't text me back." regarding what the text was, it made sense (to you) that you didn’t answer it.
it was: “did you pack my phone charger?” “…you asked if i packed your phone charger.”, you said with a smile. “you’re a grown-ass man.”
he reached over and stole a brussels sprout off of your plate. counter-arguing back, “you said i was your responsibility on the road.” he shrugged.
you snorted, trying not to laugh too loudly at the way he said that—like he was your child and you the mommy. “i said that to get you to stop yelling at almost every TSA agent at every airport we travel through!”
meanwhile, you two are nonchalantly sharing your food. you’re nudging his leg under the table when he tickles your ankle with his foot. it’s all very comfortable. too comfortable.
someone (that someone being la knight) passes by and mutters with a laugh, “jesus. he’s got it bad.” you somehow hear him and wave a dismissive hand, mouth full of rice.
“puh-lease. he’s just nice.” about a half hour later, the crowd of people has thinned out and everyone’s a little lower on energy. then, you remembered reading a notification that changed the start time of some fan event later this week from 11:00 to 1:30.
you should probably tell him. you get closer to randy, whispering the info to him, so he’d know about it, since he was one of the scheduled superstars at the event. wouldn’t want him to show up too early.
one hand of yours is cupping his ear so he can hear you clearly, and the other is slung over the back of his chair, fingers lightly brushing his neck without you even realizing it.
one of his hands are resting on your thigh, two fingers absently tapping against the fabric of your dress pants.
you don’t notice at all.
and then, byron saxton comes from somewhere, and, spotting you and randy cozying up to each other, raises his phone as discreetly as he can, acting like he’s checking for something on the device, before taking the loudest photo possible of you two.
wanting to know if there’s anything going on between you and mr. orton, he asks, “you two together, or…?” you sit up suddenly, choking on your own spit.
“what? ew, no!!”, you blurted. randy doesn’t even blink. doesn’t deny it, either. he just keeps eating whatever’s left of your boston cream pie, still touching you.
“he’s just—he’s just like that with everyone.”, you insist. joe tessitore snorts, walking past while leaving for the night.
“yeah, okay. he shares food and plays footsie with everyone else too?” umm, how had he even known you two were playing “footsie” under the table?
whatever.
checking your ipad and answering texts, you head towards your rental car. mostly everyone had left and production trucks were staring to make their way out as well.
randy’s walking beside you.
“you never sit with anyone else in catering.”, he uttered casually, trying to make you see where he was going with that; “that” being that you must have liked him in a romantic capacity, in some way.
distracted, you reply, “i sit where there’s space.” he stops walking and you don’t see he’s not next to you until he calls your name from a short distance away.
“y/n.” you turn to look. he’s standing still, hands in his shorts pockets, eyes low. “d’ya really think i act like this with everyone…?” you look at the ground and swallow softly.
you don’t have an answer. that’s because you didn’t know if you wanted the answer to be “yes” or “no”.
you didn’t have much luck with love, so when someone tried to get past that friend stage, you never noticed unless they literally yelled it at you and even if they could get past it, because of something your first (and only) boyfriend said about you and your age and being so “childish” just a day before he broke up with you, you just… assumed people looked at you like a kid, because of said romantic naïvety.
turns out having no clue what to do with a boyfriend does you no good in the real dating world. (obviously, but you didn’t dwell too much on that fact.)
but for randy, he was a man that’s gotten closer than most men you’ve known and he was being more than obvious than your first boyfriend was (when he was trying to ask you out), that he liked you and you still couldn’t see that.
hm. he grinned, sharp and slow, seeing you had no answer for him. “didn’t think so.” and he walks to his rental car without even looking back at you.
bright lighting, gear racks, two folding tables with bottled water and small snacks and makeup kits.
it was the friday after next, and you were currently in the media prep room, getting fitted with a sleek, tight black dress for a pre-taped segment you were in later that night, where you'd just be a background extra talking timing with a superstar for their later segment.
you're listening closely if the one crew member always present in this room called for you to go on, your ever present ipad tucked under one arm, leisurely chatting in the amounts of free time you had.
during a good conversation you were having with alexa bliss about you just loving her little friendship with charlotte flair they'd had together lately, carmelo hayes strolled over with a smile on his face.
he pushes his shades down off of his eyes, trying to get your attention. and he does, as you hold up your index finger, telling lexi to wait just a moment while you see what melo wants.
you turn to him with a soft beam. he looks you from top to bottom, one of his eyebrows raising like he’s intrigued. “what? something wrong?”, you giggle out.
his eyes blow wide like he’s very surprised by what you were wearing. every superstar has only ever seen you in leggings, dress pants, or modest skirts. not slick pieces like what you currently had on.
