coconutlyalex

[coconutlyalex]

jax hates when you’re pissed at him. when you give him the cold shoulder—eyes sharp, words short. he hates even more how often he happens to piss you off. it’s happened so many times now, in fact, that he knows exactly how to handle it. his hands are already on your hips when you roll your eyes the second time and when you open your mouth to bitch at him some more—his mouth is already on yours. tongue swirling around your mouth like it’s his own.

and when you try pushing him away—his hands are wrapped around your wrists by the time you blink, pushing your arms above your head as he pins you against the door.

“you done bein’ a brat?” he breathes, nose brushing yours, breath hot and heavy from the kiss.

you glare. you don’t answer. you won’t give him the satisfaction. he grins—fucking grins—like you not answering is all the answer he needs. “mm. didn’t think so.”

his knee comes up between your thighs, spreading your legs wider against the door. he’s already rutting his hips against yours, slow and deliberate—just enough friction to make your eyes flutter shut for a second before you remember you’re mad.

“you’re such an ass,” you hiss.

“yeah?” he smirks. “but you love this ass. and you’re fuckin’ soaked already, baby. don’t lie.”

you want to slap him. or fuck him. maybe both. especially when he leans in again—voice all low and smug at your ear,

“wanna keep pretendin’ you’re mad? or you gonna be a good girl and let me make it up to you?”

his hand is already sliding under your shirt. you don’t stop him.

you never do.

not when he touches you like this. not when he knows you like this. not when he kisses the apology into your skin instead of saying it out loud—tongue and teeth and hands gripping your thighs like he’s never letting go.

[coconutlyalex]

I hate when I’m specifically looking for fluff and the only thing that pops up is smut

[coconutlyalex]

Under His Kutte

Pairing: Jax Teller x female reader

Words: 3.2k

Warnings: Rated E, 18+. Swearing. Sending a nude photo. Fingering. Unprotected intercourse.

Summary: When Jax forgets his kutte at your house, you make good use of it.

A/N: I am such a slut for this man especially when he wears a hat, and particularly when it's backwards. I stared at this photo for too long and needed to write about it, and with the help from @ramadiiiisme, this happened. Bonus action of The Hat™️ at the end 🫠

---

The same flustered excitement you felt in your stomach every time you saw Jax stirred up again despite having only said goodbye to him a few hours ago, the benefits of him having accidentally left his kutte behind continuing to grace you.

You placed it back on the sofa where he had carelessly discarded it last night, pretending as though you hadn’t seen it there as soon as you walked out of your bedroom earlier that morning, his rush to leave after being woken up by a phone call from Chibs making him forget his most treasured item of clothing.

You sat on the barstool at the kitchen island, sipping from a cup of coffee you had been nursing, smiling into the mug when you heard your door open and Jax strut through it as confidently and comfortably as usual.

“I left my kutte,” he explained, getting right to the point while glancing around your living room quickly, lifting up the blanket and a pillow off of the loveseat before spinning on the spot to begin his search of the sofa.

“Oh, did you? I hadn’t noticed,” you lied, your cheeks feeling a flush that was partly from the heat of the coffee but mostly from the sight of Jax. He had his Reaper Crew hat on backwards, sunglasses still on, and the sunshine had kissed the skin on his face to tint it with a healthy pink that was the same whenever he was fucking you.

Finally locating it, Jax held up his vest with a smile before shrugging it on and walking over to you, his smile bright and playful, and you knew his eyes held the same sparkle behind the black lenses that covered them that you could never forget.

He leaned down and kissed you, bracing his arms on either side of your body to land on the countertop and cage you in, forcing your body to arch back into it as he delved his tongue deep inside your mouth.

You hummed when he peeled himself away from you, your eyes feeling heavy with lust as you watched him lick his lips.

“Did you forget it on purpose?” you teased, slipping your hands beneath the leather panels to feel the warmth radiating off his body through his layers of faded shirts.

He chuckled, his hands reaching up to cup your face while he nudged your legs apart with his, standing close to you where he was able to grind his hips against you.

“You’d like to think that, wouldn’t you?”

You giggled when he grinned at you before capturing your lips again, pressing his bulge into your core to make you moan into his mouth, the fervor of your kiss growing with each pass of your tongues.

“Fuck!” he hissed, backing away from you but still holding your face in his hands. “I gotta go.”

You breathed out a disappointed sigh, tilting your head to the side as you watched him step away and try to collect himself, hoping he’d convince himself to stay for a hard and fast fuck.

His phone rang in his pocket, and he dug to answer it immediately, a hint of impatience in his voice. “Yeah, I’ll be right there. I said I’ll be right there…Five minutes! Jesus Christ.”

Jax flipped it shut and shook his head as he replaced it back in his pocket, closing the distance between you again with another smile on his face as soon as he looked at you.

“I’ll see you later.” he spoke sweetly, his tone completely different from the one he had just used to whatever poor soul had called him.

You nodded, smiling again as he kissed you once, then again, chuckling when he finally found the strength to stop and back away from you.

He stormed through to the front door in a few long strides, giving you one last grin as he shut the door behind him, and you grinned to yourself as you picked up your phone and sent him the photo you had taken just after he had called you to say he was stopping by.

You listened for the roar of his Harley to start up, feeling giddy as you waited to see if he checked his phone before taking off.

Standing, you walked over to the window, seeing him sitting on his bike looking at his phone with a huge smile on his face.

Your phone rang, his name and number lighting up the screen, and you answered through a smile so big it hurt your cheeks, “Did you forget something else?”

“Are you kidding me?” he asked, his amusement clear in his voice. “Jesus fucking Christ, how am I going to focus on anything now?”

“It’s just a little something to get you back here.”

“Like I need the help,” he said pointedly, starting his bike where it purred loudly through both the phone and the walls of your house.

“I’ll be back to deal with you soon,” he both promised and threatened, making heat surge through your body like wildfire.

“See you later, Teller.”

You hung up, tucking your lip between your teeth to stave off your smile as you looked at the photo you had sent again, feeling more than satisfied with the reaction it had gotten out of him.

You wore nothing but his kutte, your body that he had already made tired and sore from a sleepless night on full display under his leather, the bare skin on your chest bearing the claiming marks left by his mouth.

He took off quickly, his engine rumbling so loud it vibrated the house and sent a shiver down your spine, and you hoped whatever it was he was going to do was done quickly so he could get back to you soon.

You did everything you could think of to occupy yourself; laundry, dishes, even baked muffins and whipped up a casserole, knowing Jax would be hungry when he got there, or if he wasn’t, that he would be made hungry from all the things you did whenever you were together.

The impatience you felt was beginning to outgrow your arousal, the desperation in wanting to have your hands on him and his on you becoming too much to stand any longer.

Not two minutes later did you hear the distant grumble of his Harley tearing through your neighbourhood, your body conditioned over time to respond to that sound and awaken a neediness and desire that never seemed to be sated.

Even though you expected it, you still jumped when Jax barrelled through the door with a hungry and desperate look on his face as he stared you down while kicking off his white sneakers, his grin sly and crooked.

“Why the fuck aren’t you naked yet?” he panted, crossing the room to get to where you stood waiting for him.

“Isn’t half the fun undressing me?”

“Yeah, but when I’ve been staring at that pic you sent me all day, I kinda want to get to the point,” he explained, his eyebrows lifting upward while he tugged his jeans down to the floor.

He still had his ball cap on, worn with the bill of it facing forward this time, the shade casting on his face making his blue eyes glow like flames in the shadow.

Jax slipped his kutte off, placing it carefully on the back of the sofa as if making a point that he knew where it was or would be needing it again soon, and stepped toward you, tipping his head and giving you a piercing look.

“Now, get naked.”

You obeyed with a grin, crossing your arms to grab at the hem of his ‘SAMCRO’ t-shirt, pulling it over your head where you had the satisfaction of hearing Jax’s breath hitch when your tits became exposed, and tossed it on the floor beside you.

Remaining in your panties, you went to assist him with his clothes, only to have him grip your wrists, his long fingers wrapping around them securely.

“That’s not naked, sweetheart.”

You glared at him as he released you, making a point to slowly hook your thumbs in the waist of them and inch by torturous inch, crept them down your hips.

“Jesus Christ,” he huffed impatiently, even though he was still smiling.

A furious look flashed in his eyes when you pulled them back up to their rightful place, challenging what he would do, and you gasped in equal shock and fear when he grabbed onto your thong and tore them roughly down your thighs.

He crashed against your lips, kissing you with a demand that reminded you that he wasn’t playing games, your body flinching when his fingers trailed along your hip and to your soaked pussy.

Spreading your legs further apart, you moaned into his mouth, rocking on his hand as he drove two fingers inside you, hooking them to massage your g-spot.

Within minutes he had you on the edge, fucking you with his fingers until you were a whimpering mess ready to completely fall apart, but he stopped his movements and withdrew his hand from you, smirking at you with a smugness that managed to turn you on even more.

“Fuck, Jax,” you hissed, your breathing sharp as an untamed feeling ran through your veins.

“Hang on, darlin’” he drawled, his tone all-too happy considering what he just did to you.

He took off his hat and then tore his shirts off his torso, leaving him in his boxers that did nothing to disguise how large and hard he was, and had he not tugged them off himself, you were seconds away from doing it for him, your need for him increasing to the highest point when his cock sprang free.

“Put the hat back on,” you requested, your voice so lusty it was almost unrecognizable.

You squirmed in place, seeing the surprise in his features as he did as you asked and placed it back over his messy, blond tresses that crept out wildly from under it, his expression turned cocky in knowing how horny you were.

A half-satisfied smile pulled at your lips when he stood up against you, wrapping his arms behind your back where his hands carded up and down, returning your smile.

You leaned back slightly, reaching up to grip the bill of it to spin it around, facing it backwards just as he had worn it earlier.

“Happy now?” he chuckled.

You nodded, “Mhm. Are you?”

“Fuck, no!” he admitted jokingly through another laugh, reaching over for his kutte that he hadn’t for a second forgotten about you wearing earlier.

Guiding each of your arms through it, he brought it up to rest on your shoulders, holding onto the edges of its opening as his thumbs moved to rub your nipples until they hardened, making you shiver while a breathy whine passed your lips.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered, his mouth so close to you that his lips grazed your parted ones when he spoke.

You let your eyes close, waiting for him to give you the pleasure he was never selfish with, holding your breath until you felt his lips press onto your neck and down over your chest, his hands falling to your waist and then your hip, smoothing over the curve of your bum where he squeezed your flesh and gave it a playful slap.

Your giggle was swallowed when he kissed you, and you felt his own laugh shake through his chest when you brought your hands up to it, sliding them up to cradle his neck and let your fingers dance where his hair brushed along his bare shoulders.

In a swift motion that caught you off-guard, Jax lifted you into his arms, allowing you to wrap your legs around his waist where he backed you up against the wall, thudding against the drywall as he pressed his body hard into yours.

Your nails raked across his shoulders and upper back, roaming to tangle in his hair that wasn’t trapped beneath his hat, and when he lined his cock up to your spread pussy and guided himself inside, you pulled at the strands that were woven between your fingers, his reaction to both sensations reverberating in your mouth.

Jax unleashed all his power on you, holding you up while slamming into you aggressively, the photos that hung on your wall rattling and banging with his barbaric movements.

Doing the best you could to move with him, you humped up and down in an effort to rub your clit on the coarse, wheat coloured pubes above his cock, feeling your climax begin to build again where it had been left teetering on the edge.

You caught Jax staring at your exposed tits, his vest having opened to put them fully on display where they bounced to the enthusiasm of his thrusts and your erratic rocking, his pupils blown out wide with lust.

“You look so fucking good, baby,” he growled, taking one last look at the erotic scene before meeting his mouth with yours, his kiss sloppy and rough.

A sweat started to break out on both of your bodies, your skin able to slip and glide on his easier with the harder you worked, the hair at the base of his neck damp when you moved your fingers along it.

Jax was always completely enamoured when he fucked you, but for some reason with you wearing his kutte today, he found himself in even more of a state, destroying you with reckless abandon to create the whimpering mess before him that he craved to see, the sounds he pulled from you the sweetest ones he'd ever heard. He was convinced it had something to do with the way his Vice President patch kept swaying beside your right breast as your chest shook in time to his ruthless pace, or the way the worn, faded, black leather and the white on all the labels that had turned dingey over time looked against your supple skin, and the thought of fucking you in it when it ranked him as President one day instead had him ready to explode.

The sense of pride he felt when it came to his club and displaying its logos was something he never took lightly, and seeing them on you intensified it even more, making it seem like no one else could wear them as well as you.

He became almost possessive, wanting to claim you and prove to you all the things he never vocalized all while knowing without hesitation that everything under that piece of leather was his and his only.

He kissed you roughly, not caring that the scruff on his face was turning your skin raw or that his teeth had knocked against yours more than once in his frenzy to get enough of you, feeling your pussy get wetter with every drive of his dick inside it.

“Fucking turn around!” he spat through gritted teeth, giving the order despite forcing you to do it anyway. He dropped your legs and had you spun around and planted against the wall in a matter of seconds, his hand wrapped around the back of your neck to guide you forward, pushing you down so you hinged at your waist and were bent over.

His other hand gripped at your ass to spread your cheeks apart, his cock finding your open cunt without needing any help, slamming into you so hard you had to brace yourself on the wall to stop your face from hitting it.

“God, I’m gonna - fuck! - I’m gonna cum, Jax!” you wailed, your ability to speak properly taken away when he reached around you and started rubbing your clit.

“Yeah?” he huffed, mesmerized in the sight of his glistening cock pumping in and out of you. “You gonna cream all over me, you fucking slut?”

The way he barked that name made you shiver, your mouth filling with saliva to a point you couldn't even contain it anymore, feeling it drool out as your jaw went slack and your climax billowed its way to the surface.

Exhilaration took over you, your moans and cries of approval of how hard Jax was fucking you making him increase his fervor, creating a domino effect of you growing louder and his own moans to sound out and intoxicate you further, the mix of everything so dizzying that it was impossible to imagine a better high.

Jax chuckled behind you, the sound maniacal and deliciously twisted. “That’s it, fuck…”

You let go, accepting the way his body threw you into a trembling orgasm, clenching hard around his cock as he proceeded to pound you mercilessly, hearing his grunts and growls increase in volume and consistency as he honed in on his own end.

He couldn’t look away, watching your combined milky spend leak out of you as he continued to fuck you, your ass cheeks shaking along to his irregular thrusts, the Reaper patch spread out across your back as you took every blow he gave you a sight he would never tire of.

His hand was soaked when he removed it from between your legs, bringing his fingers to his mouth where he sucked them clean, keeping his dick buried inside you until he couldn't anymore.

You closed your eyes as you worked at steadying your breath, your fingers continuing to grip the wall even as you slowly began to straighten your body, feeling full and close to him despite him having slipped from you.

Sweaty handprints temporarily stained the paint when you opened your heavy lids again, smiling at the tingling afterglow that filled your veins, that smile growing bigger when you felt Jax press his lips to your dewy neck where he kissed your sensitive skin with gratitude. You were spun around again, gentler this time, his sweet smile matching yours as he brought his hands up to cup your cheeks, your hands wrapping around his damp back to help support you as you stood on unreliable legs.

He was heavenly in his post-fuck glow, small beads of sweat dancing just below the edge of his hat, his skin tinged with a pinkish blush from his efforts, his pulse hammering in his neck. His lips looked more inviting than usual, plump and moist, and when his tongue licked across them before dipping to capture yours, you swore your own pulse ceased in its duties.

The way he looked at you when he pulled away after kissing you slowly was curious, a softness and devotion reflecting in his cerulean blues that made your heart beat faster after having just managed to regulate it.

“You look like you've got something to say, Jax,” you breathed, wondering if there would ever be a day that he would say what he felt.

He shrugged, his thumbs stroking your heated face as he tilted his head, looking between your bodies at yours clad in nothing but his kutte, seeing his cum dripping down your thigh.

“I think I'll be leaving this here more often.”

You both laughed as he kissed you again, shuffling forward to push you against the wall where he was able to press his lips to yours as much as he wanted to.

---

Comments and reblogs are the lifeline of fanfic, so if you enjoyed reading this story, please consider sharing your thoughts with me and others! 💗

Taglist: @sotwk @dailydragon08 @sunnys-day @thedreadandthefugitivemind @glassgulls @littlenosoul @glitterypirateduck @momia2910 @maggotzombie @rmwarn90 @paintlavillered @stealfromthedevil @kmc1989 @rhoorl

[coconutlyalex]

please please please something w jealous / possessive jax

answering as a blurb because I think we all need this on a saturday night in november. smut warning obvs

“Do I not give you enough attention, pretty girl?”

All you can do is whine in response, eyes rolling back in your head as his hips slam into yours.

He had you bent over the kitchen counter the minute the two of you got home, wasting no time ripping your panties down your legs and folding you in half the way he wanted.

“Is that why you kept looking at Chibs? Hmm? You think he can give you something that I can’t?”

You try to shake your head, but a particularly sharp thrust sends you careening forwards. You’re convinced you’d fly over the countertop if it wasn’t for Jax’s bruising grip on your hips.

“You’re mine,” he grits out, mouthing at the spot underneath your ear. “Mine, you hear me?”

Your knees buckle as you grapple for leverage, your boyfriend’s hips the only thing keeping you upright. Your breath is coming out in short, sharp pants, lungs burning as you try to process the intensity of the moment.

“Say it.”

“J-Jax, baby- fuck- huh?”

“Tell me you’re mine. Say it. Now.”

Jax wraps a huge hand around your throat, plastering your back to his front as he hits a spot inside of you that makes you weak.

“I’m yours,” you manage to breathe out. “All yours, Jax.”

“Gonna make sure you don’t forget it. Make sure everyone else knows it too. You’re not gonna be able to walk for a week, darlin’. And you’re gonna wear these bruises all pretty, yeah? Just in case there was any fuckin’ doubt about who you belong to.”

You see stars when you come, legs shaking and sweat dripping down your back. Jax sinks his teeth into your shoulder when he finds his release, marking you up for good measure.

“How the fuck am I supposed to cover up a bite mark, Jax?”

“You’re not,” he murmurs, and you can hear the grin in his voice. “That’s the point.”

[coconutlyalex]

Coconut & Tangerines

jax teller x poc fem reader

1.7k words

tags: pining, love at first sight, size difference, threats of violence, canon-typical jax behaviour/violence, Jax is in lovvveeeee, not beta read, writer is in love w this dumbass and thanks to him, this side blog exists + he brought writer out a writing rut <3 all because he made me horny. don't ever underestimate the power of an ovulating woman and her pussy. amen.

Jax doesn't expect to meet the love of his life in their dingy bar, barrelling through the doors, fuming and crying no less.

Everything was as usual, smoke filled up the place, stinking like tobacco and cheap beer. Men laughed and cheered as they played pool and gambled, random profanities would be shouted once in a while over the radio playing in the background. It was just like any other day, pretty mundane for the gang of bike riders, that is until the doors burst open, a pretty sight graced their establishment.

Jax didn't look up from the game of cards he was in the middle of, that is until she spoke, "Where is he?" The words were growled, more like. With as much ferocity as a kitten in Jax's eyes when he finally looked over.

The girl was panting, standing there while clutching her handbag in one hand, and her phone in the other. Her eyes were glassy and furious, scanning the bar's clientele frantically, looking for someone. And, Jax hoped that no one of the assholes in his gang were dating her because she was oh so pretty. She had on a long sleeved white top, the material soft and fluffy, cropped and falling off one pretty shoulder, her hips were covered in a small jean skirt, held close by a sparkly silver belt, more for show than anything as the skirt was tight and small enough to stay still on her body.

Then came in her heeled boots, that stopped right where her knees started, leaving the soft skin of her thighs exposed to the elements, and to the eyes of everyone in the bar to ogle at.

"Where are you? You stupid dickhead!" She shouts, pushing through the bigger bodies of the bike riders in search of the origin of her anger. Jax leans back in his chair, to get a better view of her glassy eyes and those devastatingly gorgeous and plump pink lips, the lower lip trembling when she's not shouting.

That's when she finally gets her hands on a shoulder, spins the man around and rips the hood off his head, Jax's frowns when he sees a young face, a much too young face to be in here. So he pushes his chair back, placing his cards face down and walking towards the woman and the boy she just grabbed, "Did you lose your fucking mind? What the fuck are you doing here? Your friend told me about your little plan!!"

She's fuming, crying now, hitting the boy on the chest, and be barely budges, her hits not affecting him in the slightest, but her words do make him lower his head in embarrassment at getting caught. "Huh? What do you have to say for yourself?"

The whole bar is watching them at this point, no one moving to interrupt them, watching the drama unfold. Except Jax, who easily makes his way to the crying, distressed girl, "Now, what's going on here?"

He stands next to the girl with the wet Bambi eyes, offers her a small smile and looks at the boy, putting a hand on his shoulder, "How old are you, son?"