“wooooww, black dress for a lil’ background part? guess we’re stepping up the game tonight.”
“it’s called professionalism, christian.”, you smirked, doing a little dance to show off the small sparkles on the dress. melo let out a low whistle.
“professionalism looks good on you.” at some point, randy made his way into the room, needing to be there to make sure he was all good before a promo of his own in just a few.
he’s in a conversation of his own with a road agent, discussing the finish of his match that’s a little after his promo that he has against drew mcintyre later tonight.
he glances over for the smallest second and he clocks the sight instantly—you laughing like a schoolgirl at something melo said, his head tilted, your body angled toward him.
it was clear you didn’t know he was flirting with you. randy’s conversation with the road agent died mid-sentence and the agent just shut up when he noticed randy wasn’t paying attention to him anymore.
randy excused himself with nothing but a “‘scuse me” and started walking over to you and melo. he was slow. unhurried. every step deliberate and intentional. his eyes don’t leave you the entire time he’s making his way over.
whoever was in his way while he was walking over subtly moves aside.
when he makes it, he stands over you, you looking up to see who it is, his fingers grazing the dip where your back lead into your butt.
when randy finally spoke, it was dry and barbed. he was trying to get melo to go the hell away. “didn’t know you made time for fanboys now.”, he told you.
he had a shark-like wry grimace on his face and his eyes were fixed on carmelo in a predatory way.
like the “viper” side of him was coming out.
after carmelo nervously laughed, but wasn’t moving any, he inconspicuously angled his body between melo and y/n, which forced melo move back half a step.
his hand moved up from your waist to your shoulder; not a casual “good job” type pat, but a slow, possessive grip, thumb brushing the exposed skin of your collarbone.
he scanned melo from his hairline to his boots, deliberate in such a way that it was disrespectful.
melo then got the message.
he nodded, laughed (which was as brief and awkward as it could get), and then made up some quick excuse about “having to get back to gorilla”, promptly leaving.
you turned around, softly stomping your foot like an angry toddler. “randy! you scared him off!”
randy shrugs, low voiced, "didn't like how he was lookin' at you." you laughed him off.
"you're ridiculous. he was just being nice." randy then stepped away, content that no more men were approaching you.
but, randy murmured under his breath as he did so, "you say that like i'm ever "ridiculous".
eight days later, half of the smackdown and raw rosters are on a shared bus coming from a house show, traveling to the assigned hotel so the superstars can rest up for the night before getting ready to leave for the next city, which was manchester, new hampshire.
the dark sky occasionally filtered slivers of moonlight through the windows, lighting up the inside of the bus, alongside with roadside lamps.
that post-show fatigue still hung in the air, bags stacked overhead, the tires' humming muffled on the highway.
you were riding along the entire week to make sure everyone who was scheduled for this week was here the whole time, from the past monday to the upcoming friday.
but right now, you were just as tired as everybody else. your head was slumped onto the bus window, scrolling half-heartedly on your phone, on the verge of falling asleep.
your hair was still slightly damp from the quick post-show shower you oddly enough took. the glass was cool against the side of your temple, pulling you closer into sleepiness.
a couple of the guys are in the back trading jokes about something, namely aj styles and montez ford. the bus driver’s radio crackles with static. the ac hums.
randy was sat next to you the whole ride and without a word, he drops his hoodie that was sitting on his lap over your lap, the clothing piece heavy and warm.
you’re so sleepy, you barely even register what happened, but you still mutter, “…you know ‘m not cold, right??” contradicting what you’d just told randy, you pulled the hoodie over you anyway.
a faint detail you take notice of is the scent left lingering on the hoodie: clean laundry, with some hints of cologne and arena musk lingering. you take a deep breath, taking the smell in, not aware you did that at the moment.
it honestly was weird to you that randy had even took a seat next to you.
sure, he’d loved to be around you and you him, but when it came to having to travel on a bus for any reason, he usually sat at the back with the boys. it’s different now.
his thighs press into yours even though there’s an armrest separating your seats. he was just that huge a guy.
one of his arms drapes loosely along the back of your seat—it seems casual, but it isn’t casual. his gaze is set forward at first, jaw shifting as if he’s mulling something over.
after a minute, he finally glances down at you, his voice dropping to make sure only you can hear him. “you ever wonder why i treat you different?”
as weary as you were, you couldn’t ignore randy and plus… what the hell was he talking about? you blink, caught off guard by that out-of-nowhere question. “you don’t.” he laughs, but it’s not really a laugh.
it’s more of a sharp exhale through his nose, tinged with disbelief. how could you not see it? “y/n. i fuckin’ do.” he leans back slightly, watching your face, like he’s waiting for you to connect the dots.
instead, you shake your head, brushing him off once again. “nooo, randy, you’re just… like that. with everyone.” his brows lift because you have to be fucking with him.
there’s an edge in his tone now. “name one other girl i tuck in with my jacket on this damn bus. go ahead.” he shifts even closer to you. his voice dropped even deeper than it did before.
not angry, but loaded. you open your mouth. close it. if anyone were to look at your face, they could see you running through your memories, trying to find an example. you don’t. the space between you and randy is charged now.
his gaze steady, yours flicking anywhere but his face. he leans back, looking out the window of the seats across the aisle, his jaw tight. “didn’t think so.” silence stretches.
outside, a mile marker flashes by.
in your hotel room, the sleep you’d been getting was absolutely fucking wonderful. and for some terrible reason, your body’s clock woke you up when you didn’t even want to.
as soon as your eyes slowly blinked open, bleary, you automatically grab your phone and your instagram notifications are blown the hell up. …hello?
what had happened? you open the app, thumb sliding through your home page, but notifs are still pouring in.
tags, mentions, just people blowing up your phone. finally, you scroll until you come across the post that seems to have taken instagram by storm. you squint. what are you looking at?
letting your eyes focus, you start to notice what exactly the photo is. it’s you.
you slumped against randy orton’s shoulder in catering, cheek tucked on his shoulder, his hand loose but firm on your thigh. hoodie pooled across the both of you.
unt-unt, when was this taken?? and by WHO?? the post had thousands of likes, and comments were literally being posted each second you opened and closed the comments section.
the people loved the picture, saying what they felt needed to be said about the situation in the post:
chairshotqueen
they’re totally fucking 💀
legendkillerlvr69
not her stealing THE randy orton
wrestlegirlies
he looks at her like he hung the stars 😭
tagteamtea
oh this isn’t coworkers this is intimate.
@kayfabekween has already screenshotted the photo and posted it to their twitter, with the caption, “new wwe power couple?? 👀”
the post gets so much traction in the few minutes it’s already been posted, it’s ridiculous!
your mouth literally goes dry because it’s been dropped in shock since you saw the post on insta.
your face heats up and your stomach flips, like the world just said “oops!” and shoved you off of a ledge.
you share the two posts to randy via messages, hoping he’s awake to see how silly fans are acting over (what you think is) nothing, with a:
wtf is this LMAO people are delusional 😭😭😭
your fingers hover over the screen, exiting and re-entering the chat, waiting for his little typing bubble to pop up.
nothing.
hours pass by. lunchtime has come and gone. the sound unit of the behind the scenes team pass soundchecks for tomorrow, which was monday night.
you check your phone three more times in a row, hoping for anything. still nothing. paranoia officially started to set in—did randy see your message? did he even care??
did you embarrass him?? did you make an already tense situation worse…?
finally, your phone dings. a message—a message!! you pull your phone out of your pocket so fast, it almost falls to the floor. you click on the notif and it is from randy!!! it says:
are they?
just that. no emoji. no silly punctuation softening the blow. flat. sharp. like you’d pressed a nerve with your earlier text. you stared at your screen. at the message.
your heart’s beating like a drum. you laugh nervously at nothing in particular. you reply.
uh yeah??? obviously lol
the “lol” felt fake even as you typed it. he sees the message. the receipt changes from “seen” to “read”. but, he doesn’t respond as quickly as he usually does.
instead, he stopped responding at all. he left you… on read. on read?! you kept staring at your phone like it might cough up a message at any second now.
but… it doesn’t.
the hotel hallway is dim. the silence in the late-night hums along with the sound of vending machines buzzing.
your hands shake slightly as you swipe your keycard over the card reader to your room. red light. you try again. red.
you mutter under your breath, “stupid fuckin’ card! uggggh!!”, your cheeks hot with tiredness and feeling some tension between you and randy, your best friend, you were stressed all day.
and it wasn’t the usual “are they/aren’t they” tension you and randy always had—it was like holding a match to a stick of dynamite, and then when it blows up, freaking out over the results.
you calmed yourself down a bit, going to swipe the keycard once again slowly. footsteps approach behind you; steady and heavy. you freeze.
you turn around, ready to punch the shit out of whoever it was, but it’s just… randy. he’s got no hoodie on this time like he usually does.
instead, he’s in a tight black tee that stretches across his broad shoulders. his jaw is set. his eyes are dark and you can’t tell what emotion he’s currently feeling right now. he leans one arm casually on the wall, like he owned the hallway.
you blurt, a nervous laugh bubbling out of your lips. “you… didn’t answer my text earlier.” randy’s gaze doesn’t wander. his voice is rough.