The boy shakes his shoulder, trying to escape his grip with an uncomfortable look on his face, "I'm 18-"

"He's 15, and he's my little brother." She sniffles and glares at her brother.

"You're not old enough to drink, but you knew that. So why did you really come here?" Jax asked, bending his head to try and meet her brother's eyes. The boy doesn't say anything and when Jax thinks he won't speak, he looks up, meets his eyes with as much confidence as possible and says, "Let me in your gang."

Jax just stares at him, "Do you even have a motorcycle?"

"I'm not stupid, I know what you do! I'm fast and-" Jax decided he's heard enough and grabs him by the neck like a disobedient pup and drags him out of the bar, his sister right behind them as the boy tries to escape his hold, spitting curses left and right.

"Actually, you are pretty fucking stupid. You want to know to know why?" Jax throws him on the pavement, watching the boy catch himself on his hands and knees. "I'll tell you," He runs a hand through his hair, "You believe made up stories you hear in the streets, and that will get you killed. That's why you need to stay in high-school and never step a foot in our bar!"

Jax sighs, "You better thank your sister for saving your life."

Her brother gets up, looking extremely embarrassed and angry, dusting himself off, he clenches his fist and glares at Jax, at that he can understand, the boy is young and dumb, he was handled like a puppy out in public. But what he can't stand for, is when her brother turns to glare at his sister, and Jax moves the second he sees the boy take a step forward, jaw set and fists clenched.

Jax stands in front of her like a mountain, "Try it, and I'll break your fucking jaw, boy."

Jax hears a whimper and his blood boils, his sister cares for his well-being and the shit wanted to repay her kindness with violence and hurt.

Her brother spits right in front of Jax's feet and takes off. Jax would chase him and set him straight if it was any other day, but it wasn't. He had the prettiest and sweetest girl in his hands to check up on. Jax straightens his kutte and turns around, seeing sadness written all over her smaller face. She covers her face with her hands and lowers her body so she sits on the hard, cold and dirty concrete of the pavement.

He looks around, rubbing the back of his neck as he watches her shoulders slump and her phone to ding with a notification, she wipes her wet eyes with the back of her hand and reads the message she received. Her wet, dark eyelashes blink as her eyes read over the message and she sighs again, eyes welling up with tears. Jax sighs and goes to sit next to her as she shoves her phone in her handbag.

"You alright?" He asked, studying the side of her devastatingly gorgeous face.

She sniffles and turns to look at him, their bodies just barely touching, and Jax's heart jumps at the bounce of her dark curls, framing her face like a cloud, a real life angel, "I was meant to go on a date, you know?"

"What happened?" He blinks.

"I'm officially 30 minute late and my date messaged me. Let's just say he isn't happy at being stood up." She mumbles. Jax hums, "Why don't you call him and explain why you're late?"

She closes her eyes for a second, then opens them again, smile wobbly, "He's going on a date with another girl. He hates me now. It won't change anything."

Jax frowns, "Sorry but your date sounds like an asshole. You could have been kidnapped or got into an accident and he's-"

"It's okay," She chuckles, not a ounce of humour behind it.

"It's not. You've had a down right shitty day, darlin'" Jax says, suddenly getting up. "Look, come have a drink or two." He sticks one of his hands out, looking at her expectantly. She bites her lower lip, "I'm sorry I don't- I don't drink." Jax smiles a little, "Then how about this, let's get ice-cream."

She brings her knees to her chest and shakes her head, "I don't-"

"You're already all dolled up, so you may as well do something. Let yourself have one good thing today, hm? On me." Jax added, he's starting to feel a little stupid because he's sure he's not being subtle at all. He hopes he doesn't come off as some jackass who sees her as an opportunity. He wants to help, he really does. And the fact that she happens to be so pretty that it makes his heart melt, wasn't his fault. "And we'll talk about your brother too, if you want."

She thinks about it and nods, finally placing her hand in his. Jax's eyes almost widen at the size difference, but he acts cool and clears his throat, getting his hand back to shove it in his pocket, his fingers tingling where she touched him. She dusts herself off, wiping the back of her skirt with her hand as he rushes inside to settle his tab, slamming cash on the counter and ignoring his guy's hollers and whoops, he shakes his head, a small smile on his lips as he makes his way to his parked bike, pulling his keys out of his pockets.

"Have you ridden a bike before?" He asked, getting his only helmet out as she made her way to him, looking at his bike, "Like this? No."

"I'll drive slow, don't worry." He kindly smiled at her, taking a step towards her, holding his helmet with both hands, "Can I?"

"Oh yeah, of course." She jumps, straightening her back and watching Jax push her curls out of her forehead with his fingers, and then place his helmet carefully over her head, snapping it shut and taking a step back.

She watches him throw a leg over the machine and put his key in the ignition, the beast roaring to life as he pulls it up with his feet and arms, "Get on," He motions with his head and she wears her handbag on one arm and sits behind him, getting comfortable and placing her hands on his shoulders, "What's your name?" She asked.

"Jax. What's yours?" He said loudly over his bike's engine. She replied and he whipped his head back, "WHAT?"

She nudged closer, repeating her name again and he grinned, knowing full well he heard her the first time, he just wanted her closer, for safety purposes of course!

"You smell real nice, what's that?" He shouted over his shoulder. She got closer, her chest pressed against his back, "Coconut and Tangerines lotion!" Jax grinned, she smelled delicious and he was hungry. He hopes wherever they're going, that they'll have tangerines flavoured ice cream, because he really doesn't think she'll let him bury his teeth in her sweet skin like a greedy bastard after knowing him for 10 minutes. Or maybe she would, who knows.

"Where's your helmet?" She asked, wrapping her arms around his waist as he finally turned the bike around, entering the road.

Jax looked over his shoulder, "Don't worry about that. Hold tight, Tangy." That's all the warning she got before he took off, leaving a cloud of dust behind.

"I'll drive slow" my ass.

[coconutlyalex]

jax is THE "obsessed with his girl when she wears sundresses or those slip nightgowns" like theres a CRIMINAL lack of fanfic around him going bark bark awooga over that shit do u agree with me

Sundress.

it’s sundress season. jax can’t keep his hands to himself.

pairing - jax teller x female reader

warnings - smut. cursing. jax is a terror.

word count - 1.5/2k maybe? i’ll check later.

authors note - you’re so right. that man is not surviving sundress season.

masterlist. inbox.

You felt it as soon as he walked in.

There’s always an atmosphere between you and Jax. A tension that’s alive, crackling, buzzing with anticipation of itself.

You’ve been waiting for the honeymoon phase to wear off for years. It never has.

All evening, he’s been watching you.

Careful, concentrated blue eyes repeatedly raking over your figure. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.

Eventually, it’s making it too hard to work. You ask one of the girls to take over the bar and stride across the space, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and pulling him into the back room.

“Okay baby, I like it when you-”

“Cut it out.”

He stops in his tracks, slightly taken aback.

“Huh?”

“You heard me, Jax. Cut it the fuck out.”

He leans against the wall, cool as ever, eyes still wandering.

“Cut what out?”

“That!” you scold, smacking his chest. “The eye fucking. I’m trying to work.”

“I’m just looking at you.”

“You are not just looking at me. You look like you’re going to bend me over the bar at any given moment. Stop it.”

“I can’t help it, darlin’.”

He takes a step forward, sliding his hands across your hips and pulling you into him.

“You look so fuckin’ pretty in this dress. It’s takin’ everything in me to not rip it off you.”

You try to stand your ground, but his warm body pressing into yours is making it difficult.

“You can do whatever you want to me when we get home,” you tease, leaning up to press a gentle kiss to his lips. “When we get home.”

“That a promise?”

“It is if you can cool it with the stares. You’re scaring people.”

“Good.”

He kisses you roughly, hands migrating down to palm at your ass. You moan into his mouth, arms wrapping around his neck to stay steady.

“Jax,” you hiss as you pull away. “Everyone’s gonna think we’re fucking back here. Behave.”

“I like it when you tell me to behave,” he smirks, smoothing out the skirt of your dress.

“Behave,” you repeat, tugging his hair roughly. His eyes close in bliss and for a moment, you debate just letting him have you now.

Remembering the entire reason for this conversation, you slap his cheek lightly.

“Best behaviour until the end of my shift. You hear me, Jackson?”

“Yes ma’am.”

He mock salutes you before stealing a quick kiss. Opening the door for you, he smacks your ass as you walk by, laughing when you turn around to glare at him.

“I mean it.”

“Oh I know, baby.”

To his credit, he reels it in. Slightly.

He’s still watching your every move, but with a little less intensity than before. You catch his eyes occasionally, winking as you grin. He shakes his head, beaming smile on his face telling you everything you need to know.

As the night comes to a close, people start to vacate the bar and make their way home, drunk and merry. Jax sticks around, arm slung over the back of the booth as he watches you clean.

“You two gonna be alright?”

“Yeah, Chibs, we’re good. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He gives you a kiss on the cheek before leaving, as you hear his bike roar to life.

As soon as Jax has confirmation he’s gone, he’s getting up, sauntering over to where you’re wiping down the bar top.

“What’s my prize?”

“Hmm?”

You look up at him with big doe eyes and he almost melts, leaning across the wood towards you.

“What’s my prize? For behaving myself?”

“You’re insufferable,” you laugh. “You’re supposed to behave yourself.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

You shake your head and lean down to throw the rag under the sink. When you stand up, Jax is pressed against you, body warm and firm.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

His big hands cradle your face, rough and gun calloused.

“You look so fuckin’ pretty.”

You flush, heat rising across your chest. Jax lunges in, smashing his lips to yours and pushing you up against the bar. The lip of the wood is digging into your back as he presses you into it further, rocking his hips into yours as he kisses you.

You gasp as he bites down on your lip, so he takes the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth. He tastes like beer and cigarettes and the gum he chews because he knows you like it. You tangle your fingers into his hair, trying to plaster yourself to him.

Jax leans down and presses open mouthed kisses to your ear, your neck, your collarbones, your chest. No skin goes left untouched as you tilt your head to give him more access. He smirks at how quickly you’ve relented.

“I know you wanted this,” he murmurs against your throat. “Wanted it just as bad as me, didn’t you?”

When you don’t respond, he snakes a hand around your neck, squeezing just enough.

“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes, Jax. Please.”

He presses his lips into the junction of your shoulder as his hand slips underneath your dress. He traces you over your underwear, cupping you as he chuckles.

“Filthy girl. So fuckin’ wet.”

You drop your head forward into his chest, trying to take deep breaths so you don’t pass out.

“Can’t take my time with you like I want to,” he murmurs. “Don’t want anyone walking in and seeing you like this.”

In the blink of an eye he’s spinning you around, hand on your shoulder blades to push you down onto the bar top. He flips the skirt of your dress up, bunching it around your waist.

“Been thinkin’ about this all day. Pretty fuckin’ girl.”

Jax pulls your underwear to the side as he fumbles with his jeans, pushing them down just enough. You feel the warmth of him behind you, sliding through your wet heat with ease.

“Please,” you whine. “Don’t tease.”

“Needy baby.”

His tone is so patronising, so condescending, that on any other day you’d slap him. But in this current moment, the only thing you can thing about how is how you might die if he doesn’t fuck you soon.

“Okay, honey. I’ll give you what you want. Only because you look so fuckin’ gorgeous in this dress.”

He slides himself home as both of you groan. You rest your head on your folded arms on the bar as his hands find your hips, setting a brutal pace instantly.

His rhythm is consistent, deep thrusts reverberating through the core of you. Your knees threaten to give out as he knocks your entire body forward, his hips smacking into yours.

His mouth is running constantly, spewing filth right into your ear as he breathes down your neck.

“Prettiest fuckin’ girl I’ve ever seen. This goddamn dress. Drivin’ me insane.”

“Yeah darlin’, just like that. Fuck, baby. S’good.”

“You feel like heaven, fuck. Atta girl.”

“Good girl. Good fuckin’ girl. That’s it, there we go.”

You can’t do anything but take it, babbling nonsense right back at him. He chuckles, snaking his hand around your front to circle your clit.

His fingers are your undoing, clenching around him like a vice as your legs give out. All you can do is whine his name, all high pitched and breathy.

“Fuck, baby.”

Jax comes as soon as he feels you, groaning as he rests his head on your back. He squeezes your hips a couple of times, kissing across your skin.

You’re both revelling in your post orgasm bliss when the door flies open, hitting the wall and startling you both.

“Oh, shit. Sorry, lovebirds.”

Chibs is grinning, laughing as he looks around the booth where he was sitting. He finds his keys on the floor, holding them up as he shakes his head at the two of you.

Jax pulls out of you and buttons himself up, smoothing your dress down to preserve your decency. You hide your face in his chest as he chuckles, the sound rumbling through the both of you.

“See ya tomorrow!” the Scotsman yells as he leaves, stupid smile on his face.

“What did I tell you about behaving?”

Jax can’t help but laugh at you, pulling you in to press a kiss to your head.

“Let’s go home, pretty girl. Wanna fuck you in this dress a couple more times.”

@lauratang @ladyjbrekker @myhappyplaceofstuff

[coconutlyalex]

omg i saw you reply to anon that said glasses spencer would have to take his glasses off when you make out with him…now i simply NEED a fic of this!! maybe something cute and bubbly, with reader giggling when spencer struggles to take it off and doesn’t know where to place his glasses after…write it only if you want to ofc!!

kisses — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: kissing ? a/n: hiii ! i hope you like this <3

“Oof.” You barely managed to brace yourself before Spencer buried his face into the crook of your neck, arms locking around your waist. His messenger bag thumped awkwardly against your hip, but he didn’t seem to care.

“Hello to you too,” you laughed, the sound muffled against his messy curls as you struggled to kick the door shut behind him. His grip was relentless, refusing to let you put even an inch of space between you.

“Missed you so much,” he mumbled. You grinned, running a hand through his hair. “Spence, it was paperwork day. You saw me less than nine hours ago.”

He pulled back just enough to pout at you, his big brown eyes unfairly pleading. “Mmm. Nine hours too long.”

You rolled your eyes, but before you could tease him further, he was already tugging you back against him, his fingers splaying possessively over your hips. You helped him shrug off his jacket, then reached for his satchel, tossing it onto the nearby counter.

“How was work?” you asked, smoothing down his rumpled shirt.

“Fine,” he answered absently, but then his hands were framing your face, tilting your chin up as he leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to your lips.

“Seriously,” he murmured between kisses, “I—” another peck “—missed—” another “—you—” and another “—so much.”

You couldn’t help but giggle as he scattered a dozen more quick, featherlight kisses across your mouth, your cheeks, the tip of your nose, each one punctuated by the faintest hint of coffee on his breath. “Spence,” you mumbled, catching his face between your palms to still him. “I told you not to have coffee this late.”

He grinned, unrepentant, before stealing another kiss. “You should know by now,” he whispered, squeezing your cheeks gently between his hands, “that I will never stop doing that.”

Spencer didn’t let up, lips chasing yours in quick, relentless pecks as you stumbled backward, laughing, until the back of your knees hit the couch. You fell onto the cushions, and he followed without hesitation, his body half-draped over yours. Only then did he finally slow down. His hands cradled your face as he shifted above you, his weight pressing you gently into the couch.

“Ouch,” you mumbled, pushing at his chest lightly.

He pulled back immediately, brows knitting together. “You okay?” His voice was distracted, like his brain was still half-lost in the haze of kissing you.

You rubbed the spot where the frames had pressed into your skin, giving him a look. “Please take your glasses off.”

“Sorry,” he murmured, though the sheepish grin tugging at his lips ruined the apology. He tried to sneak in another kiss while fumbling to remove them. The glasses slipped awkwardly, catching in his curls before he huffed in frustration, sitting back on his knees. You giggled when he struggled to unhook the thin wire frames from behind his ears.

“Stop laughing at me,” he grumbled, but there was no real irritation in it, just that adorable, scrunched-up pout you loved.

Finally freeing himself from them, he hovered over you, lips still brushing yours in distracted little kisses while his free hand, the one not tangled in your hair, held his glasses. You could practically feel the gears turning in his head: Can he make the throw to the coffee table? Will they survive the landing?

The answer was clearly no, because instead of tossing them, he just kept kissing you, his body shifting as he stretched toward the coffee table, still just out of reach. The movement dragged you with him, inch by inch, until you were dangerously close to sliding right off the couch.

“Spence,” you finally gasped, breaking the kiss just enough to speak.

“Hm?” He chased your lips again, catching you in another lazy peck like he hadn’t even registered the warning.

You huffed a laugh against his mouth. “Just get off me and put them on the table.”

For a second, he looked genuinely torn, kissing you versus obeying basic physics, before sighing dramatically and rolling onto his knees. With another exaggerated sigh, he set his glasses down.Then he was on you again before you could tease him, his hands cradling your face. “Happy?” he murmured against your jaw.

You rolled your eyes but curled into him anyway. “Ecstatic.”

[coconutlyalex]

hii i absolutely LOVE your writing,, its just so perfect🤭

may i please request a story with spencer realizing he has a crush on reader and so he starts getting nervous and stutter-y around reader. so then reader gets a little upset thinking she did something wrong and they end up talking about what’s happening and it leads to a confession + kiss

thank you!!💖💖

crush — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: a tiny bit of angst bc reader thinks she did something wrong a/n: hii !! this request is so cute <3 i hope you like this <333

Spencer had it bad. 

Like, really bad. 

It wasn’t even up for debate anymore—he was completely, undeniably, and overwhelmingly crushing on you.

Right now, he was sitting at his desk, staring at you as you leaned casually against it, deep in conversation with Emily at her desk across from his. You were animated, gesturing with your hands as you made a passionate argument. 

“No, look, the movie sucks,” you insisted, pointing a finger at Emily. “You have to read the book. It’s so much better.” 

Emily rolled her eyes but smirked, clearly enjoying the debate. “I don’t know, I think the movie has its moments—” 

“Absolutely not.” You cut her off, shaking your head. “The book has so much more depth. The movie just—” You let out a dramatic sigh, exasperated. “It butchers it.” 

Spencer wasn’t even listening to Emily. He was too busy watching you, completely entranced. 

Two days ago, he’d come to a life-altering realization. 

He liked you. 

Not in the casual, oh-she’s-nice-to-be-around kind of way. No. This was the heart-racing, brain-melting, can’t-think-straight-when-you-smile-at-him kind of way. 

And it had all started with a cup of coffee. 

You had placed it in front of him, your fingers brushing his for a fleeting moment as he reached for it. A harmless, everyday interaction—except that it wasn’t harmless. Because then, you had smiled at him. Soft and warm. 

“New tie?” you had asked, tilting your head slightly as you pointed at the green tie he was wearing. 

Spencer had looked down at it, momentarily forgetting how words worked. “Oh—uh—yeah. Yeah, I got it yesterday.” 

You had grinned. “Looks good on you. I like it.” 

And then, as if your words hadn’t already short-circuited his brain, you had reached out—just for a second—adjusting the fabric between your fingers before turning away and heading back to your desk. 

That was the moment. The exact second Spencer knew he was doomed. 

And now? Two days later, he was struggling. 

Struggling to focus. Struggling to act normal. Struggling to not stare at you like you were the most fascinating thing in the entire world—which, let’s be honest, you were. 

“Spence.” 

Your voice pulled him from his thoughts, and he blinked, suddenly hyper-aware of how close you were. You had turned to him now, one hand resting lightly on his arm as you smiled. 

“Tell her the book is better than the movie,” you said, tilting your head toward Emily. “Back me up here.” 

Spencer knew, logically, that he had said those exact words to you a few weeks ago. He agreed with you. He had data, facts, and literary analysis to support the claim. It was an easy argument. 

And yet— 

He was completely, entirely tongue-tied. 

You were looking at him expectantly, your touch burning through the fabric of his sleeve like a brand. 

“I—uhm—I think—” He swallowed, feeling his face heat up. 

You frowned slightly, confused by his sudden inability to form a coherent sentence. 

He needed to get it together. 

“Yes,” he finally forced out, clearing his throat. “Uh, the book is—definitely better. Than the movie.” 

You grinned, triumphant. “See? Told you.” 

Emily just smirked at Spencer, amusement flickering in her eyes. 

You, then , watched as Spencer quickly withdrew his hand from your touch, avoiding your eyes like it physically pained him to look at you. 

And over the next day, it kept happening. 

It was subtle at first—small moments that could’ve easily been brushed off as coincidences. But then they started piling up. 

Like when you were working on the geographical profile together. You had been standing close to him, pointing at a section of the map, asking for his input. But instead of responding immediately, Spencer had frozen. 

Completely. 

You had glanced up, expecting one of his usual rapid-fire responses, filled with statistics and insightful observations. But nothing came. Instead, he stood there, his jaw slightly clenched, his fingers gripping the edge of the table.

You had frowned, waiting. 

A long, awkward silence stretched between you until someone else had walked by, snapping him out of it. He mumbled a quick, barely audible response before abruptly walking away. 

Then there was the night the team went out for drinks. You had slid into a booth at the bar, expecting Spencer to take the seat beside you—like he always did. It was a habit. Something that just was. 

Except this time, he didn’t. 

He sat at the far end of the table, wedging himself between JJ and Rossi, not even acknowledging you. 

That was when the doubts started creeping in. 

Had you done something wrong? Had you said something to upset him? 

You replayed the past week in your mind, searching for anything that might have caused this shift. But there was nothing. At least, nothing you could think of. 

Still, it didn’t stop the sinking feeling in your chest every time Spencer avoided your gaze, every time he hesitated before answering you, every time he refused to sit near you. 

And now, back at Quantico, the case closed, reports needing to be filed, you sat at your desk, watching him. 

The office was quieter than usual—most of the team had taken the morning off to rest, leaving only you and Spencer to handle the paperwork, just as you always did. 

Except this time, Spencer wasn’t talking to you. 

He sat across the room, his eyes fixed on his files, his pen moving rapidly across the paper. And still—not once—did he look up at you. 

Your fingers curled slightly against the report in front of you, a dull ache settling in your chest. 

The silence between you was suffocating. 

Hours passed, the only sounds filling the room were the scratch of pens against paper and the occasional shuffle of files. It was unnatural—terribly unnatural. The two of you were never this quiet around each other. 

Spencer wanted to talk to you. He always wanted to talk to you. But every time he opened his mouth, he managed to embarrass himself. So, he just... stopped trying. 

And then there was the other problem—his newfound hyper-awareness of you. 

Every touch, no matter how small, felt like an electric current running through his skin. Like when the two of you were sitting in the back of the SUV on the way back from a case, and your knee had accidentally brushed against his. It had been nothing to you, a completely normal, casual thing. But to him? To him, it had set his entire body on fire. 

Or when you touched his arm , casually, the way you always did—except now, it wasn’t just casual to him. Now, it was overwhelming. Too much. 

So he did what he thought was best—he avoided it. Avoided you. 

It was time to leave, and coincidentally, both of you started packing your bags at the same time. 

Somehow, despite everything, you still moved in sync. 

It was a habit at this point. You always left work together, falling into step beside one another like second nature. Some nights, you’d end up at the movies, where Spencer would hesitantly—almost shyly—share his food with you. Something he never did with anyone else. Not with his germophobia. Not even with the team. 

But with you it had never been a problem. 

Other nights, you’d wind up at his apartment, curled up on his couch, just hanging out. Just you and him. And in hindsight, Spencer supposed he should’ve seen this coming. 

Should’ve realized that whatever this was—whatever you were to him—wasn’t just friendship. 

Maybe he’d been crushing on you all along. 

The two of you walked to the elevator, the air thick with awkwardness. You exchanged shy smiles, unsure of what to say or do.

Finally, you both spoke at the same time. 

"Are you okay?" 

The words tumbled out of your mouths in perfect unison, and for a moment, you both froze, staring at each other. Then you both chuckled awkwardly, the sound breaking the tension, just for a second. 

“Go ahead,” Spencer nodded at you, pressing the button to call the elevator.  

“You—just... I feel like I haven’t talked to you properly in ages,” you admitted, a nervous laugh escaping as you fiddled with the strap of your bag. 

Spencer looked away quickly, a guilty blush creeping up his neck. 

Oh god, why couldn’t he just act normal around you? 

“Did I do something wrong?” You blurted out, suddenly worried. "Because I—I’m not entirely sure what it was, but you haven’t been looking at me, or talking to me, and I’m just—” 

Before you could ramble on any longer, Spencer cut you off. His voice was a little too loud, too eager. 

“No, no, you didn’t do anything wrong!” He shook his head quickly, almost desperately, as if trying to reassure you. His wide eyes met yours, and there was a softness in them. “I promise.” 

The elevator doors slid open, and the two of you stepped inside. 

You pressed the button to the ground floor, still watching him, trying to make sense of everything. 

“So, what is it then?” you asked, your voice more hesitant now, as the elevator began its descent. 

Spencer bit his lip, his fingers nervously tapping against the strap of his bag. What was he supposed to say? That he had a huge crush on you, but he couldn’t even stand to be near you without fumbling through his words and avoiding your gaze? It sounded so stupid when he thought about it. 

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, staring at the doors in front of him as the elevator descended slowly. His mouth opened, but no words came out. 

“See? That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” you pointed at him, a hint of teasing in your voice, but the concern still lingered. “You’re acting like this because something’s going on, and I’m just—I don’t know what it is.” 

Spencer’s heart raced.

The doors finally opened, and you both headed towards the exit , where you stepped out into the chilly night air. You instinctively pulled your jacket tighter around yourself, waiting for him to speak. 

Spencer hesitated again. His mind was spinning.

“No, I swear it’s not you,” Spencer muttered, tugging on the strap of his satchel, trying to buy himself some time. “It’s just I—I…” 

You waited, eyes fixed on him, your breath fogging in the cold air. You were getting impatient, and the more time passed, the more you started to worry that whatever had been going on was something you had no control over. Something that was maybe your fault. 

You were now standing by your car, watching him. Spencer looked torn, his fingers gripping the strap of his satchel tightly, his body tense like he was debating whether to run or stay. His lips parted slightly, and then, as if he couldn’t hold it in anymore, the words tumbled out. 

“I like you.” His voice was quiet.

For a moment, you just stared at him, confusion flickering across your face. 

“I… didn’t realize you disliked me until now?” You frowned slightly, your voice uncertain, trying to make sense of what he was saying. 

Spencer’s eyes widened in panic. “Wait—no!” He rushed to correct himself, shaking his head frantically. “That’s not what I meant—I didn’t mean that.” 

His breath came out in a nervous puff of air, his cheeks burning red as he struggled to find the right words. 

“I mean—I like you. Like, like like you.” His voice dropped to a mumble, the last part barely above a whisper. “Like, I have a crush on you.” 

He swallowed hard, his heart hammering in his chest as he finally said it. 

And then, silence. 

His eyes darted to you hesitantly, searching your face for a reaction, his stomach twisting with anticipation. 

You stood frozen. Did he just say what you think he said? 

“I… what?” you blinked, your breath hitching. 

Spencer’s face was already bright red, his hands fidgeting nervously at his sides. He looked like he wanted to disappear into the pavement, like he regretted saying anything at all. His voice had been so quiet at the end, barely above a whisper, but you heard him. 

He liked you. Like liked you. 

“I have a crush on you,” he repeated, this time slightly louder, but his voice was still laced with hesitation. His eyes flickered between yours and the ground, as if he was trying to gauge your reaction but couldn’t bear to look for too long. “That’s… that’s why I’ve been acting so weird.” 

A rush of emotions hit you all at once. Relief. Surprise. And something else—something warm, something thrilling. 

You let out a small breathy laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. “Spencer, you’ve been avoiding me for days because you have a crush on me?” 

He winced slightly. “Yes?” 

A smile tugged at your lips. The pieces started falling into place—the nervous stammering, the awkward silences, the way he’d flinched at even the smallest touches. You had spent the entire week wondering if you’d somehow upset him when, in reality, he was just… flustered. 

Over you. 

It was almost funny. No—it was funny. 

Spencer watched you carefully, his anxiety spiking at your silence. He had just spilled his feelings to you in the most awkward way possible, and now you were just standing there, staring at him with this unreadable look. He braced himself for rejection, for you to awkwardly brush it off, for you to tell him that you didn’t feel the same way— 

Instead, you smiled. 

And then you laughed. 

Spencer blinked. “Are you—are you laughing at me?” He sounded both confused and slightly horrified. 

You quickly shook your head, even though you were still grinning. “No! No, I swear, I’m not laughing at you.” You bit your lip to stifle another giggle, but it wasn’t working. “It’s just—you’ve been torturing yourself over this ?” 

Spencer huffed, looking away. “I wouldn’t call it torture—” 

“You literally stopped making eye contact with me.” 

“That’s—okay, that’s fair.” He sighed. “I just… I didn’t know how to act. Every time I tried to talk to you, I ended up embarrassing myself, and I figured it would be easier if I just… didn’t.” 

You softened at that. 

“Spence,” you said gently, reaching for his hand before he could overthink it. The second your fingers brushed his, you felt him stiffen. But he didn’t pull away. “You know you could’ve just told me, right?” 

He let out a breath, finally meeting your eyes. “I was afraid that if I told you… things would change.” 

You squeezed his hand lightly, feeling a rush of fondness for him. His brain was the most brilliant one you’d ever known, but sometimes he made things so complicated. 

“Well, things are going to change,” you admitted, watching his expression closely. 

His heart stuttered. “Oh.” 

A flicker of panic flashed across his face, and you quickly squeezed his hand again before he spiraled. 

“Not in a bad way,” you reassured him, stepping a little closer. You tilted your head, smiling softly. “I like you too, Spencer.” 

Spencer’s breath caught. “You…?” 

“Mhm.” 

He blinked rapidly, like he was trying to process your words, as if he hadn’t even considered the possibility that you might feel the same way. 

And then—oh. 

Oh. 

His entire body relaxed, the tension melting from his shoulders. He let out a breathy laugh, running his free hand through his hair as he shook his head. 

You smiled as you leaned back against your car, watching the relief wash over Spencer.

He stared at you, his eyes flickering between your own and your lips, and you could practically see the thoughts racing through his mind.

Spencer swallowed, his hands fidgeting at his sides. And then, as if the rush of confidence from his confession hadn’t completely worn off yet, he asked, “Can—can I kiss you?” 

Your stomach flipped at his words, your smile widening. “Thought you’d never ask.” 

Spencer exhaled something that sounded like half a laugh, half a breath of relief, before you reached for him, your fingers curling gently around the fabric of his cardigan as you tugged him toward you.

He let out a shaky breath, his hands hovering for only a second before settling on your cheeks. His fingers were warm despite the cold air.

His fingertips barely grazing your skin like he was memorizing the shape of you. His thumbs brushed your cheeks, and for a second, he just looked at you—like he wanted to take his time, like he wanted to remember everything about this moment before it even happened.

Then, finally, he leaned in. 

The first touch of his lips was soft, almost tentative, as if he was giving you a chance to pull away. But when you didn’t—when you kissed him back just as eagerly—he let himself relax. His hands cupped your face more firmly, his body leaning just slightly into yours.

You sighed against him, your hands sliding up to rest against his shoulders, your fingers gently threading into the curls at the nape of his neck. That was all it took. You felt him shiver slightly under your touch, a quiet hum of contentment vibrating in his chest.

When you finally pulled away for air, your foreheads rested together, both of you breathless but smiling.

Spencer opened his eyes, his pupils slightly blown, a soft, dazed smile tugging at his lips.

“I can’t believe that just happened,” he murmured.

You chuckled, your hands still resting against his neck. “You really thought I didn’t like you back?”

He huffed out a small laugh, shaking his head. “I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t want to get my hopes up.”

You brushed your thumb along his cheek, tilting your head playfully. “Well, you should’ve. Because I really like you, Spencer.”

His smile widened, something utterly adorable in the way his entire face lit up at your words.

“I like you too,” he said again, as if he still couldn’t believe he was allowed to say it out loud.

You grinned. “Yeah, I think I got that part.”

[coconutlyalex]

ECHO CHAMBER ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x girlfriend!reader

summary: spencer doesn’t talk after his last case. doesn’t sleep, either, just echoes. until he finds his way back to you — the only place it ever goes quiet.

genre: smut, hurt/comfort

w/c: 2.2k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, implied panic attack (spencer), established relationship, using sex as probably not the healthiest coping mechanism but oh well it worked, fingering, oral (f receiving) ((like only sort of because he won’t stop yapping)), spencer calls reader angel, unprotected piv, floor sex, aftercare, spencer being a nerd at inopportune times, light dirty talk (again with the yapping!)

a/n: thinking about comforting spencer with your body makes me feral so here’s a peek into how I imagine that playing out 🙂‍↕️ also, if you enjoyed this, my requests are open!

You hadn’t been sleeping so much as hovering at the edge of it — and when you turned and found the space beside you empty, your stomach sank. It wasn’t the first time Spencer had disappeared in the middle of the night after getting home from a tough case, but it still felt like something was missing, like the weight of him was the only thing that ever let you sleep at all.

You padded out into the living room quietly and found him exactly where you knew he’d be: sitting on the floor in front of the couch, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, fingers tugging at his curls like he might come undone if he let go.

He didn’t look up when you approached. Just sat there, legs drawn in, spine curled forward, his face lost in shadow.

You said nothing. Only sank slowly to the floor beside him, settling in shoulder-to-shoulder. Your thigh brushed his, and still, he didn’t pull away.

The silence between you stretched.

Then he exhaled — slow and quiet — like it was the first sound he’d made in hours. You turned your head just slightly, a silent invitation. He leaned into it.

His temple came to rest against your shoulder, and this time, the sigh that escaped him sounded almost like surrender. Not defeat — but relief. The kind that only comes when you realize you’re safe.

You let a beat pass before speaking, your voice barely above a whisper. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He shook his head, and you didn’t push. Just stayed with him. And when his lips found your collarbone a few moments later, you let it happen. It wasn't just out of desire — it was out of gravity. Like he was being pulled towards the only thing that made him feel alive.

He kissed up the line of your throat, slow and aching, until his mouth met yours in a deep, trembling kiss. Not lustful, not yet — just desperate. Desperate to feel. To be.

The rug was soft beneath you where you sat, and the quiet of the room wrapped around you like a second skin. Neither of you made a move to shift, not to the couch, not to the bedroom. Just this: grounded and close, where the silence felt like shelter.

Eventually, he turned to you more fully and reached up, cradling your jaw like you might vanish. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, reverent.

“Is this okay?” he asked softly.

“Yes,” you murmured. Then, gently, “Are you?”

His answer was a breath, not quite steady. “No. But I will be.”

He leaned back in, and the kiss turned heavier. Clothes slipped off one layer at a time, discarded in a heap against the floor, and his hands moved like he was memorizing you — knuckles grazing ribs, palms against hips, fingertips dragging slow lines along your skin.

Maybe this wasn’t the healthiest way for him to cope — reaching for you instead of talking, chasing sensation instead of sleep — but you didn’t stop him. You let him anchor himself with your body. Forgave him the impulse before he even asked.

When his mouth found your chest, he groaned low in his throat, like the taste of you was healing him. Then, against your breastbone, he murmured, “Did you know that the skin has over four million sensory receptors?”

You blinked down at him, breath caught halfway to a laugh. “Is that really what we’re talking about right now? Science facts?”

His thumb traced a lazy circle around your nipple. “It’s relevant data,” he mumbled. “Your body is a highly responsive neural system. Every time I touch you—” He pressed a kiss just beneath your sternum. “—your brain creates a cascade of dopamine, oxytocin, and serotonin. Pleasure, connection, trust.”

You stared down at him, stunned by the tenderness in his eyes. “You’re trying to make this a chemistry lesson?”

“No,” he said, voice thick. “I’m trying to tell you how good I’m about to make you feel.”

Then his fingers dipped between your thighs, slow and reverent, and your head tipped back with a gasp.

“I need you to know,” he said, voice low and wrecked, “exactly how much you affect me. Every part of me. Mind and body.”

His touch was expert but unhurried, every stroke deliberate, sacred. Then his mouth followed — lips brushing the inside of your thigh, tongue circling your clit with aching precision. His fingers kept moving inside you, slow and steady, and your hips trembled under the weight of it.

“You’re so responsive,” he murmured, mouth hot against you. “Heart rate elevated… pupils dilated… and your breath—” He sucked gently, pulling a ragged sound from your throat. “—sharp and shallow.”

“Spencer,” you gasped, clutching his curls. “You’re not helping.”

“Oh, I believe I am,” he said, voice wicked and reverent all at once.

Then, quieter: “I think about this when I’m gone. The sounds you make. The way you shake when I touch you like this.”

You whimpered, bucking into him, desperate to keep him close. “Tell me more.”

“I think about how soft you are. How you always let me take my time. How you never rush me, even when you’re falling apart.”

He watched you unravel, watched your mouth part and your eyes flutter. He whispered things to you — not facts now, but sweet, filthy things:

“I love how wet you get for me.”

“Every time I touch you, it’s like you bloom.”

“Do you know how fucking beautiful you are when you come?”

You were close — he could tell by the way your thighs trembled, by the tight, needy grind of your hips. And for a second, it felt like he might let you fall over the edge right there, coax it from you with just his fingers and his mouth and that low, aching voice.

But instead, he slowed his pace. Let you hover there, breathless and blinking. Then, deliberately, he pulled his fingers from you and slid them into his mouth with a moan.

Your body ached at the loss, hips twitching, but the look in his eyes made your breath catch.

“Not yet angel,” he murmured against your skin. “I want to feel it when you break.”

You reached for him, dragging him up your body — and he let you. Let you kiss him messy and unguarded. Let you grind against him, bare and aching, like your body was the only tether he had left.

But he didn’t enter you right away.

He hovered instead, your foreheads pressed together, his breath catching where it mingled with yours. Your spine arched beneath him, every inch of you straining toward contact. And then, finally — with a soft, broken moan — he sank into you, slow and deep.

You both gasped.

He didn’t move at first. Just stayed there, buried to the hilt, body trembling like he could shatter from the inside out. Then he began to move — careful, reverent, every thrust measured like it meant something. Like it had to.

You kissed him hard, overwhelmed. His grip tightened on your hips, his voice catching against your skin as he whispered, “I don’t deserve you.”

You hated when he said that. Hated that he still couldn’t see himself clearly.

“Yes you do,” you breathed. “You always have.”

His pace built gradually — never rough, just more. More contact, more desperation, more whispered nothings as he moved inside you like he was chasing heaven in the way your body opened for him. His forehead pressed to yours, breath catching warm between you. Every slow thrust felt like a question.

And you answered him — first with the way your body yielded, then with your voice.

“Yes,” you whispered — and in that one word, you gave him everything:

Yes, I’m here.

Yes, I want this.

Yes, you’re safe.

Yes, I love you.

He cupped your face in both hands as his hips stilled, eyes wet, voice wrecked. “You’re the only place I don’t echo.”

His thumbs swept softly along your cheeks, like he was still anchoring himself. “When I’m out there, everything I feel just ricochets around inside me. Guilt. Fear. The things I’ve seen, the things I’ve done — it’s like shouting into an echo chamber. Everything just comes back louder.”

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours. “But with you… it stops. The noise quiets. I don’t have to be anything but this.”

You barely had time to breathe before his lips found yours again, hungrier now, as if speaking the truth out loud had unshackled something in him. His hips shifted, his rhythm deepening, and his mouth grazed your cheek.

“You like that?” he asked, hand slipping between your bodies to stroke your clit again. “Being filled so deeply you forget everything else?”

You whimpered, and he smiled against your jaw.

Your orgasm built steadily, not sudden or sharp — but inevitable. Spencer continued on with his whispered praise, with his perfect rhythm, with the kind of touch that felt like a vow. His hand never stopped, his fingers dragging tight, wet circles with slow, devastating precision.

“Every time I’m inside you,” he murmured, thrusts slowing, “it’s like my mind pauses. Like your body was designed to hold me steady.”

You gasped his name when it hit you — the wave cresting and crashing in a swell of heat and light. Your thighs trembled around his hips as your back arched off the rug, clutching him tighter, needing him closer. And he gave it to you, groaning into your skin, the sound low and reverent.

“That’s it, angel,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Let go. Fuck—look at you. You’re so fucking perfect when you fall apart for me.”

You were still pulsing around him, still reeling, when he came with a gasp, burying himself deep as his body shook with the force of it. He held you like he was afraid he’d shatter, like if he let go, he’d lose himself entirely. One arm locked around your waist, the other tangled in your hair, pulling you tight against him as he spilled inside you with a broken, desperate sound that felt like surrender.

You both lay tangled on the rug, sweat cooling between your skin. The room smelled like sex and quiet and something else — something like relief. He was still inside you, but neither of you moved to change that.

Spencer shifted eventually, just enough to brush your hair from your face. He kissed your temple, your jaw, the delicate hollow at your shoulder. Every inch he could reach, like gratitude in the shape of a mouth.

“Hey,” you whispered, fingertips tracing the slope of his back. “You okay now?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just let out a breath and tucked his face into the crook of your neck, arms wrapped tight around your waist as if trying to fuse your bodies together. You held him just as tightly.

Eventually, he eased out of you with care. You shivered at the loss of him, and he immediately pressed a hand to your thigh, grounding you.

“Don’t move,” he murmured. Then he disappeared down the hall for a moment, returning with a warm, damp cloth. He cleaned you gently, almost reverently — his touch tender, his gaze careful not to drift too far from yours.

“Oxytocin release after sex promotes emotional regulation,” he murmured as he ran the cloth gently through your folds. “Which is a long-winded way of saying… Yeah, I feel human again. And also, I love you.”

He helped you sit up slowly, then reached for your shirt and eased it gently over your head. Found your underwear next and slid them up your legs with quiet care, pausing to press a lingering kiss to your hipbone. Only then did he pull on his own boxers and flannel pajama pants, looking tousled and sleepy and utterly yours.