“i was pissed off.” a pause. his eyes flick to your hands twiddling with your keycard, then back to your face.
“…tired of watchin’ you pretend i don’t want you.” he steps in closer. so close, you can feel the heat radiating off of him. he keeps his voice even, but every word lands heavy.
“i’ve been patient. i’ve touched you, held you, protected you, dropped every fuckin’ hint i got.” his jaw is now clenched, his breath near your ear now as he leans down.
“you’re the only one i call “baby”. you’re the only backstage member i know like the back of my hand.
you’re the only one i can’t stop lookin’ at.” your chest has been tight since he started. you try to break this thick unease with a laugh, although your voice is weak.
“you’re just—“
he cuts you off sharply, head shaking. “no. i’m not “just” anything. not with you.” your voice dropped, softer than either you or randy had ever heard.
“i… i thought you’d never want someone my age…” at the age of 25, how could you possibly think such a thing (in randy’s mind)?
for the first time, randy’s lips twitch into a smile; wolfish and sharp. he tilts his head, eyes burning into yours. “i want you. been wantin’ you since day one.” your hands fumble with your keycard again, your back now pressed against your room door.
but, your eyes never leave his. he takes just one step closer, and now, you can feel the heat off his chest. “you want me to stop, i’ll walk away right now.” your throat bobs as you swallow.
you don’t give him a verbal answer—just stare, lashes fluttering, then giving him the smallest shake of your head. his hand lifts. slow and deliberate.
his knuckles graze your jaw before cupping it, tilting your chin up until you have no choice but to meet his eyes.
the other hand plants against the door beside your head, caging you in without touching you. he rasps, voice steady but loaded, “you’re mine, baby. say it.”
it takes you a moment to find your voice. it finally comes out about 20 seconds later, barely a whisper, lips trembling, “…yours.”
the second the word leaves you, a soft but daring taunt, his control snaps like a frayed rope.
his mouth crashes into yours, not just a kiss, but a… a claim.
his lips are hot and demanding and when you gasp, he swallows the sound whole, his tongue sweeping in like he’s been starving for it. there’s nothing gentle about the situation.
the wet slide of his lower lip dragging against yours before he nips it, just hard enough to make you whimper, for example.
his hand spears into your hair, fingers tangling in the roots until he’s got a fistful, tilting your head just so. he deepens the kiss until you’re dizzy from barely any air.
the only thing you can focus on is the way his breath hitches when you eventually, eventually, kiss him back. his other hand?
that one’s stuck to your hip, palm splayed wide, hauling you against him so suddenly, you stumble.
he steadies you again and the door hits your back with a “thud!”, but you barely register it because holy shit, randy orton is hard everywhere—his chest and his thighs especially.
you claw at his shirt, fingers twisting in the damp fabric (when the hell did he get sweaty?), bunching it up like you’re trying to crawl inside his skin.
the muscles under your palm flex, and you moan into his mouth because fuck, he’s built like a goddamn wrecking ball, and you’ve been waiting too long to touch him. the kiss turns filthy fast.
it’s all sloppy, open-mouthed desperation—teeth clacking, tongues tangling, the kind of mess that should be embarrassing, but isn’t. not when he growls and it vibrates against your lips every time you arch into him.
he bites your bottom lip, then soothes the sting with a slow, wet drag of his tongue that makes your knees buckle.
you melt against him, but he’s ready for it, his arm banding around your waist, pinning you to the door.
his thumb traces your jaw, then your throat, like he’s memorizing the way your pulse jumps under his touch.
when he, after a while, pulls back, you’re both panting, his forehead pressed to yours, your breath mingling. his lips are swollen, his eyes dark and hungry. you can smell him.
…leather and sweat and that stupidly expensive cologne he wears, the one that made your brain short-circuit every time he walked into a room.
his thumb brushes your bottom lip, still damp from his mouth, and you bite the appendage playfully (at long last, getting the tone of a romantic moment), just to watch his pupils blow wide.
he leans in, kissing you again, but this time, it’s slow. meaningful. his lips ghost over yours, once, twice, like he’s savoring the taste of you. his voice is a rough whisper, his breath fanning over your mouth.
“not just friendly anymore, huh?”