“Come on,” you said, reaching for his hand. “Let’s get back into bed.”

The bedroom was quiet and dim, moonlight pooling softly across the sheets. You pulled back the covers and slipped in first, expecting him to slide in on his side behind you like always.

But instead, he lay on his back and opened his arms.

You didn’t hesitate. You climbed over him, settling half on his chest, half beside him, one leg draped loosely over his hip. He folded himself around you instinctively — one arm wrapped firm across your back, the other reaching for your hand. He threaded your fingers together and pressed them to his sternum like he needed the contact to breathe.

“I know I don’t say it enough,” he whispered into your hair. “But this — you — you always bring me back.”

You tilted your face to his throat and kissed the pulse there, steady and calm beneath your mouth. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted. To be the one who quiets the noise.”

He didn’t respond with words. Just held you tighter.

A hush settled over the room, warm and thick. You felt his breathing slow, his muscles soften beneath your weight — like the echo chamber inside him had finally gone still.

And when he finally drifted off, wrapped around you safely, his breath rose and fell in perfect rhythm — the sound of peace, at last.

ᝰ.ᐟ

[coconutlyalex]

‘Fuck the polic-‘ A GIRL IS TRYING HER BEST OVER HERE

[coconutlyalex]

spencer reid x bsf!fem!reader

tw .' suggestive themes , nsfw ( mdi 18+ )

imagine spencer reid getting a boner after looking down your shirt at work

it would start with you sitting next to him on the jet during a normal briefing, tablet in hand. his brain would short circuit for a whole minute ( longer if he'd gotten a glimpse at the lacy blue bra you'd had on ) scratch that, of course he noticed and due to his eidetic memory, he would never forget it

you, however, you had gone and done it on purpose. you would lie and say that you just wanted to show him something in a crime scene photo but you had specifically been wearing his favorite color lingerie and a strategically chosen a white button up with the first two buttons undone in the hopes that he would notice

his whole face would probably turn redder than a tomato and he would have to physically tear his eyes away from your cleavage. it wouldn't even cross his mind that you had wanted him to see it, so he would spiral in to guilt for looking. he would label himself a creep and flush red for a whole other reason

the other reason being that he could feel the his slacks tightening in the area of his groin. his body had betrayed him in a monumental way. and what was even worse is that you were still sitting next to him. your thigh touching his ( dare you say innocently )

he'd apologize to you in his head seventeen different ways. each starting with 'im so sorry, its biological' and ending with 'please, don't stop being my friend'. not that he'd ever have the courage to even begin to broach this subject with you and even if he could, he'd couldn't lie to you

yes, his body was having an uncontrollable reaction to you but he couldn't lie to your face and that that was the only reason

he'd start trying to think of anything else, anything but the color of your bra and what it might look like on the floor of his bedroom. or what you might look like sans the white shirt and deep blue bralette—

no! reid, get yourself together. this is your best friend you are thinking about and she definitely doesn't deserve your perverse thoughts. think about schrödinger’s cat, the fibonacci sequence—

he couldn't even look at you right now. would he ever be able to look at you again? he couldn't last more than two minute without thinking about your face, how would he survive never seeing it again once you decided he was a pervert for looking down your shirt?

his slack were beginning to feel uncomfortable and it was still growing. he reached for his water bottle, bringing it to his lip. when did he get to thirsty? oh my god—

string theory, think of the periodic table, anything other than the curve of her—

'spence, are you ok?' you had interrupted his spiral when you placed your hand on his upper thigh, suspiciously close to his raging boner. the mere touch alone made him grow even more in size. it had also made him choke on his water

he coughed violently and you moved your hand to his back as he leaned forward. but the action, while in attempt to help him, only made him cough harder

'i’m—fine—i just… water went down the wrong pipe.'

you smirked and then returned your hand to his thigh. only this time you placed your hand higher, your thumb rubbed the inseam of his pants. and spencer reid never wanted to die and live at the same time

he stood abruptly. your hand fell from his leg and he fumbled his way around you, desperately trying not to touch you as he tried to get to the aisle. in hindsight he probably should have faced away from you while shimming past as you got a full view of his bulge he tried to so hard to hide

'restroom!' he squeaked and gave you no time to protest

he'd stare at himself in the mirror, bead of sweat beginning to form in his hair line, his glasses slightly fogging

this is fine, just gotta wait it out, spence. five to seven minutes. blood redistribution. standard physiological response. this is science, not—

buzzzzz

he froze and slowly but robotically ( praying it wasn't morgan texting him to say he'd seen spence's little huge problem ) after seeing who it was from, he took back his praying

he'd wished it was morgan, or hotch telling him he was fired for borderline sexual harassment. but he would never be so lucky. no, the text was from you. with bated breath he opened the message

lmk if you need any help with you little problem, spencey

what?!

he swore his heart stopped right then and there. not only had you known about . . . but you were offering to help. his first instinct was to hurl the phone, as if it burned him. the second was to drop dead and hope that if there was some kind of afterlife that it would be kind to him. neither sounded very productive to him.

he leaned against the door and mumbled, 'i'm gonna die in this bathroom.'

THE END | masterlist | more bsf!reader

[coconutlyalex]

Polar Opposites | Spencer Reid

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader Summary: When you joined the team, it was very evident to the others that you and Spencer may not get along the best. You were water and he was oil — but when working on a team, the repelling can be dangerous. Themes & Warnings: Ummm violence, hurt/comfort with Reid!, enemies to lovers

You were raised in New York. Alone. No siblings or mother.

Learning independence was quick for you. By the time you were eight, you were walking yourself to school, a keychain with the apartment key and a bottle of pepper spray dangling from it. You were tough, bull-headed, but not completely absent of warmth.

Your father was a good man. A strong one. He was on the NYPD, a conductor of justice, yet a fair one. You idolized him, even when he came home with blood on his knuckles and exhaustion in his bones. You learned early that justice wasn't always clean, and rarely kind.

You quickly learned from him.

When you were old enough, he put you into self defense classes. It wasn't much of a surprise to him that you immediately excelled.

He watched proudly as you took down grown men twice your size in the ring, never once hesitating. “You fight like your mother,” he told you once. You didn’t remember her, not really, but something about the way he said it made your chest swell.

You lived by his rules. Protect others. Never back down. Trust your gut, even when it got you in trouble.

By the time you were a teenager, you were patrolling with a police scanner on in the background of your homework, studying both algebra and 10-codes. While other girls wore lip gloss and whispered about boys, you were memorizing the NY penal code and learning how to hold a Glock.

As soon as you could, you joined your father on the force. Not quite where he was. He was pretty far up. But you made him proud, which is all you wanted.

Every commendation, every collar, every time you kept your cool when things went sideways — he’d clap a firm hand on your shoulder and say, “That’s my girl.” And that was enough. It had always been enough.

Until it wasn’t.

The night he didn’t come home changed everything.

You were the one who got the call. Not the captain. Not some rookie liaison. You. Because you were his emergency contact. Because they knew you’d want to hear it straight, from the mouth of someone who cared.

Officer down. Ambush. Three men. Two with priors, one on a vendetta. He died fighting, they said. Died protecting his partner.

You didn’t cry.

You didn’t speak for almost twenty-four hours.

Instead, you scrubbed his blood out of his badge chain, boxed up his medals, and sat for hours in his worn recliner with your service pistol in your lap, staring into nothing.

The grief didn’t crush you. It carved you.

By the time you left the NYPD, you weren’t the same person. And maybe that was the point. You needed something new. Somewhere that didn’t hold his shadow in every alley, every precinct, every call sign on the radio.

The BAU wasn’t your first choice. Behavioral analysis wasn’t your strength. You didn’t have three PhDs or a mind built for chess moves and statistics. But they recruited you anyway. Hotch said your field instincts were unmatched, that you had a gut that couldn't be taught.

You were strong. Your suffering had hardened you into a diamond. But you did have a flaw. Sometimes, you rushed into things without strategy, relying on strength and impulse. You were more physically lead than others on the team, opting for the take-down rather than the talk-down.

This was what made you so different from the team's boy genius, Spencer Reid.

He wasn't the softest anymore himself. He was hardened by his abduction by Tobias Hankel, his drug addiction, his prison time, the loss of his first lover. But he didn't let it change him completely. He was still warm, like he'd been before. Still sweet. And he still did his job the same; in the same calculating, analyzing Reid way. He was more logic based than aggression based.

And that’s where you clashed.

Where you were storm and instinct, Spencer was method and measure. He needed answers before action. You needed action before the body count climbed. He quoted psychological journals; you trusted a gut that had never failed you. It was oil and water from the very beginning.

The team noticed it immediately — the sharp way you challenged his statistics, the way his mouth drew tight every time you went off-book, the way both of you refused to yield. Rossi called it "professional tension." Morgan called it "foreplay." Hotch just warned you both not to let it interfere in the field.

Of course, it did anyway.

It had been a difficult case.

A serial killer, targeting women, as was typical. It was a sensitive situation, requiring delicate action and careful steps.

The investigation went fine — smooth actually. It was easy enough to profile and find the man, but the hostage situation needed to be handled much softer.

He was holding a young woman in a cage, down below his house in a bunker. You, Reid, Prentiss, and Morgan were sent to do the confrontation.

The four of you approached the property quietly. The woods surrounding the cabin were thick and silent, the late afternoon sun bleeding orange through the trees. Reid had his tablet out, blueprints of the house and rough sketches of the underground bunker on display. You barely glanced at it.

“We can’t spook him,” Prentiss said, voice low. “If he thinks he’s cornered—”

“He might kill her,” Reid finished grimly. “He’s already escalated twice. He’s unpredictable under pressure.”

That was Spencer’s way — anticipate the worst, measure every variable. Your jaw clenched.

“Then we don’t give him time to react,” you said, cocking your weapon. “He’s not expecting a full team yet. We move fast, controlled. Get in, get her out.”

Spencer’s head shot up. “No. We stick to the protocol. We make contact, distract him, and—”

“There is no protocol for a man holding a girl in a fucking cage, Reid.”

Your voice was sharper than it needed to be, but you didn’t care. The thought of that girl locked up like an animal made your skin crawl. Every second wasted was another scar, another trauma she’d carry forever.

“Exactly. Which is why we don’t risk charging in blind,” he snapped back, stepping in front of you. “You go in there guns blazing and he could slit her throat before you even get your second step down that ladder.”

Morgan’s hand landed on your shoulder, a warning. “Both of you — not the time.”

But you weren’t done.

“Then what? We just talk to him? Offer him therapy? Hope he suddenly sees the light?”

Reid’s eyes blazed. “No. But we don’t rush in and make it worse. You want to save her? Then don’t be the reason she dies.”

It hit harder than you expected. Maybe because deep down, you knew he was right. Maybe because you hated being wrong in front of him.

The plan went Spencer’s way. At first.

You reached them. The man was sweaty, eyes wild. The girl moaned quietly in front of him, wrestling around in the heavy chains she was bound by.

Reid and Prentiss attempted a talk-down.

The unsub paced behind the girl like a panicked animal, holding a long hunting knife inches from her throat. His eyes flicked between Prentiss and Reid, twitchy and erratic, the delusion already thick in the air.

“I didn’t hurt her!” he barked. “I fed her, didn’t I?! She’s mine now — I chose her!”

You could practically feel the tension radiating off Spencer. He stood just a step in front of Prentiss, hands raised, calm as ever — but you knew him well enough to see the strain in his jaw, the slight tremble in his fingers.

“You’re not in trouble,” Spencer said gently, voice even. “You’ve been through a lot. No one wants to hurt you, we just want to help her. Let her go. We can talk, just you and me.”

The unsub twitched. “She loves me,” he muttered, jabbing the blade toward the girl’s collarbone. She whimpered again, and your own hand inched toward your holster.

“Reid,” you said quietly. A warning.

But he held up one hand. Not yet.

“You’re right,” he said to the unsub. “You did choose her. You saw something in her. That’s important. That means you care about her, right?”

The man’s breathing hitched — confused. Hopeful.

Then it happened.

She whimpered again — too loud. Too broken. Something in her tone must have snapped the illusion in his head. Because suddenly he screamed, pulled her tighter, and raised the knife.

You moved before anyone else could.

Gun drawn, aim steady, you crossed the space in two steps and tackled him. Your shoulder collided with his ribs, knocking him clean off the girl. You wrestled the knife from his hand and had him on the ground in seconds, arm wrenched behind his back.

You barely heard the girl sobbing as Prentiss rushed to her side. Barely heard Morgan’s footsteps pounding down the stairs. All you could hear was the pounding of your own pulse.

“God damn it,” Reid muttered from behind you. Not angry. Not even frustrated.

Worried.

The rest was a blur.

Back at the precinct, the girl had been taken to the hospital. The unsub was in custody. Everyone was safe.

But Spencer didn’t say a word to you until you were alone.

The motel hallway was dim and quiet, carpet patterned with decades of wear. You turned when you heard his door click shut behind him.

“You weren’t supposed to go in,” he said. Quiet. Low.

You crossed your arms. “And if I hadn’t, she might be dead.”

“She might be,” he agreed. “Or you might be. We all might've been. You can’t keep putting yourself in the line like that without thinking. You don’t get to be the only one who carries the risk. Not to mention what risk it puts on the other teammates.”

You blinked. Something about the way he said it — like you'd selfishly put everyone in danger.

Your eyes narrowed.

"How come you're always shitting on my busts, Reid? You ever think that one of these times, you might wait too long and get someone killed?"

He swallowed, his face tightening.

"Don't turn this around on me. You continuously stray from protocol like you're above the rest of us. If you just followed directions, I wouldn't have to complain."

You felt the flare of heat in your chest — insult, frustration, maybe even guilt. But underneath all of it, something deeper: hurt.

"Above the rest of you?" you repeated, voice low. Dangerous. "Is that really what you think of me?"

Reid held your stare, but there was a flicker of regret in his eyes now. He hadn’t meant to cut that deep. Or maybe he had. Maybe it had built up between you for so long, he hadn’t realized the blade was that sharp.

“I think you act like you don’t need us,” he said. “Like you don’t trust anyone but yourself. And in this job, that’s not just frustrating, it’s fatal.”

You laughed once, dryly. “Well, maybe I don’t trust anyone else. Maybe I learned a long time ago that trust doesn’t keep you alive.”

That landed. His expression cracked. Because if there was one thing Spencer Reid understood, it was the cost of trusting the wrong people. Or worse, not trusting the right ones until it was too late.

"You need to ease up. Trusting someone besides yourself might keep you alive one day," He hissed, leaning into your face. "You act like a stubborn, impulsive fool."

You scoffed, a snide smirk curling onto your face.

"That's better than constant fear and anxiety. I'd rather be too quick than too slow, Reid," your cold voice biting into him. "You're so busy tucking back into your turtle shell that you don't realize how much time you waste being afraid."

His eyes darkened, a flicker of something fierce igniting behind the calm intellect you knew so well.

“Being cautious doesn’t mean I’m afraid,” he snapped back, voice low but sharp. “It means I’m trying to think. Something you never do until after the damage is done.”

You stepped closer, your breath mingling with his in the tight hallway. “Yeah, well maybe it’s better to act first and think later than to be paralyzed by what-ifs. At least I move.”

You stood face to face, a silent snarl shared between the two of you. Spencer took another breath to snap back, but you were interrupted.

"Guys. Enough. The jet is about to take off." Prentiss said, placing a hand on your shoulder. You shrugged her off, slinging your bag over it instead.

"It's cool. I was done being questioned about my successful take-down anyways." You muttered, walking away.

Spencer watched you go, the frustration still simmering beneath his calm exterior. His jaw clenched as he ran a hand through his hair, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on him. He wanted to say more; to tell you that beneath his caution was a desperate hope you’d be safe, that he cared more than he knew how to show.

But for now, he let the silence stretch, knowing this was just one battle in a longer war between you. And maybe, just maybe, there was a way to bridge the gap, if only you’d both lower your guards.

The jet ride was tense. You didn't even look at Spencer, opting to pretend he wasn't there. He couldn't help but glance at you, the brooding look always on your face no different than usual. He sighed, returning to his book.

Back at the office, you shoved your go-bag back into your locker. The photo of your father glinted at you, stuck to the back of the door. You knew what he would've said.

You traced the edges of the photo with a tired finger, the worn image of your father — a man who’d always been your anchor in chaos — reminding you of the rules he drilled into you:

"Protect others."

"Never back down."

"Trust your gut."

"I'm so proud of you, kid."

You swallowed the lump rising in your throat, the weight of those words settling deep inside you. You’d carried his lessons like armor all these years — tough, unyielding, sometimes too sharp to wield without cutting yourself.

You stared at his image for a few more seconds, before turning away.

You jumped. Morgan, standing behind you.

"Jesus." You said, taking a deep breath. "Don't sneak up on me like that, dude."

Morgan chuckled, his usual easy grin softening the tension in the room. “Yeah, well, somebody’s gotta keep you on your toes.”

He glanced at the photo taped inside your locker. “Your old man sounds like a hell of a guy.”

You nodded, voice quieter now. “He was. Still is… in a way.”

Morgan leaned against the lockers, folding his arms. “You know, you don’t always have to carry all that weight alone. Not here. Not with us.”

You met his eyes, the sincerity there catching you off guard. For a moment, the walls you’d built felt a little less necessary.

"... Thank you."

Morgan nodded, leaning against the lockers.

"I heard you and Reid had a little spat in the hotel earlier."

You rolled your eyes, grumbling. Of course, Prentiss would've squealed.

Morgan’s grin widened, amusement sparkling in his eyes. “Yeah, I heard. Something about Spencer getting a little too in your space?”

You sighed, crossing your arms. “He’s got a knack for pushing buttons. Doesn’t know when to quit.”

Morgan shook his head, chuckling low. “That guy’s all brain and nerves. Sometimes he forgets there’s a person behind all that genius.”

You glanced away, feeling a mix of irritation and something softer beneath it. “I get it, but I’m not exactly easy to handle either.”

He leaned against the locker beside yours, eyes steady. “Look, I get it. You did what you had to do back there. You saved that girl.”

Your jaw tightened. “You think I don’t know that?”

Morgan shook his head. “No, I’m saying I see it. You’re a damn good agent. One of the best. But sometimes being the best means knowing when to slow down.”

You scoffed, bitterness creeping into your voice. “Slowing down gets people killed.”

Morgan didn’t flinch. “It’s not about slowing down all the time. It’s about picking your moments. You got guts, no doubt. But guts without control? That’s a problem.”

You finally met his gaze, raw and honest. “So what am I supposed to do, Morgan? Wait around for the bad guy to slit her throat? Let the clock run out?”

He studied you for a beat, then responded slowly. “No. But you gotta trust the team. Not just yourself. We got your six. We all do. Even Reid. You don’t have to carry this alone.”

You swallowed hard. The weight of his words settled in your chest. It was easier said than done. You were used to standing on your own — had been for as long as you could remember.

Morgan clapped a hand on your shoulder, solid and reassuring. “Your dad taught you to protect others, right?”

Your eyes flickered to the photo taped inside your locker, the man who was everything steady in your world.

Morgan smiled softly. “Yeah. And that means sometimes you gotta step back, watch the angles, think a few moves ahead. That’s how you protect the team and yourself.”

The tension between you seemed to ease, just a little. You weren’t used to advice that didn’t come with judgment, but this was different. It was real.

Morgan gave you a wink. “You’re a hell of a cop. Don’t forget, sometimes the smartest move is patience. Not just power.”

You nodded, the edges of your defenses softening just enough for a flicker of respect. “Thanks, Morgan. I’ll try.”

“Try?” He grinned. “No try. You’ll do it.”

You smirked back. “Yeah? You confident in me?”

“Hell yeah. Just gotta let the team catch up sometimes. And don't forget,” he said, nudging your shoulder. "We could all learn some things from you too. Even Reid, when he decides to get his head out of his ass."

You snickered, rolling your eyes and turning back to your locker, shutting it.

“Thanks for the reality check.”

“Anytime,” he said, before turning and walking away, leaving you with something you didn’t realize you needed — a little hope.

The next case came quickly. You almost weren't ready for it.

Your headphones blared into your ears as you trained in the sparring room, sweating as you bounced around a punching bag. Your gloves squeaked with every moment you made, punching into the bag with preciseness and toughness.

Your phone rang.

You yanked a glove off with your teeth and fumbled for your phone, the sweat on your fingers making it harder to swipe. The name on the screen — Hotch — made your stomach tighten. You were still riding the edge of your last conversation with Morgan, and now, here came another case.

“Yeah?” you answered, a little breathless.

Hotch’s voice was calm, clipped. “Briefing room. Twenty minutes.”

You wiped your brow with the back of your forearm. “Copy that.”

He hung up without another word.

You stood there for a beat, the bass of your music still thumping in one ear. The punching bag rocked gently beside you, evidence of your focused aggression. But the tension in your shoulders hadn’t eased. If anything, it pulled tighter.

Another case. Another town. Another family ruined. You loved this job but sometimes, it felt like it never let you breathe.

With a grunt, you unwrapped your gloves, tossing them in your gym bag. As you pulled your hoodie over your damp sports bra and headed for the showers, Morgan’s words echoed back in your head:

“Sometimes the smartest move is patience. Not just power.”

You smirked faintly to yourself, voice muttering under your breath, “Yeah, well... I hope patience works on serial killers too.”

You had no idea what you were walking into, but you knew this much: you'd face it head-on.

Just like always.

You pulled your work clothes on quickly and headed for the bullpen, tossing your hair into a ponytail.

The rest of the team was already there, relieved to see you walk in.

"Sorry. I was training." You said quietly, joining them at the table.

Hotch gave you a nod — his version of “no problem.” Reid glanced up from the file in his hands, his eyes catching yours for a moment before flicking back down. You weren’t sure what that look meant, but you didn’t have time to dwell on it.

“Victim number three was found this morning,” Hotch began, passing a photo across the table. “Female, early thirties. Same MO. Ligature marks, posed postmortem, and a red ribbon tied around the wrist.”

You leaned forward, studying the image. “Same as the others. No signs of forced entry?”

JJ shook her head. “Nothing. It’s like they let the killer in willingly.”

You crossed your arms, thoughts already sharpening like blades. “So he’s charming, disarming. Makes them feel safe… until he doesn’t.”

Morgan pointed at the map. “All victims lived alone, all in a five-mile radius. He’s hunting in a comfort zone.”

Spencer cleared his throat, hesitant but determined. “Geographical profiling supports that. He’s probably familiar with the area -- might even live or work nearby.”

You glanced at him again, this time holding the look for a second longer. “Then we start knocking on doors.”

Prentiss gave a wry smile. “I like it when you get fired up.”

You shrugged, grabbing a file. “Better than sitting on our hands.”

Hotch raised a brow. “Let’s keep it focused. Morgan, you and (Y/N) check in with local businesses. Reid, JJ, and Prentiss, canvass the neighborhood. I’ll coordinate with local PD.”

You nodded.

"I know that PD pretty well. My dad and I worked with them for a couple of years. I'll pitch in with the communications."

Hotch gave a curt nod, clearly appreciating the initiative. “Good. Familiarity could speed things up. Just make sure they loop everything back to me.”

You gave him a short, respectful salute. “You got it, boss.”

Morgan shot you a quick grin as he slung his bag over his shoulder. “You sure you’re not trying to take Hotch’s job?”

You smirked. “Please. I’d make a terrible brooding authority figure.”

Hotch didn’t even look up from the map he was marking. “I’m standing right here.”

You and Morgan exchanged a glance, both biting back laughter.

As the team filed out, Reid hesitated at the edge of the room. He glanced at you, like he wanted to say something, but then just gave a slight nod and walked away with JJ and Prentiss.

Your eyes lingered on his back for a second before you turned and fell into step beside Morgan.

“So,” he said as you headed for the SUV, “you and local PD go way back?”

You nodded. “Yeah. My dad and I used to consult on cases when I was younger. He was training me even before I joined the Bureau. Some of those officers were practically family for a while.”

Morgan nodded slowly, the corners of his mouth tugging up in a thoughtful smile. “That explains a lot.”

“What does?”

“You move like someone who’s been doing this their whole life. It’s in your blood.”

You paused at the passenger door, his words landing heavier than he probably intended.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “It is.”

Morgan didn’t push. He just clapped a hand on your shoulder. “Then let’s go show ‘em how it’s done.”

You gave him a small smile. “Hell yeah.”

You slid into the seat, heart steadier than it had been in days. Maybe the next few hours would be hell. Maybe this case would crack something raw in you. But with Morgan’s support at your side and your father’s instincts still pulsing through your veins, you weren’t going in blind.

You were ready to hunt.

No sooner had you and Morgan hit the pavement than the scent of tension in the air thickened, like something dark had just passed through and left its mark. The PD station felt different now than it did when you were younger. Familiar faces looked more worn, more guarded.

“Agent (L/N),” one of the lieutenants greeted you with a surprised smile. “Heard you were coming in. Damn, you look more and more like your old man every time I see you.”

You gave him a short nod, your voice quiet. “Thanks, Lieutenant. Wish it were under better circumstances.”

Morgan stood back slightly, letting you take the lead. He watched as you moved through the room with purpose; calm, steady, authoritative in your own way. You weren’t trying to be your father, but his legacy lingered around you like armor.

“We’ve already pulled security cam footage from nearby businesses,” the lieutenant explained. “We can have it queued up for you in five.”

“Perfect. Let’s get started.”

Morgan leaned over to you as they set things up in the back room. “You’ve got them listening to you like you’re already in charge.”

You gave a tired shrug. “My dad never tolerated anyone doing half a job. I guess that stuck.”

He studied your face for a moment — sharp, focused, a little worn around the eyes. Then he said, “You know, you don’t always have to be the one holding it all together.”

You glanced at him, surprised.

“You said that already,” you reminded him.

He shrugged. “You didn’t listen the first time.”

You laughed under your breath, but your eyes softened. “I’m listening now.”

Before either of you could say more, an officer called you over. “You’re gonna want to see this.”

The footage was grainy but clear enough: a figure pacing outside a bakery at midnight. Twitchy. Darting glances. Then dragging something — someone — down an alley.

Morgan muttered under his breath. “Looks like our guy.”

Your expression shifted instantly. Calm became alert. You pointed to the timestamp. “That’s two hours before the last body was found. He was still escalating.”

The lieutenant nodded grimly. “He’s getting bolder.”

Morgan stepped beside you, already scanning the angle, escape routes, signage. “What do you want to do?”

You took a breath, already forming a plan.

“We start there,” you said, pointing to the alley. “We follow the trail. And this time, we end it before he escalates again.”

Morgan gave a sharp nod. “Now that’s the kind of leadership I can get behind.”

You smirked faintly. “Don’t get used to it.”

He grinned back. “Too late.”

You quickly phoned the rest of the team, getting them in on it. It was decided.

You'd be bait — the youngest on the team. The prettiest, Prentiss had claimed. But it would take something you weren't exactly versed in.

Patience. Calculation. Thought before decision.

You, of course, had too look like less than an agent. That night, you had to get prepared, dressing down from your usual slacks and dress shirt and opting for a more.. casual.. look.

Garcia, JJ, and Prentiss just couldn't wait to get their hands on you. It was a once in a life time opportunity.

You barely made it into the hotel room before the ambush.

“There she is!” Prentiss announced, arms crossed with a smug grin. JJ was already holding up two hangers, each with an outfit. Garcia was seated cross-legged on the bed with a massive makeup bag splayed open in front of her like a battlefield.

You blinked. “Did you guys.. Were you waiting for me?”

JJ smirked. “Garcia brought supplies.”

Garcia didn’t even look up. “Sweet cheeks, I have been dreaming of this day since you joined the team. And now… finally…” She lifted a compact like a weapon forged in heaven. “The day has come.”

“This isn’t a makeover montage,” you muttered.

“Oh, but it is,” Prentiss said, grabbing your wrist and tugging you into the middle of the room. “You’re going undercover as vulnerable, off-duty eye candy. We’re making sure you sell it.”

“Guys,” you sighed. “This isn’t Clueless. I’m bait for a serial killer, not a Tinder date.”

“Exactly,” JJ said, tossing a pair of stockings onto the bed. “So you need to look like someone who doesn’t know she’s being watched. Not like someone who could break someone’s nose with two fingers.”

The scene was a bar. Wasting some time inside of it, sipping on a few prop drinks all alone, before stumbling out into the alley where he'd most likely take his chances on you.

You had to look the part. The mysterious, lonely temptress who would go quietly if grabbed.

You were forced into a short, red dress, one that hugged your curves and showed off the length of your smooth legs. Your hair was curled, natural makeup on your already pretty face.

You were gorgeous. Not that you weren't usually. But this was much different than your slick-back ponytail and business only outfit, a gun hanging from your holster.

Garcia let out a dramatic gasp when you stepped out of the bathroom.

“Oh. My. God.” she breathed, eyes widening. “You’re not just bait, you're irresistible temptation. Marry me.”

Prentiss gave a low whistle. “Remind me to never stand next to you in public again.”

JJ smirked. “He won’t stand a chance. Poor bastard.”

You tugged at the hem of the red dress, fidgeting. It was shorter than anything you usually wore. Hell, it was shorter than anything Garcia usually wore. “I feel like a walking target.”

“That’s the point,” Prentiss said, coming up behind you to fix a loose curl. “But don’t forget. You’re still the most dangerous one in the room.”

Garcia handed you a tiny clutch with your wire and phone inside. “And just in case he gets any ideas before the alley, Reid and Morgan will be watching from the bar. Hotch and I are set up in the surveillance van. You’re never alone.”

You looked at yourself in the mirror again. It was surreal, like staring at a version of yourself that only existed in smoke and mirrors. A version soft enough to lure in a killer. A version smart enough to trap him.

You took a breath. Deep. Steady.

“I can do this,” you muttered.

“You will do this,” JJ corrected firmly, her voice resolute. “And when you bring this guy down, I want my red dress back.”

You laughed softly, the nerves settling into something colder, more useful. “You got it.”

As the three women saw you off, Prentiss stopped you with a hand on your arm. “Hey. You’re more than bait. You’re the one drawing him out. That makes you the one in control.”

You stepped outside, meeting Morgan and Reid at the undercover vehicle, a sleek black SUV. They stood talking by the passenger's door, only noticing you approaching when you got close.

Morgan was the first to look up; and his reaction was immediate.

His brows rose, a low whistle slipping out as he took in your appearance. “Damn. Remind me what we’re trying to catch again? Because I think you just stunned me.”

Reid, less composed, blinked rapidly. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Y-You, uh, wow. You look…” His brain clearly short-circuited.

You raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly. “Careful, boys. I’m armed.”

Morgan laughed, clapping Reid on the back as if to snap him out of his stupor. “You good, pretty boy? Need a second to reboot?”

Reid cleared his throat, shoving his hands in his pockets and very intentionally looking at the SUV instead of you. “I’m fine. Let's move out.”

Without another word, Reid hopped into the car, leaving you and Derek in silence. You rolled your eyes as Derek opened the door to let you get in.

Morgan held the door open with a crooked grin. “You know, I’ve seen you break a man’s nose with the butt of your Glock… but somehow, this might be the most dangerous I’ve ever seen you.”

You scoffed, climbing into the SUV. “Save it for Garcia.”

In a few short minutes, you were at your destination. You got out, securing the wire into a hidden place as Reid and Morgan looked around. You tossed your curls behind your shoulder and cleared your throat.

"Alright. In the bar for fifteen minutes, twenty at most. If he approaches you, play coy. If he doesn't, we still have a chance to lure him in the back alley," Morgan explained, securing his own wire and tucking his gun. "We're more likely to see him out there. He's struck in that area quite a few times."

You nodded.

"Don't be afraid. We'll be right there with you, just at a distance. If you're ever too uncomfortable to stand it, call for us."

You made a gesture of agreement to Morgan before finally glancing at Reid, who cleared his throat.

"Just.. Don't jump the gun." He said. He somewhat failed to keep the entitlement in his voice. You wondered what was plaguing him, but nonetheless, you ignored it, rolling your eyes.

"I got it, Reid. Don't worry. Your teachings will be on my psyche the whole time."

Reid’s jaw ticked slightly, clearly unsatisfied with your response but unwilling to push further — at least not in front of Morgan.

Morgan, on the other hand, was watching the two of you like he was sitting court-side. “Alright, kids,” he said, breaking the tension with a raised brow. “Let’s not make this a pissing contest. We’ve got a predator to catch, not egos to babysit.”

You smirked, giving Morgan a thumbs up as you reached for the bar door. But before you could step out, Reid finally spoke again, softer this time, less sharp.

“Just… be careful. Please.”

You paused, turning slightly to look at him. There it was. Underneath all the attitude and irritation — the worry. The fear. The unspoken something that had been simmering between you both since that stupid hotel argument.

You gave a nod. “I will.”

And then you stepped out, heels clicking against the pavement, shoulders square, mask slipping into place.

You weren’t the agent now. You were the bait.

For a while, it was dead.

You sat at the bar, sipping on a "vodka soda," looking around. You tried your best to keep your emotions off from your face, opting for a more bored look. Your legs were crossed. People filtered in, people filtered out. The music changed. Drinks were poured, people surrounded you. A few approached, but not the one you needed.

You checked the time subtly, tilting your wrist just enough to catch the glint of the watch Garcia had modified for comms. Seventeen minutes. A little longer than planned, but not enough to call it yet. You could feel their eyes on you, Morgan’s and Reid’s from their respective vantage points, watching every shift of your posture like hawks.

The bartop was sticky, the lighting dim, casting sultry shadows that you knew looked calculated from afar. You took another slow sip, letting your eyes drift across the room again. A man at the end of the bar caught your gaze, held it for a beat too long.

But he turned away. Not him.

Your fingers tapped lightly against your glass, nails clicking in a slow rhythm.

Patience. Not just power.

You breathed out through your nose, subtle and quiet. You could play this game.

Just when your boredom began to feel a little too real, movement in your periphery made your eyes flick. A man near the jukebox — tall, late 30s, scruffy beard, not quite drunk but deliberately slow in his movements. Alone. Observing. Not playing music.

He looked at you.

You tilted your head slightly, uncrossing and recrossing your legs. Deliberate. Casual. Vulnerable.

He didn’t move.

But now you knew.

That was him.

And he was watching.

You cleared your throat, turning away and looking disinterested, until you felt his presence get closer and closer. Then, he was right beside you.

"Out here all alone?"

You didn’t look at him right away. You let the question hang for a beat, took a slow sip of your drink, kept your eyes ahead like someone unsure whether to entertain the voice or pretend they hadn’t heard it.

Then you turned, just a little. Just enough for your lashes to lift slowly, eyes finding his. Soft. Unassuming.

You gave a half-smile. “Depends who’s asking.”

He chuckled lowly, like he’d practiced it. Like he wanted it to sound charming but didn’t quite have the tone right. “Just someone who hates to see a pretty girl looking so bored.”

You glanced around the room lazily, then back at him. “Well. Not exactly a thrilling place to be alone.”

His eyes scanned you too thoroughly. It made your skin crawl, but you didn’t flinch.

He leaned on the bar beside you. “Maybe I could change that.”

You shifted, letting your knee graze his thigh — accidentally, on purpose. “Maybe you could.”

From the comms in your ear, you could barely catch Morgan’s low voice: “He’s on her. Stay ready.”

You gave the stranger one last smile before looking down into your glass. “Buy me a refill?”

He motioned to the bartender. “Vodka soda, right?”

You nodded. “Good memory.”

He grinned, and that time it reached his eyes. Just a flash. Something darker.

Bingo.

Your heart kicked up. But your face never betrayed it. You leaned in, just slightly, pretending to laugh at something he hadn’t said.

You held a conversation easily, as if you'd been doing this forever. You barely nursed your drink, immersing yourself into fooling him more than anything else. You crossed your fingers.

And soon, it came. The question you needed.

"You wanna get out of here?" He asked gruffly, a hand coming up to stroke your exposed collar bone. You wanted to throw up. You wanted to snap his arm, slam him to the floor and cuff him immediately.

But you thought about what Spencer had said.

Contemplation. Patience. The art of being cautious. It was just as useful as the fire you usually lit onto anyone you apprehended.

You took a slow breath through your nose, keeping your smile soft, a little shy. You let your eyes flick down, like you were considering it. Like you hadn’t just felt bile rise in your throat at the weight of his hand.

This was the moment. The danger curled just beneath your skin, thrumming like a second pulse.

“Yeah,” you said, voice a little breathier, like nerves. “I could use some air.”

He smiled — victory, hunger, maybe both — and slid off his stool, his hand brushing down your arm as if he had the right.

Morgan’s voice was calm but firm in your earpiece. “She’s moving. Everyone hold position. Reid, keep visual.”

You followed him toward the door, a little slower than necessary, stumbling just enough to play into it. “Sorry,” you muttered with a nervous laugh. “Maybe I had one too many.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he murmured, holding the door open. “I’ll take care of you.”

The night hit you like a slap of reality — cold, quiet, real. Your heels clicked against pavement as he guided you down the sidewalk, toward the alley behind the bar.

Your breath hitched. Not from fear. From instinct. The part of you that was still an agent. Still ready to fight, to break him, to stop this before he could touch another woman.

But you stayed in character. You stayed the part.

“Reid,” Morgan’s voice came again. “Do you have eyes?”

There was a long beat before Spencer replied, voice low, strained. “Yes. He’s guiding her down the alley. Don’t move yet.”

You felt it in his voice. You'd felt it since your argument. The tension. The fear. The anticipation. There was something different about the way Reid talked to you, talked about you, ever since your moment in the hotel.

You turned to the man, letting yourself wobble just enough, brushing against him like you needed balance. His hand found your waist too easily.

“You okay?” he asked.

You gave him a soft laugh. “Yeah. Just… a little dizzy.”

“Don’t worry.” His grip tightened. “I’ve got you.”

And then, just like that, he started to lead you into the dark.

Any second now.

Then, moments later, his grip on you became stronger. More direct. Less friendly.

"What are you—"

Without another word, you were slammed up against the brick, his dirty hands all over you. Frantically searching for something. Pain echoed through your body as he continued ruffling your clothes, pulling at your hair.

You frowned, struggling.

"Please, don't—"

"Shut up, bitch! I know you're a cop." He snapped, jerking you slightly.

Your jaw dropped. You felt as though you had cold water thrown over you, dripping down your spine into your heels.

"But I'm not." You attempted meekly.

Cautious. Don't fight yet. Contemplate your choices.

He snickered snidely.

"Officer L/n. I know your father, sweetheart. Or knew him," He said, his clammy breath fanning into your face. "He got my friends put away for life. And then there you were, following right in his footsteps."

He dragged you away from the brick wall, grabbing you by your face. A knife glinted in his other hand.

The cold edge of the blade caught the faint glow of the alley light, flickering like a warning. Your breath caught in your throat. Your hands were still raised — not in surrender, but in precision. Timing.

"Where's the fuckin' wire? Tell me or I'm slitting your throat and dropping you right here."

You swallowed hard, keeping your voice steady despite the pounding in your chest. “I don’t have a wire on me.”

His eyes flashed with suspicion, narrowing dangerously. “Bullshit.”

"Please.." You muttered.

Wait. Wait. Wait.

"Where. Is. The. Wire?!" He snapped, pressing the knife into you.

You froze for a heartbeat as the knife pressed sharper against your skin, a searing line of cold fire that threatened to break through your calm. Your breath hitched but you forced it back down, steady and slow, every nerve screaming for you to act.

“Wait,” you whispered, eyes locking with his — steady, unflinching. “You want the wire? I'll give it to you. I'm begging you not to do this.”

His grip tightened, but there was a flicker of hesitation in his eyes, just a flash. Then, the knife pressed harder, enough to nick you, enough to cause a drop of blood to drizzle down. You hissed, tears collecting in your eyes.

Before the knife could press deeper, Reid sprang forward in a sudden burst of strength and precision — the kind of controlled force you usually wielded yourself.

He grabbed the man’s wrist, wrenching the knife away in one smooth motion. The blade clattered to the ground.

Without hesitation, Reid twisted the man’s arm behind his back and slammed him face-first against the brick wall with a sharp grunt.

The attacker struggled, but Reid’s grip was ironclad. He never did take-downs. He never felt like it was time. He valued a talk-down, a chance for the Unsub to see the light without an altercation. But something had snapped.

Reid’s breathing was heavier, eyes sharp and fierce — something you’d never seen in him before. The usual hesitation and quiet intellect gave way to raw, unyielding force. It was like watching a different side of him come alive, the side you’d been expecting all along but had never truly witnessed until now. The others had claimed to see it since he'd come home from prison, but it had never been revealed to you.

He hissed quietly, “Don’t move.”

You slumped against the wall, breathing heavily with a hand clutched to your neck. Blood flowed steadily, but not at a dangerous rate. Just enough to need a med team, but not enough to be scared. You stared up at the sky, frowning.

Morgan and Hotch came after, taking the Unsub from Reid, who was pressing him harder and harder against the wall every second as if he'd personally offended him with his existence.

Hotch immediately stepped in, his voice calm but authoritative. “Easy, Reid. Let him breathe.”

Morgan was already pulling out a medical kit, kneeling beside you quickly. “You good? That cut’s nasty, we can’t patch it up on-site.”

You gave a stiff nod, biting back the sting. “I’m fine. Just… keep him away.”

Reid’s jaw clenched, but he finally loosened his grip, stepping back reluctantly as the cuffs clicked shut around the Unsub’s wrists.

Your eyes met his, a quiet understanding passing between you both— raw tension still lingering, but also something deeper. You’d both taken a page from each other’s book tonight: your strength and resolve, his patience and calculated caution.

Morgan glanced at the three of you, breaking the moment with a grin. “Alright, bait and backup — that’s how we bring down monsters."

You rolled your eyes as you pressed the gauze to the side of your neck. "All in a day's work."

Morgan hummed.

"You need a hospital. I can drive—"

"I can do it." Reid interrupted quietly, looking at you more than he was Morgan.

You cleared your throat, nodding.

Reid’s eyes softened just a fraction as he reached out, carefully taking your hand to steady you. “Let’s get you patched up properly.”

Morgan gave you both a teasing smirk, but wisely kept his distance as Reid helped you into the SUV.

The ride was silent. The quick treatment in the hospital was silent, too. You allowed them to clean and stitch you up, flinching every few moments, before your eyes met Reid's again.

There was something different. There was no irritation or arrogance in his brown eyes like what he normally directed towards you. It was only softness. Just simply watching you, like it was a normal habit of his that he could do all day. Thick with tension. Words unsaid.

You couldn't lie. It made you blush. You looked away.

The conversation didn't ensue until the ride back to the hotel.

The engine hummed low as the SUV slipped down the dark road, headlights casting long, sweeping shadows across the pavement. Reid drove slower than usual: cautious, thoughtful. His fingers gripped the wheel with a quiet intensity, knuckles pale.

You sat beside him, your body angled slightly toward the window, but your eyes drifted, again and again, to his face. To the way his jaw tensed and relaxed like he was chewing on words. Like he couldn’t hold them in much longer.

He broke the silence.

"You did perfectly." He said quietly.

Your eyes flicked to him, surprised by the softness in his tone.

“Didn’t feel perfect,” you muttered, fingers brushing the gauze at your neck. “I let him get too close.”

“That was the point,” Reid said, glancing at you before returning his gaze to the road. “You had him completely. You waited. You didn’t react too soon. That’s what saved your life.”

You gave a small, dry laugh. “I thought I’d be the one snapping his wrist and pressing his face into the wall. Guess we traded roles.”

Reid’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, something more fragile. “You’ve always been better at brute force. I just never thought I’d actually need to use it.”

You leaned back in your seat, watching him. “So what changed?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just kept driving, eyes steady, lips parted slightly like the words were there, just hesitant to form.

Finally, he spoke, voice barely audible. “The second I saw him touch you, I didn’t think. I didn’t weigh the risk or the outcomes. I just… moved.”

Your throat tightened. “Why?���

He inhaled slowly. “Because if something had happened to you, if I had waited even a second longer, I wouldn’t have forgiven myself. It's hard enough to accept that you were hurt at all.”

You looked down at your lap, quiet for a beat. “I didn’t think you liked me that much.”

Reid frowned, squeezing the wheel.

"Name.. I don't dislike you." He said hoarsely. "I admire you, to be truthful. You're brave. Strong. Everything I want to be and have struggled to be my whole life," his voice was just above a whisper as he stole a glance your way.

"But I worry. All the time. I worry that something will go wrong and I'll lose another person. Another member of the team. And someone that I.." He trailed off.

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest.

“Someone that you…?” you echoed gently, coaxing the rest out of him.

Reid’s jaw clenched. He exhaled shakily through his nose, like the truth physically hurt to say aloud.

“Someone that I like. Someone I care about,” he said at last, voice quiet but unwavering. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. I didn’t want it to. You make me insane, half the time. You drive me completely up the wall.”

You smiled faintly, despite the tension thick in the car.

“But then I watch you work. Or I hear you laugh. Or you look at me like I’m not broken, like I’m not damaged goods. And I—I can’t unfeel it.”

Silence blanketed the car once more, but this time it was full of unsaid things that didn’t need words. It buzzed with the gravity of what had finally cracked open between you.

He pulled into the parking lot of the hotel, putting the car in park. His eyes slid over to yours again.

You reached out slowly, resting your fingers gently over his. He looked down at your hand, then up into your eyes, as if trying to make sure this was real.

You gave a soft, knowing smile. “Took you long enough to admit it.”

Reid huffed a breath, almost a laugh, though his eyes were still glassy with everything he hadn’t said before tonight. “I thought you hated me.”

“I thought you were too good for me.”

His gaze flicked to your neck, then back to your eyes. “No one’s too good for you.”

"You are." You snorted. "I'm mean. Closed off. I don't listen."

Reid shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving yours.

“You’re protective,” he corrected gently. “You carry the weight for everyone else so they don’t have to. And you listen more than you think — not always to words, but to people. To their actions, their patterns. That’s why you’re good at this.”

You looked away, swallowing hard, your throat tight. “Still. You’re… kind. And soft. And patient. You make people feel safe just by being in the room. I make people flinch.”

Reid’s hand turned beneath yours, his fingers slipping between yours with quiet certainty. “I don't flinch.”

Your eyes snapped back to his, caught off guard by the quiet conviction in his voice. There was no teasing, no hesitation, no irritation in his tone — just truth. Solid and unwavering.

You stared at him for a beat, breath shallow. “No,” you whispered. “You don’t.”

Reid tilted his head slightly, his gaze dipping to your lips for just a second before returning to your eyes. “I see you. All of you. And I don’t flinch.”

The weight of his words settled in your chest like an anchor: grounding, calming, terrifying in the best way. No one had ever looked at you like this. Not with fear. Not with judgment. But with… something gentler. Something that threatened to undo every wall you’d ever built.

“You’re not scared of me,” you said quietly, like you were still trying to convince yourself.

“I’m scared for you, every time you throw yourself into harms' way,” he admitted, voice barely above a breath. “But never of you.”

There was a pause. Heavy. Electric.

And then, in the dark hush of the SUV, with the sounds of the city and the glow of the streetlights casting soft shadows across his face, you leaned in.

"Reid?"

"Call me Spencer."

You snorted softly, rolling your eyes.

"Spencer?"

His name lingered on your tongue, warm and unfamiliar in that intimate kind of way, like a secret finally spoken aloud.

He gave the faintest nod, eyes flicking down to your lips again, and this time he didn’t look away.

“Yeah?” he asked, his voice rough around the edges, like he already knew what you were going to say but needed to hear it anyway.

Your breath caught, lips parting slightly. “You’re not as subtle as you think.”

He blinked. “What?”

You tilted your head, your smile barely there. “The staring. The tension. The way you act like I’m a walking risk assessment.”

Spencer’s lips tugged up, sheepish but unrepentant. “I didn’t want to cross a line.”

“You didn’t.” Your voice softened, fingers still tangled with his. “You didn’t cross anything.”

He leaned in a little closer, enough for his breath to ghost across your cheek.

“Then can I?” he whispered.

Your heart thudded once, hard, before you nodded.

“Yes. Please.”

And then, he kissed you.

Slow. Intentional. Like he’d waited a lifetime for permission.

And you, well, for once, you didn’t think. You didn’t fight.

You just let yourself feel.

You knew your father would've liked him.

[coconutlyalex]

i'm so done with seeing and finding purely smut fics, what happened to yearning?? what happened to developing plots??character development??fluff?? angst?? hurt/comfort?? what happened to those monologues of characters that hurt your heart and made you go insane AGH

[coconutlyalex]

let me love you — a. hotchner

summary: it takes you almost kissing someone else for him for him to realise just how much he cares

pairing: aaron hotchner x bau!reader

warnings: angst, tension, angry kisses, jealous!hotch, he's so hot, did i mention tension? bcs there's so much tension tension tension, a few swears, her bag sort of disappears.. oops

word count: 5.2k (oops x2)

Hotch doesn’t even look at you anymore.

Okay, that’s not true — he does. When he has to. When there’s a case file in his hands and you’re just another member of the team he needs to brief — another agent he’s in charge of. When there’s a question about geographical profiling or victimology and you’re the one who can answer it. When he’s assigning roles and has to say your name.

But everything outside of that? Nothing. Cold silence. Controlled distance.

And it killed you.

You wouldn’t even know you kissed him. More than once. Wouldn’t know how his hands felt in your hair, or how he’d said your name like it physically hurt him. Wouldn’t know that there was a moment — no, a string of moments — where he looked at you like you were the only thing grounding him to earth.

Because now? Now he’s pretending none of it ever happened.

And the worst part?

You know he still wants you.

Not in the arrogant way. Not in the I’m-so-irresistible kind of way. No — you know it because you see it. In the way his eyes flicker to you when he thinks you’re not paying attention. In the way his jaw ticks when Morgan jokes too casually with you. In the way he goes quiet when your laugh cuts across the room — his lips pressing into a thin line while his body tenses, almost like he’s trying to stop himself from laughing along.

He wants you. And he’s made that clear before.

But he’s also your boss. Older. Emotionally constipated. A man who shuts people out just before they get too close.

So of course, he made the decision for both of you. Of course, he pulled away, said it wasn’t appropriate, said you needed to keep it professional. Of course, he slammed that wall up between you and iced you out like he didn’t miss you the moment he left.

And now? Now you’re in Florida. The local PD is stretched thin, there’s a suspected spree killer hitting tourist-heavy areas along the I-4 corridor, and you’re operating out of some small, humid precinct where the AC rattles and no one knows how to use a case board.

Hotch pairs you with Officer Pretty Smile — an actual cop, around your age, golden tan, charming, full of casual grins and easy compliments. You don’t even hear most of what Hotch says when he assigns you; you’re too busy fuming at the fact that he’s done it again.

Just like the last two cases, he pairs you with some random officer, keeps you away from the scene, away from the precinct, away from anywhere he might be — in a way, he’s not letting you do your job.

Distanced from the rest of the team, you’re not much help.

How is that professional?

You know the game he’s playing. Avoidance. Distance. Control.

You’re sick of it.

But Officer Pretty Smile — his name’s Ryan — doesn’t seem to mind the stormcloud hanging over your head. He makes it easy to forget, just a little. He’s perceptive, actually listens when you talk, knows when to make you laugh and when to stay quiet. It’s a relief.

He flirts — lightly, respectfully — and you flirt back. Why shouldn’t you?

Aaron’s the one who put this wall up. He’s the one not speaking to you.

You don’t owe him your loyalty if he won’t even look at you outside of a damn case briefing.

The case wraps up after a few days of gruelling profiling, false leads and one late-night stakeout that finally caught your UnSub at a rest stop. You’re debriefing the locals, coordinating transport and starting to pack things up when Ryan walks you out to the parking lot.

He offers you his number, and you take it, pocketing it with a smile that widens when he leans in to press a soft kiss to your cheek. It’s innocent, really. Careful and sweet, but when he pulls back, he doesn’t go far. His face stays close, breath brushing against your skin as his eyes lock onto yours.

Then his gaze drops — not just to your lips, but the space between you — like he’s weighing the distance and what to do about it. It takes a breath or two before he meets your eyes again.

He leans in, slower this time, and his lips just barely graze yours. A featherlight touch that barely classifies as a kiss. It’s more of a hesitation. A silent question — do you want this too?

Yes, you do.

You answer by lifting a hand and placing it gently on his jaw, your touch light but certain.

He exhales softly, and his hands move to your waist, holding you like he’s been wanting to all day.

Your lips are so close, a breath away, and just as you’re about to close the gap—

“Agent!”

Aaron’s voice cuts through the humid Florida air like a gunshot, sharp enough to turn heads. It’s not just a call — it’s a warning. A demand. His tone carries weight, and everyone nearby instinctively pauses, glancing over to where he stands near the SUV, his jaw tight, posture coiled like he’s seconds away from snapping.

You freeze.

Where the fuck did he spawn from?

Ryan pulls back, but not completely. His hands stay on your waist, holding you close, as his eyes look over your shoulder.

You, however, don’t turn around — stubbornly refusing to give Hotch the satisfaction of ruining this moment.

He can wait.

He can watch.

You keep your gaze locked on Ryan. On his lips that are a bit further away than before, parted in confusion as he stares at your boss.

Your fingers shift slightly against his jaw — a gentle nudge meant to draw his attention back to you. And it works. His eyes flicker away from whatever intensity Hotch is radiating behind you and settle back on yours.

You lean in, slow and deliberate, and the moment you do, he seems to forget everything else as he leans in too.

And, just like before, just as your lips graze—

“Agent!”

Somehow, his voice is harsher than before — each syllable laced with barely contained fury.

Your hands fall from Ryan’s face and drop to your sides as you sigh, letting your head dip forward slightly.

“What’s his problem?” Ryan murmurs, his frustration mirroring yours as he shoots Aaron a brief, irritated glance before turning his attention back to you.

You lift your head, just enough to meet his eyes again, and mutter, “I don’t know. He’s just—” You wave a hand vaguely behind you. “A hardass.” You pause. “Or an ass. A normal ass. Whichever floats your boat.”

Ryan snorts, nodding as he looks back at Aaron. “Yeah. That tracks.”

You smile, wide and genuine. “Well then,” you say, looking up at him, “duty calls.”

He nods, looking a bit reluctant as he returns your smile and asks, “Will I see you again before you go?”

You hesitate, just for a second, before finally glancing over your shoulder.

Hotch stands by the entrance of the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office — arms crossed, back stiff, jaw tight. His eyes are locked on you like he’s trying to dissect every inch of the moment he just interrupted. He looks furious. Controlled, as always, but furious nonetheless.

You look back at Ryan. “Probably not.”

There’s a brief pause — just a breath of silence — before he nods. He doesn’t push, doesn’t ask for anything more. Instead, he steps in and kisses your cheek again, soft and quick, like a quiet goodbye. When he pulls back, he lets his hand brush down your arm before stepping away.

You turn without another word, lowering your head as you approach Aaron. With each step, the feeling of his stare on you burns hotter, sharper.

You stop in front of him, standing there for a moment before you glance up.

His blazer is off, his blue button-up clinging slightly to his skin. His sunglasses perched on his nose and his jaw is tight.

You hate yourself for thinking that he looks hot.

You cross your arms, exhaling sharply before saying, “You called?”

He doesn’t waste a second. “Get the scene logs from the officers inside. I want them scanned and uploaded before we leave for the jet.”

His tone is dry, detached. The words hang in the air like a weight that doesn’t match the way he’s looking at you. His expression is stone-cold, all business, and it only fuels the frustration coursing through you.

You blink, your chest tightening. That’s it? That’s the urgent reason he called you out of a kiss like the sky was falling?

It’s a bullshit task. You both know it.

But he’s your Unit Chief. And right now, he’s pulling rank — not for the case. The case is over. Solved.

He’s doing it for himself, and it makes you want to scream.

You bite back the thousand things you want to say, give a tight nod, and walk past him without a glance.

—

On the jet, the tension is unbearable.

Hotch is sitting near the front, a stack of case files spread in front of him that he hasn’t touched since takeoff. He just stares at them, unmoving, like he’s willing them to make him forget.

You’re in the back, headphones on, glaring out the window as your forehead rests against the glass of it.

The others feel it — the tightrope tension stretching across the cabin. No one says a word.

After a while, you can’t help but glance his way, your eyes rolling when you see how he’s glaring at the files in front of him.

He’s clearly seething. The image of you, about to kiss someone else, seemed to be carved into his memory.

If he’d been closer, he might’ve punched the guy. Hell, if he wasn’t so goddamn professional, he might’ve dragged you away himself.

But he didn’t. He waited. He watched.

He hates that he waited.

And now he’s stewing in it.

When the jet lands, everyone moves quickly — eager to escape the static pressure in the air. You stand, grabbing your go-bag before heading for the stairs.

And then — low, sharp, right in front of you:

“Stay.”

He’s still seated, leaning forward slightly, elbow propped on the table. His hand is pressed to his face, fingers buried in his hair while his palm digs into his temple like he’s desperately trying to hold his thoughts together.

His eyes are closed — not from sleep, but something heavier — and despite the jet landing, his papers are still out, strewn in front of him. Clearly, he’d given up trying to read them — or pretending to read them.

His face is taut, shadowed — caught in a quiet storm of exhaustion or thought. Maybe both.

He looks really hot.

Swallowing, you will that thought away.

‘Stay.’ He had said, in a tone that made you freeze — one that left no room for argument.

You hesitate, your grip on your bag tightening a bit as you stare before deciding.

No.

With your lips set in a frown, you start walking again.

Just as you’re about to move past him, though, his hand reaches out to wrap around your wrist.

You tense, his touch making you feel warm and a bit breathless despite your anger.

“I said stay.” His voice cuts through the quiet — steady with an edge that sends a jolt through you.

Shit.

You look down at him, jaw set. “Let go.”

He doesn’t move at first — just lifts his eyes to meet yours, something unreadable flickering behind them. Then he exhales before rising to his feet in a fluid motion. His grip on your wrist doesn’t loosen as he stands over you, shoulders squared.

You falter, thrown by the sudden nearness. “Hotch—”

“Aaron.” He interrupts you, his eyes narrowing as he stares down at you. His tone is sharp, stern like hearing his last name offended him.

“Hotch.” You repeat it, just to piss him off.

If distance is what he wants, distance is what he’ll get.

He stares at you for a second before exhaling, a tired look in his eyes as he says, “We need to talk.”

“Oh, now you want to talk?” Your voice rises a bit and you barely manage to hold back a laugh. “You ignore me for weeks, send me off like I’m a problem you can delegate, and now — suddenly — you want to talk?”

His jaw clenches. “You don’t understand—”

“No. You don’t get to—“

Before you can finish what you’re saying, he uses his grip on your wrist to pull you into him. Fuelled by everything he hasn’t said, it’s not a gentle gesture.

You gasp as you stumble forward, crashing into his chest. Your cheek brushes the soft fabric of his shirt and your hand splayed instinctively against him for balance. When your eyes finally meet his, he’s already looking down at you — jaw tense, eyes dark, your faces now inches apart.

“You were going to kiss him.” His voice is quiet, but the words hit harder than if he’d shouted them.

His grip on your wrist tightens slightly, and for a moment, he closes his eyes. The sight of you both leaning in replays in his mind — the tension in his jaw is visible as his lips press into a line. His expression looks as if the image physically hurt him.

When he opens them again, his eyes lock onto yours, searching, checking to see if you understand the severity of it.

Your lips are parted as you stare at him.

You’re not surprised that he brought it up. You knew it was coming, but the way he says it — the weight in his voice — wasn’t something you were expecting.

His words carried an undertone of pain that make you falter. It’s not just about the kiss, you realise. It’s about everything he’s been holding in.

“You were about to kiss him.” He repeats, slower than before, his eyes still boring into yours.

Hearing the word ‘kiss’ a second time, along with the sudden proximity, had your gaze falling to his lips.

You couldn’t help it.

You looked back up quickly to find his eyes still on you.

A flicker of guilt creeps into your chest — something small, unwanted. Maybe it’s the way his voice quietened when he said it. Maybe it’s the look in his eyes, like he wasn’t prepared for how much it hurt him — you almost kissing someone else.

For a split second, you start to feel bad.

But it doesn’t last.

Not when you remember the last few weeks — how he’s iced you out, kept his distance like you didn’t matter, like the moments you shared never happened.

Your jaw tightens and your brows furrow in the way they always do when you’re annoyed.

“Stop.” You say, the word sharper than you intended. Shaking your head, your voice comes out quieter the second time. “Just… stop.”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just watches you — eyes flicking across your face like he’s trying to read you.

Like he’s trying to profile you.

What happened to never profiling each other? Probably the same thing that happened to being ‘professional’.

“You’re being unfair, Aaron.”

You avert your gaze, unable to hold his anymore. It drops to his chest — the fabric of his shirt stretched a bit beneath your hands that are still resting there. You can feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, slightly faster than it should be.

He has no right to be upset, you think, and it takes everything in you not to say it out loud first. But when you look back up at him, your anger catches fire again, sharp and unforgiving.

“You’re the one who pushed me away.” You bite out, voice low. “You iced me out. For weeks, Aaron.”

Your words land heavy in the space between you, but you don’t stop.

“You told me we couldn’t—” You falter slightly, pain catching in your throat, “—that we had to keep things professional. And then you avoided me. You acted like I didn’t matter.”

His jaw flexes again, but he says nothing.

“And now what?” you continue. “Now you’re upset because I almost kissed someone else? You don’t get to pull me in two different directions like this. You can’t tell me to stay away, and then look at me like that when someone else gets close.”

His hand is still on your waist, his grip on your wrist still firm. He hasn’t let go, hasn’t backed off, and that makes it worse — the contradiction of it. The ache of being wanted but not claimed.

“It’s confusing. You’re confusing.” My voice goes back to being quiet as I lower my gaze again, missing the way his expression softens a bit.

It softens because he knows you’re right.

He can’t argue with you, not really. Not when you’re looking at him like that. Or rather, not looking at him at all. Your eyes are fixed on his chest now, lips pressed together in that tight little frown that always means you’re trying not to show how hurt you are.

He can’t argue with you because you’re right.

He’s being unfair, and the guilt of that realization hits him instantly, swallowing him whole. The weight of his own selfishness also sinks in, making him feel stupid for not realizing how much he’s hurt you.

When the silence stretches for too long, you look up, and your frown deepens when you see how he’s watching you.

“Stop profiling me.” Your voice shakes a bit as you try to yank yourself free of his grip. But Aaron doesn’t let go. His hands stay firm on your waist, like letting go would mean losing something he’s not ready to give up.

It only makes you angrier.

You shove at his chest, hard, but he barely budges. “Let go.” you snap, glaring up at him, but his expression doesn’t shift. He just watches you, jaw tight, eyes unreadable behind the shield of his silence.

That silence cuts deeper than anything.

“You ignored me for weeks!” you shout, your voice rising, cracking with something raw. “You didn’t even look at me. You shut me out like I meant nothing!”

You try again to pull away, like his touch burns. Like the heat of his hands is searing through your skin, cracking you open.

And it hurts him — more than he thought it would. Watching you try to escape him like he’s done something unforgivable — which he has — makes something twist in his chest. He wants to fix it, but he doesn’t know how. Every word you throw at him lands like a blow, and still, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t let go.

He just hurts.

“Let go!” you yell, louder now, fists balled as you push at him again. “I said fuck off, Aaron!”

You look up at him then — eyes blazing, cheeks flushed with anger, your frown etched deep into your face. The fury in your expression is undeniable, and it hits him like a punch.

And before he even realizes what he’s doing — he kisses you.

It comes out of nowhere. Like something snaps inside him, like instinct. It’s not gentle. It’s not soft. It’s angry and desperate and messy—like he’s trying to shut you up and apologize all at once. Like everything he’s been holding back has just erupted, too big to contain.

You freeze at first, tensing against it, breath caught in your throat.

But then you break.

Your hands fist in the lapels of his blazer, gripping hard like you need something to hold you upright. Your lips move against his with the same kind of fury you’d just thrown at him — like this is a fight, too. But somewhere in that chaos, your shoulders slump, and so do his.

Like you’re both exhaling for the first time in weeks.

Like this is the first breath either of you has taken since everything fell apart.

His hands move — one, then both — rising to cradle your face, fingers splayed across your cheeks like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he lets go.

You pull back first, breaking the kiss with a gasp, your breath catching somewhere between his mouth and your own. His grip loosens, and for a second, something like a whine escapes him — soft and involuntary — like he can’t believe you’re already pulling away.

You’re breathless. Lips swollen. Heart racing.

“You’re such an asshole.” you hiss, voice low, hoarse, but still furious.

His eyes darken. “You were gonna kiss him.”

“Stop repeating that!” you snap, but there’s no bite behind it now — just exhaustion and heat and emotion so tangled you can’t separate any of it.

You don’t even think about it — you just lean in again, drawn like a magnet. And this time, he meets you halfway. Your lips part just before they touch, and when they do, it feels like the ground shifts beneath you. Like the jet could be spinning or crashing and you wouldn’t even notice.

It’s slower, deeper — but just as intense. His hands are still on your face, and yours are clinging to him like you don’t trust gravity anymore.

But then he pulls away.

His forehead drops to yours — close, so close — and for a moment you almost let him stay there. But something in you twists, and you turn your head just slightly, breaking the contact. You keep your eyes shut, breathing shallow, your face turned toward the wall of the jet like if you don’t look at him, you can hold onto the last piece of your anger.

His heart sinks.

“I’m sorry.” he says, his voice quieter now. Cracked open. “I’m sorry for all of it.”

You don’t move. Don’t look.

“I— I thought it was the right thing.” he says, and now it’s all unraveling, everything he’s shoved down clawing its way out. “I didn’t know how to handle what I felt for you. I didn’t know if I should. So I convinced myself the best thing — the most responsible thing — was to shut it down. To shut you out.”

He lets out a breath, sharp and rough. “I told myself you’d be better off. That you didn’t need someone like me — someone older, someone who barely knows how to process his own shit, let alone drag you into it. My hours are a nightmare, I’m exhausted all the time, and I have nothing to give you except… this mess.”

His voice softens but doesn’t steady. “And if Strauss found out, she wouldn’t hesitate to pull you off the team. To punish you for something that was always my fault.”

You still don’t speak. Your eyes remain closed.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he says again, quieter now, like it physically hurts to say. “But it felt like cutting off my own oxygen. Seeing you every day, hearing your voice, pretending you were just another agent — it fucking destroyed me. Every moment I stayed away, I felt like I was unraveling. But I thought… if I could just hold the line a little longer, maybe I could let you go.”

His voice cracks then, barely above a whisper. “But I couldn’t. I can’t.”

You don’t say anything, and the silence eats at him. He shifts slightly, eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to read anything — any flicker of emotion, of softness, of something.

“Please say something.” he murmurs.

There’s no anger in him anymore. Just regret. Just longing.

“I haven’t slept,” he says, after a second. “Not really. Not since I let you go. You’ve been in my head every day. Every night. You walk into the room and I can’t think straight. I hear your voice down the hall and I forget what I’m doing. It’s pathetic.”

Then gently — cautiously — he reaches out, fingers brushing against your chin. He turns your face to him, coaxing your eyes to his.

And when you look at him, he looks wrecked.

There’s exhaustion in his features, shadows beneath his eyes, but it’s the look in them that breaks you: raw, sincere, desperate. Like you’re the only thing anchoring him to earth right now.

“I’m sorry.” he says again, like it’s the only thing he has left to give. Like he means it with everything he’s got.

And he does.

It’s silent for a second.

His eyes search yours, unsure and a little frantic, like he’s trying to profile you again — trying to get an understanding of whatever’s going on in your mind.

He gives up quickly, wanting to find out whatever it is your thinking from you yourself. But just as he’s about to ask, you kiss him.

When you pull back, your hands stay on him, sliding down to his chest where you can feel the rapid, uneven rhythm of his heart.

“I don’t expect you to be perfect, Aaron.” you murmur, voice soft but steady. “I’m not. I barely have my own shit together half the time. And I’m not looking for some ideal version of you — just you. The version that cares too much and thinks too hard and carries everything on his back like it’s his job to keep the world spinning.”

You pause, your eyes searching his, and he doesn’t look away.

“I don’t want anyone else.” you say, more firmly now. “I can’t want anyone else. My heart’s already decided. It’s you. It’s always been you. These past few weeks without you—feeling you pull away, watching you pretend like nothing mattered—that was hell. And if you think I just brushed it off and moved on, you really don’t know me at all.”

You don’t stop there, because you can see it — how he’s still doubting, still not sure what you see in him. So you tell him.

“You don’t even realize how much I see you.” you whisper. “How good you are. You’re strong, yeah, but you’re also… unbelievably kind. You’re the one who makes me feel stable when everything else is a mess. You make me feel safe without trying to control me. You make me feel… things I didn’t even know I was capable of feeling.”

His brow creases like he doesn’t know what to do with that, like it’s too much, too pure.

“And I don’t give a damn about your age. If anything, it makes you hotter.” you add with a breath of a laugh. “It means you’ve lived, you’ve learned, and you listen. You make me feel taken care of in a way no one ever has.”

He’s blinking at you like his brain short-circuited somewhere along the way.

“As for Strauss…” You shrug a little. “She’s not a profiler. We barely even see her. If we keep things professional at work, we’ll be fine. We’re good at this — at keeping calm under pressure. This isn’t gonna change that.”

Then you take one of his hands and hold it tightly, pressing your fingers to his palm.

“All I want,” you say, voice low, “is for you to let me love you.”

Something in him breaks. Or maybe it mends. You can’t quite tell.

His eyes widen just a little, and for a second he just stares at you — like his brain is still catching up. Like the word punched the breath right out of him.

“What?” he asks, the word so soft it’s barely audible.

“I just want to love you, Aaron.” you repeat, quieter this time, like it’s a promise.

His breath shudders out of him, and he leans forward again — not kissing you yet, just resting his forehead against yours, like he needs the grounding.

“I love you.” he says, the words raw and unfiltered. “And I’m sorry. I’ll talk to you next time — really talk. I won’t shut you out again. I won’t let myself forget what this feels like.”

“You better not.” you murmur.

And then he kisses you again.

It’s steadier now. Certain. Like he’s finally, finally giving in to the truth he’s been denying. Like he knows what he wants — and it’s you.

As your lips move together, the world outside the jet fades into the background. His hand moves slowly, purposefully, down your side, and then it shifts, lowering until he reaches into your pocket.

You pull away a little, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Before you can fully process it, he pulls out the small piece of paper — the one with Ryan’s number scrawled on it.

Your heart skips a beat. He saw that?

The thought stings for a second — had he seen everything? You’d assumed he’d stepped outside for some reason and had just happened to catch a glimpse of you two — coincidentally, when you were about to kiss.

But Aaron’s mind works in a different way. He had seen you leave with Ryan, noticed the way you two were talking, the smiles on your faces. And something in him tensed. He didn’t like it. The way you were walking so close, how easy it seemed between you. So he followed, curiosity gnawing at him. He hadn’t meant to — but it felt like he had to know.

You break the silence with a quiet question, still trying to make sense of it all. “You saw that?”

Aaron’s jaw tightens, his face flickering with a flash of frustration, then quickly hardening as he remembers it.

“I saw all of it.” he says, his voice colder than you expected. A wince pulls at his expression as he scrunches the paper up in his hand, turning to toss it in the small bin beside the exit of the jet, the movement sharp and final.

You can’t help but let out a small, amused laugh despite the tension. His reaction, his possessiveness — it’s almost too much to ignore. But then, before he can get too far in his thoughts, you soften and murmur an apology. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

He cuts you off with a question of his own, his gaze still intense as he watches you, his tone now a little guarded. “Were you actually going to kiss him?”

You blink, surprised by the bluntness, but you can’t help the smirk that slips onto your face. “Hey, you’re the one who paired me with him.”

Aaron rolls his eyes, the hint of frustration fading a little, but you can still see the sharp edge to his expression. “From now on, you’re with me for every case.”

You laugh at the thought, shaking your head, but the joke settles in as you reply, “I don’t think that’d help with keeping Strauss off our trail.”

Aaron chuckles, his eyes softening just a fraction, but he doesn’t back down. “I’ll risk it. It’s fine.”

Your laughter fills the space between you, and it warms Aaron’s heart more than he’d care to admit. He’s missed hearing it, hearing you so carefree, even when things feel a little chaotic.

He pulls you a little closer then, wrapping an arm around your waist as if he can’t let you go now that he’s got you. He starts guiding you off the jet with that same quiet confidence he always carries, but there’s something different now — a sense of peace between you both, even if the world outside still feels a little unsettled.

“You’re coming to my place.” he says, his voice low and steady. “I’m making you dinner.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

[coconutlyalex]

Trouble In the Ring (A Short Roman-Reigns One-Shot) Roman Reigns X Female Reader

Title: Trouble In the Ring Pairing: Roman Reigns X Female Reader Summary: When Seth Rollins confronts Y/N in the ring, Roman has none of it. Disclaimers: I own nothing or anyone associated or affiliated with WWE. I own only the original characters. This is just a fictional story that came from my imagination. Content/Trigger Warnings: Some vague violence, and a little blood.

Trouble In the Ring

The time had come to address the rather large elephant in the room.

You stood in the center of the ring, boldly. You brought the microphone to your lips–spoke softly but firmly. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, I want to state a couple of things for the record. So that we can just get it out of the way, and we can move on to Wrestlemania.” You heard a few “What?”s, and fought the urge to roll your eyes at the hecklers. You took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, trying to calm your nerves, “Item number one… I will always, always be loyal to my tribal chief, Roman Reigns.” You took a couple more breaths and then ticked the notes off on your fingers. “Item number two… I will always, always be loyal to my best friend in the world, CM Punk. Just because I am loyal to both of them, does not mean I will ever, in my life, be disloyal to either of them.” You switched the mic to your other hand, “So when it comes to Wrestlemania… Let’s. Get. One. Thing. Perfectly. Clear….”

“BURN IT DOWN!”

You froze as the audience popped, and they immediately began singing to Seth Rollins’ music.

Seth emerged from the gorilla position and strutted and danced his way to the ring, slapping hands as he went.

You glared at him as he went up the stairs and then he was in the ring, motioning to the time keeper that he wanted a mic. Once it was handed to him, his music ended, but the crowd was still singing his song. He took a few moments to bask in it, conducting his own choir.

He smirked as he made eye contact with you through his sunshades, and leered right in your face. You refused to back up, refused to give him the satisfaction.

He held up a finger, as if telling you to hold your horses, and then spun around. 

“MINNEAPOLIS!! WELCOME TO MONDAY! NIGHT! ROLLINS!!” He turned to you again as he said, “In case y’all don’t know, Y/N, let me introduce myself! I AM a visionary! I AM a revolutionary! I AM SETH. FREAKIN’. ROLLINS,” he said, holding the mic out to the audience as they yelled his lines with him.

“But Minneapolis, tonight it’s not about me, man. Tonight, it’s about, Y/N Y/L/N!” There were a few catcalls from the men in the audience and you proceeded to glare at them.

You then looked at Seth and scowled, and said, “Why are you even here?” Even though you knew he couldn’t hear you since your mic was not anywhere near your mouth.

“Y/N, you’re out here talking about loyalty, man. And that’s the reason I wanted to come say hi, because I want to ask you the question that’s been on ALL of our minds for the past few days. Y/N, whose side are you on,” he asked, pointing his finger in your face. 

A “Who?” chant broke out and you could feel your face heating up.

You began to tune Seth out, but still couldn’t help hearing: “Are you going to be the very best friend to CM Punk? Orrrr… Are you going to be the special council–and–” He coughed as if trying to brush over his next words. “--lover, to the OTC–your Tribal Chief?”

You gasped at the same time the audience did. And instantly realized that Seth knew about your feelings for Roman. How he found out, you had no idea, because you’d never, not once, spoken a word of them to anyone.

Not. A. Soul.

“Because I hear you out here, Y/N, right now. You’re trying to convince all of us, including yourself, that you can do both, at the same time. And Y/N, it occurred to me over the past week, you’re neither.”

“Oh, really?” You smirked at him. “Really, Seth? After all I’ve done for the both of them?” You rolled your eyes then as Seth continued his tirade–speaking of how Roman Reigns actually didn’t care about you at all. 

That stung.

Of course, Seth didn’t know what he was talking about. Roman did care about you, as a friend if nothing else. He cared or he wouldn’t be so bothered by Punk cashing in on his favor in the manner that he did.

But still, what Seth was saying made you wonder.

Did Roman care about you at all?

He had left you to eat a Samoan drop from Solo, and hadn’t done anything about it.

It was definitely playing with your head.

Now, you tuned Seth back in and listened as he continued.

“Y/N, CM Punk was NOT the first choice to be on Team Roman in War Games. I was.” 

You nodded. You had to. It was the truth. Sami Zayn had gone to Seth initially and tried to recruit him to Roman’s team before you’d turned and reached out to Punk to join the team. 

“Stop me when I’m telling lies, Y/N. I was.” Seth paused for effect. “I was. CM Punk wasn’t the first choice. He was the last choice. He was the only choice. And did he join Team Roman out of the goodness of his heart? Because he loved his best friend Y/N Y/L/N, no. It’s because he knew he could use it to get a favor out of you!”

Seth paused to let those words sink in for you.

“CM Punk is NOT your best friend. CM Punk loves no one but himself. And I have to be honest with you Y/N, I gotta be honest with all you, Minneapolis… I feel bad for you Y/N Y/L/N.  You are in a very difficult, unenviable position.” “You have no idea,” I said softly, avoiding his eyes. “No idea.”

“You’re between a rock and a hard place,” He went on as if you’d not spoken. “The easiest solution for all of us, for everyone involved, would be if you just removed yourself from the situation entirely, and let me and Punk, and Roman battle it out at Wrestlemania for the soul of this industry!”

Instantly, you shook your head as the crowd reacted to Seth’s words, almost horrified by the notion. “I can’t do that!”

“You can’t? You can’t do that Y/N? You can’t do that, or you won’t do that? I get it. You won’t betray your Tribal Chief. You won’t betray your best friend. I understand that. If only there was a solution, Y/N. If only there was a way… we could remove you…” His hand brushed along your shoulder as he sauntered behind you. “...From the situation.”

You froze again, afraid of where this was headed.

“Y/N, it’s for your own good.”

“Thanks.” You replied sarcastically with a roll of your eyes. “Thanks so much.”

He ignored you and continued, “I would take it as a privilege to remove you from the situation, right here. Right now.”

You stared at him, not comprehending what he meant.

“It’ll be quick, Y/N,” he said, moving in closer, seduction in his tone now. “One long… deep… kiss…” He smirked. “That would finish them off from wanting you on their side, wouldn’t it?” He stepped in even closer to you and ran his fingers down the neckline of your dress, the back of his hand brushing against the skin at your collar bone. “No one’s here to save you. You’d be all mine. Mine. To. Taint.” 

He cupped your cheek in his hand, and leaned forward preparing to kiss you right then and there as the crowds hooted in amazement.

You gaped at Seth, and didn’t hesitate as your hand drew back and slapped him right across the mouth. “DON’T PUT YOUR HANDS ON ME AGAIN!!” No mic was needed to hear you that time.

Seth grinned. And looked down at the canvas before looking you in the eye.

“Thank you.”

With that, he latched his large hand around your throat and backed you into the ring post nearest you, and then his mouth was on yours.

You were only vaguely aware of the crowd’s screams as Seth kissed you. You wouldn’t remember when you stopped fighting him and began kissing him back.

It just happened. And you didn’t know why. You’d always had eyes only for Roman. Where in the world was this coming from??

You heard and felt Seth’s triumphant chuckle as he continued kissing you, squeezing your throat lightly in his hand.

You moaned softly and almost pulled him closer when Seth was ripped away from you.

You opened your eyes and watched helplessly as Roman suplexed Seth in the middle of the ring. Then he proceeded to turn around and began punching him over and over.

“Keep your hands off her!”

Seth looked up at him with a bloody lip and grinned. “It was more than my hands, Chief. And I think she kinda liked it!”

You gasped then as Roman growled, and he went on another spree of punches, kicks, and slaps.

“Ro- Roman,” you stammered, stepping cautiously up to him. “Stop it! You’ve proven your point!”

Roman spun around and glared at you. “Shut up! Get out of the ring and wait for me at the ramp.”

Shocked at his cold tone, you did as he said. You backed out of the ring carefully, watching as Roman hit Seth a few more times. You made your way to the ramp then, afraid to watch any more.

You glanced up and saw that Roman was leaving the ring and heading straight for you. 

His hair was atypically free, and flowing out behind him as he stalked toward you. You couldn’t help but ogle the picture he made. He was wearing a black tanktop and black slacks. He’d never looked better to you.

Suddenly, he was upon you and didn’t even remotely hesitate to scoop you up over his shoulder and began carrying you–albeit caveman style–toward the gorilla position.

“Roman! Put me down, this instant!”

You beat on his back with your fists, not hard enough to actually hurt him, but hard enough that he knew you were serious.

Suddenly a loud smack was resounding in your ears followed by fire blooming across your backside.

“Hush, Y/N.” Roman growled as he walked. Snickers and laughter could be heard throughout the area as you were carried unceremoniously through the arena. Tears burned your eyes through the humiliation. How could Roman treat you in such a way? After all you’d been through together?

He stalked down a series of hallways until you could see he had reached his dressing room. Then he opened the door, stepped inside with you still trapped over his broad shoulder, and slammed the door shut locking it in the process.

He practically stomped over to his large sofa, and none too gently, dumped you onto it. You landed on it, lying down and instantly Roman had straddled you, pinning your arms up above your head with one of his hands. “What was that all about, Y/N?” He demanded, getting right in your face. Much like Seth had done moments before, his free hand went around your throat. “Huh?”

You didn’t have to ask what he meant. 

The kiss. Of course.

But what did he care? Like it or not, Seth had a point. Where was Roman when Solo hurt you? And as much as you hated to admit it…. Where was Punk? Your so-called best friend. No one had come to your rescue.

And that fact hurt.

“I don’t know,” you answered softly.

“What a crock,” Roman growled. “What was that kiss all about, Y/N? Tell me!”

“I don’t know!” You said again, more forcefully. “I’d never been kissed that way before, and it took me by surprise! That’s all!”

“Kissed how?”

You looked away from his intense, black eyes, and tried to pull your wrists free from his grasp.

“No way,” Roman murmured. “I’ve got you right where I want you. You’re not going anywhere. How did he kiss you?”

“What do you care, Roman?” You finally shot back. “It’s not like you cared when Solo Samoan dropped me right onto the announce table! You or Punk either one never even called to see if I was okay!”

“I was planning my return,” Roman said, his voice considerably softer. “I couldn’t do anything at that point or everything would have been ruined.”

“So, your big return meant more to you than I did?” You asked, tears burning your eyes. One spilled from your eye and trickled down your temple to your hairline. “Tell me, why do you think that Punk abandoned me, too?”

“Because he’s scum.”

“And what’s your excuse?”

“Maybe I’m scum too.”

“Let me up, Roman.”

“Not yet. I want to know what the big deal was about that kiss, first.”

You sighed in exasperation. “Fine. It was the first time someone kissed me that felt like…”

“Like what?”

“Like I was beautiful. Wanted. Sexy.”

Roman sighed, and stroked his thumb over your throat. “You are all of those things. All of them, you hear me?”

“Wait… What?”

“You’re beautiful. I want you. And you are sexy,” Roman replied, scanning your face from top to bottom. His face leaned in closer to yours and he spoke in a whisper. “I’m afraid I’m gonna have to kiss you now. Kiss you till you forget who Seth Rollins even is.”

With that, he closed the gap between your faces and his mouth met yours, full of confidence and passion.

His mouth moved over yours, nipping at your lips and teasing them with his own. Finally, he could no longer fight the urge to slip his tongue past your lips and fully taste you. He groaned and thrusted his tongue against yours, almost frantic in his kiss. 

His lips then trailed down over your chin, to your neck. You felt a fairly hard bite at the crook of your neck and you gasped out and then moaned, arching up against him.

“Seth, who?” You thought out loud.

A chuckle reverberated in Roman’s chest. “That’s what I thought,” His bass-pitched voice rumbled near your ear. 

Then he turned serious, and stared into your eyes. “I’m sorry, baby. For everything. I should have said screw my return and came back and saved you. Or better yet, put a stop to any of the Solo business before it had a chance to escalate like it did.”

You smiled softly. You’d already forgiven him. “I love you, Roman. I always have.”

His eyes brightened and he returned your smile. “I love you too, Y/N. I love you too. And later tonight, when we’re settled in our hotel, I’ll show you just how much.” He said, releasing her wrists and helping her to sit up.  “Is that a threat,” you teased.

“It’s a promise,” he said, kissing the tip of your nose.

If you want on/off my tag list, just ask! 😃

Tagging:

@oreillystolemyheart @lookalivesunshine-x @shortyiceheart @vebner37 @claymorexpunisher

@kalliravenne @swamptrashwithasideofsass @beardedbarba @emisrose @sassymox

@pikapuff-316 @heavymetalgirl420 @bigpsychicbagelauthor @darktammy @waywardwrestlewritingwaif

@sultryfandoms @blondekel77 @demonqueen29 @amariemoore @letsgivethisonemoreshot

@thelastemzy @springgirlwaiting4fall @vampirepixi @wwenhlimagines @louisianalady

@swthrt890 @librathepheonix13 @ironshamelessyouth @moonwolfdemonprincess21 @moxkindagirl

@jstarr86 @oliviasinematic @southerngirl41 @claymoresofinfamy23 @faythewilsonnn @donttellnoliebabygirl @keisha-knell @wickedval

[coconutlyalex]

Relinquish Control

Roman Reigns (Joe Anoa‘i) x Reader

TW: This is long afff, like 14.4k long. Anywho… foul language, mutual pining, sexual tension, use of real names, Roman and reader being control freaks. I think that’s it. Not my best work… but oh well.

Tags: @reebs-luvs-rhodes-and-wrestling

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

When Y/N was told she would be moving from NXT to the main roster on Friday Night SmackDown, she couldn’t believe it. It had been her dream since she was a kid to make it to the big leagues like this. So when Paul Levesque told her she would have to work with a mentor for the next few months to solidify her position, she couldn’t refuse. If it means getting to fight alongside some of her heroes, she wouldn’t turn anything down.

It all became even more surreal when she was told that Roman Reigns, The Tribal Chief himself would be the one to mentor her.

At first, she was shocked. She wasn’t expecting the man who has currently had the world championship for about two years now consecutively would be the one to train her. She wasn’t expecting such a big name. But she couldn’t complain. Well, at least not yet.

At first, working with him was like a dream, until it wasn’t. Y/N was stubborn and had a very hard time taking orders. Joe on the other hand demands respect, he values the control he has in every aspect of his life. He’s not as smug as he portrays himself on camera, but he and Roman do share some very similar personality traits that make Y/N’s blood boil. But the feeling is mutual. It annoys him to no end that Y/N refuses to acknowledge him as her Tribal Chief. Most people would kill to be an honorary member of the Bloodline, but not her. The moment he offered her a spot at the table, she laughed it off and said she didn’t need his help. That she didn’t take orders from anyone.

Training the next day was particularly brutal for the poor girl after that. But she didn’t give up. And that’s another thing he admired yet hated about her. Her perseverance and hard headedness never lets up. In the ring and in their interactions. At first, it’s truly just annoying. She doesn’t blindly follow his orders. She pushes him, makes him justify why he wants her to train in certain ways.

And what makes it even worse is that she’s good. Really good. Anytime he gives her a critique, she applies it, albeit with a bit of sass and backtalk, but she does it and makes it better. It especially grates his nerves when she proves him wrong sometimes, doing a move a different way than he instructed and it actually ends up being more effective. At first he thought it would make him mad, but it started to make him more… interested than anything.

Y/N huffs frustratedly as Roman dodges her enzuigiri. It’s currently six thirty in the morning and they have already been training for two hours. It’s the same routine pretty much everyday besides Sunday’s. Get up at four, go to the gym, spend three to four hours training, do an ice bath, then she can go on with the rest of her day. Sometimes he even forces her to do extra sparring at the end of the night if he feels she needs it. It’s rigorous and her body hurts eighty percent of the time, but she won’t deny she’s getting better.

Roman tries to clothesline her but she quickly ducks under his arm, using the ropes of the ring to speed herself up as she attempts, and successfully executes a hurricanrana. She feels herself begin to smirk, a witty quip about to leave her lips, but the wind is quickly knocked out of her as Roman counters quickly, taking her hesitation as a moment of opportunity. He spears her to the floor, making her groan in anguish as he pins her for the entire three count.

“Being cocky will get you pinned every time,” he tells her, standing up effortlessly like they hadn’t just had a full on match. He sticks his hand out to help her up, but Y/N being her usual self scoffs quietly before pushing herself up on her own. She winces slightly, already feeling the soreness in her side where his spear made its impact. One thing about Roman is that just because she’s his mentee does not mean he goes easy on her in the ring. He’s not above knocking her on her ass if it means it’ll help her get better.

“You’re just mad ‘cause I practically chucked you across the ring,” she grumbles, unwrapping the white tape from her hands as she goes to leave the ring.

He follows after her, his voice remaining patient even though she’s tested every nerve he has. “It doesn’t matter how far you throw an opponent. The moment you get arrogant or take your attention away from the match is the moment you lose,” he lectures. “You need to get out of that immature ‘I need to prove myself’ mindset and actually start being a wrestler.”

“You act like I’m not doing that already,” Y/N fires back, rolling her shoulders to ease the ache. “Last I checked, I’m the one waking up at four in the damn morning, training until I can’t feel my legs, and getting my ass handed to me by a six-foot-three Tarzan-looking-man on a daily basis. What part of that says I’m not taking this seriously?”

Roman exhales through his nose, leveling her with a look. “You’re putting in the work, yeah. I see that. But you still fight like you have something to prove.”

“Because I do.”

He shakes his head. “No, you don’t.” He steps closer, looming over her, arms crossed. “You’re already here, Y/N. You made it to the main roster. You don’t need to prove anything to anyone. But you keep fighting like some rookie trying to earn a contract. And that? That’s what’s gonna cost you when it actually matters.”

Y/N glares up at him, jaw set. She hates that he has a point. She hates even more that she can feel it sinking in. But she’s not about to admit that. She snatches up her water bottle and takes a long sip, buying herself time before responding. “Maybe that’s just how I fight,” she finally says, tilting her head at him. “Maybe I like fighting like I have something to prove.”

Roman scoffs. “Then you better get used to getting pinned.”

She rolls her eyes. “Not happening.”

“Then fix it.” His voice is firm, steady. It’s the same voice he uses in the ring, the one that commands the entire arena without needing to yell. “Learn to control yourself, or someone else is gonna do it for you.”

Y/N bristles at that. “Yeah? And you think you’re the one to do it?”

Roman doesn’t blink. “I know I am.”

There’s a tension in the air now, something heavy crackling between them. Y/N refuses to look away first. She can feel the heat of his stare, the weight of it pressing into her skin. After a moment of silence, she slings her gym bag over her shoulder, not wanting to continue the conversation. She still has an ice bath she has to sit through. “Whatever, Chief.” She spits the title with sarcasm, making Roman’s jaw flex just slightly. Then, just as she turns to leave, his hand wraps around her wrist, halting her in place. Her eyes flick down to where he holds her, then back up to his face. “Dude, I’m done for today.”

Roman doesn’t let go. “You don’t decide when we’re done.”

“My body does,” she argues, trying to yank free.

His grip remains firm but not forceful, his head tilting slightly. “You talk a big game, but the second things don’t go your way, you’re ready to walk?” He tuts. “That’s not how this works.”

Y/N glares at him. “I trained for three hours, got speared, and sat through one of your monologues about control. That’s a full shift as far as I’m concerned. I’m clocking out.”

Roman doesn’t even blink. “You still don’t get it, do you?”

She folds her arms. “Oh, please, enlighten me.”

“You think this is just training.” He steps closer, the weight of his presence suffocating. “You think I’m just here to make sure you don’t embarrass yourself in the ring.”

“That is what mentors do,” she shoots back.

Roman huffs a low, knowing laugh. “I’m not just your mentor, Y/N.”

She raises a brow. “Oh yeah? What else are you, then?”

His fingers trail from her wrist, up to her forearm, then to her shoulder before gripping it firmly. “Your leader.”

She actually laughs at that. “Hate to break it to you, but I haven’t exactly accepted your little ‘seat at the table’ offer, so I don’t have to answer to you. You’re my mentor, not my boss.”

Something flickers in his dark eyes. Amusement. Frustration. Maybe something else—something sharper. His fingers tighten slightly. “You think that matters?”

She scoffs, shoving at his chest, forcing distance between them. “Yes, actually.”

Roman doesn’t move an inch. He just watches her. Studies her. Feels the way her breath hitches for half a second before she squares her shoulders again. Then, with all the patience of a man who knows he’s already won, he tilts his head. “Get back in the ring.”

She lets out an exasperated breath. “Not happening.”

He doesn’t repeat himself. He doesn’t have to. His stare alone is a command, heavy and absolute. And damn it, it pisses her off that she’s even considering listening.

“You’re so full of yourself,” she mutters, crossing her arms.

“I have every right to be,” he counters smoothly. “Everything I say, everything I do—it works. That’s why you’re here, training under me.”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, so now you wanna acknowledge that I never asked for this?”

Roman steps forward again, forcing her to tilt her chin up to meet his gaze. “You might not have asked, but you need it.” His voice drops, low and steady. “You need me.”

She exhales sharply through her nose. “You really think I can’t do this on my own?”

He smirks, head tilting. “You’re good, Y/N. But good doesn’t cut it here. You wanna make it? Wanna win?” His grip on her shoulder tightens. “Then acknowledge me as your Tribal Chief.”

She scoffs, shaking her head. “Dude, I’m not part of your little Samoan mafia or whatever the hell you call it.”

His smirk fades. “That doesn’t change anything.”

She gestures between them. “Uh, pretty sure it does. I’m not in the Bloodline, which means I don’t have to acknowledge shit.”

Roman exhales slowly, tongue running along the inside of his cheek. He should let this go. Shouldn’t let her get under his skin. But Y/N’s stubbornness, her complete defiance of him, grates his nerves in a way he hasn’t felt in years. She should want this. Anyone in the pro-wrestling world would. And yet here she is, looking him in the eye, daring him to push harder. Roman lets out a slow breath before shaking his head. “You’re gonna learn.”

“Oh yeah?” She lifts a brow. “And how’s that?”

He steps even closer, close enough that she can feel the warmth radiating from him, close enough that the shift in the air between them is almost tangible. “Because I don’t lose,” he murmurs, voice dangerously low. “And I don’t let people walk away from me.” For the first time, Y/N’s expression flickers—just barely, but he sees it. That second of hesitation is all the confirmation he needs. His voice is calm, measured, unwavering. “You’ll acknowledge me. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. But it’s going to happen.”

Her fingers curl into fists at her sides. “Don’t hold your breath, Chief.���

Roman just smirks. “We’ll see.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Another thing about having Joe as a mentor is that Y/N can only train with him or another member of the Bloodline. She didn’t necessarily mind that part of it. While it would be nice to get in the ring with some other people, she didn’t mind being with the guys. Josh and Jon are fun to be around, always making sparring more entertaining. Solo is really good about giving her advice she’ll actually use in the ring. And truthfully, she just loves being around Sami. He’s talented and has an energy that no one else can bring. She actually prefers the days when it’s all of them in the ring rather than just her and Roman.

Not that she minded being alone with Joe. It was the exact opposite. She loves getting under his skin and making him grit his teeth extra hard when she does something that irritates him. It’s also easier to stare at him for a bit too long when no one is around to tease her for it. Not that she would ever admit that she stares. But what makes her prefer the others being around is the fact that Roman’s attention is a bit more divided so she has more time to do workouts she wants to do.

Unfortunately, today doesn’t seem to want to work in her favor. She and Roman circle each other in the ring, Josh, Jon, and Sami watching from the side while Solo does his own workout on the other side of the gym. But he won’t lie, he is watching out of the corner of his eye.

The ring is alive with movement as Y/N and Roman circle each other. She’s fast, her footwork sharp, slipping past his reach with ease. He’s patient, methodical, letting her expend energy while he remains firmly planted.

Josh lets out a low whistle. “Man, she’s really got you moving, Uce.”

Jon grins. “She’s makin’ you sweat, big dog.”

Sami, ever the instigator, clasps his hands together. “I don’t wanna be dramatic, but I think we might be witnessing the fall of the Tribal Chief.”

Roman’s glare cuts through all of them, and they immediately sober up. Y/N smirks. “Aw, don’t be mad just because they can see I’m winning.”

Roman doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he lunges forward, forcing her to duck. She’s quick—spinning behind him and catching his arm to set up a ripcord knee strike. But instead of executing it cleanly, she twists her body in a way he hadn’t taught her, adding an extra rotation before slamming her knee toward his jaw. He steps back just in time, narrowly avoiding the full impact. Josh and Jon exchange glances, clearly impressed.

“Damn,” Jon mutters. “That was smooth.”

“Yeah, it was. I mean, jeez ma, you been holdin’ out on us?” Josh adds.

Roman doesn’t give her a second to enjoy their praise. He moves fast—too fast—sweeping her legs out from under her before she can react. Y/N hits the mat with a grunt, and before she can roll away, he pins her.

One… Two… Three.

She breathes hard beneath him, blinking up at the bright lights of the gym. But her focus isn’t on the lights. It’s on the way he’s not moving. The way he’s still pressed against her, his hands braced on either side of her head. For a moment, neither of them say anything. Then, Roman’s gaze flickers downward—just for a second—before he abruptly pushes off her and stands. Y/N exhales sharply, rolling onto her side before pushing herself up.

The guys are still watching, but wisely choose not to comment on the moment. Instead, Sami clears his throat. “Uh, not to brag, but I totally called that pin like ten seconds before it happened.”

Josh scoffs. “Oh, please. We all knew it was coming.”

Jon nods. “Yeah, but she put up a hell of a fight.” He looks at Y/N. “Respect.”

She grins. “Appreciate it.”

Roman, however, isn’t smiling. “You changed the move.”

Y/N turns to him, lifting an eyebrow. “Yeah. And? It still worked, didn’t it?”

“I already showed you how to do it properly,” he says, arms crossing.

She shrugs. “And I put my own twist on it.”

“That’s not how it works,” he says, voice even. “You’re under my training.”

She folds her arms. “That doesn’t mean I can’t try new things.”

Sami leans toward Jon and mutters, “This is getting good.”

Jon smacks his chest. “Shut up, man.”

Roman ignores them, his attention solely on Y/N. “The way I showed you works. You don’t need to change it.”

She exhales, shaking her head. “Just because it works your way doesn’t mean it’s the only way.”

His nostrils flare. “It is when I’m the one in charge of training you.”

She huffs. “That’s not a good enough excuse anymore.”

Jon and Josh wince like they’ve just witnessed someone stepping on a landmine while Sami quietly hums the Jaws theme. Roman inhales deeply, his patience hanging by a thread. “You four. Out.”

Josh and Jon are up immediately.

“Yup.”

“Say less.”

Sami gives Y/N an exaggerated thumbs-up before following them out. Solo lingers for a beat, his sharp gaze flicking between them before he silently nods and exits. The second the door shuts, the tension in the room triples. Y/N stands firm, arms crossed. “No audience for this part?”

Roman exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You need to learn respect.”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, come on. You know that I respect you, Joe.”

His gaze darkens slightly at the sound of his real name. She steps closer. “But I also think someone should keep your ego in check. And I think that someone might be me.”

His fingers flex. She’s testing him. He knows she is. And the worst part? He likes it. Her eyes don’t waver. She’s challenging him—daring him to react. Roman takes a slow, deep breath, every muscle in his body tight with restraint. She steps closer. He stiffens, his pulse spikes. If she says one more thing, he might just—

No.

Roman exhales sharply and steps back. “Get changed,” he says, his voice rough. “Training’s done.”

Y/N watches him for a second longer, then nods, grabbing her bag. But before she leaves, she looks over her shoulder. “You know,” she muses, “if you really wanted me to stop pushing you, you’d stop reacting.” Then she’s gone.

Roman lets out a slow, controlled breath, running a hand down his face. She’s a fighter that’s for sure, he just doesn’t understand why it’s him she has to fight.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Y/N bounces up and down on her heels as she warms herself up for her match. It’s her first time going up against Bayley and she wanted to give the audience the best show that she could. A small smile graces her face when Jey and Sami walk up to her with bright smiles on their faces, hyping her up as she mentally preps herself. She relishes in their presence, hugging them tightly as they tell her how great she’s going to do. She had seen Jimmy a couple minutes prior but he wanted to go spend some time with Naomi as her match was today as well.

The only thing that makes her nervous is that she hasn’t seen or heard from Roman since being at the arena. He’s normally the first one to walk up to her. Whether it’s to tell her good luck or to remind her of correct form, he’s always the one to find her. But she hasn’t seen him at all and it’s making her nerves spike.

Even when she rolls her eyes at his comments or critiques, it still provides a sense of comfort knowing he’s there watching her match. In a way, she takes it as his way of telling her to go out there and kick some ass.

“You alright Uce?” Jey asks as he notices her looking around, anxiety seeping through her features.

“You’re not worried, right?” Sami folds his arms over his chest with an endearing grin. “ ‘Cause if you are, you shouldn’t be. You’ve been killing it in training. And your mic skills are phenomenal. Every city we’ve gone to loves you.”

Y/N shakes her head, “It’s not that…” she admits, chewing her bottom lip nervously. “It’s just– normally Joe comes to see me before I go out as my mentor or whatever and I haven’t seen him all day so it’s kinda throwing my routine off.”

Jey chuckles, “So now you want to talk to him?” He jokes, nudging her shoulder. “Thought you’d be happy you didn’t have to hear his incessant nagging.”

“Hey man, she’s gotta get her daily dose of pissing him off,” Sami chimes with his own laugh. “The day’s not complete if she doesn’t make him mad at least once.”

“Shut up,” Y/N rolls her eyes, smacking both of them. “I’m serious. It’s just weird he isn’t out here yet.” She glances around the corner one last time, “I don’t think I did anything out of the ordinary to make him not be here.”

“Sweetheart, just relax,” Jey grabs her shoulders softly, smiling gently at her. “He probably just lost track of time or got caught up with some business stuff. He’ll be here to see your match and to correct everything you did wrong once you win.” He slides in a small joke to try and ease her nerves, and it works. Like it always does.

“Yeah, don’t worry about him,” Sami adds. “You keep frowning like that and you’ll get wrinkles.”

“And you too pretty for that,” Jey winks.

Y/N laughs at their antics, but it still doesn’t calm the small storm swirling in her head. She would call or text him, but she’s had her phone in the locker room all day to keep her head in the right place. Avoid outside distractions. But it’s a good thing that she doesn’t know where Roman is or what he’s doing, because if she did, she would be beyond angry. At who? No one knows.

A scowl covers Roman’s lips as he walks through the guys locker room. He knows how late he’s running and he needs to make it out before Y/N’s match to give her some last minute advice. He keeps his face composed, not wanting to show how out of sorts he’s feeling. He’s never missed one of her matches and he doesn’t plan to start today. Especially since this fight against Bayley is opening up a perfect opportunity for Y/N to get her first title shot. Even though he can see her insufferable smirk now as she wins, he still wants to be there.

But as he moves through the space, his ears pick up on a conversation that immediately makes him stop in his tracks.

“She’s only getting this match because of Reigns,” a sneering voice mutters.

Roman’s stride slows. His head turns slightly, eyes narrowing as he spots a small group of guys near the benches. Mostly mid-card wrestlers—guys who like to run their mouths when they think no one important is listening. They blame their lack of success on everyone else but their own incompetence.

“She’s new as hell and already getting to work for a title shot?” another scoffs. “Come on, man. You know why she’s getting all these chances.”

A third voice, deeper and more smug, chimes in. “Yeah, she’s probably sucking Roman off behind the scenes. Ain’t no other reason for her to be moving up this fast.”

Laughter follows, low and conspiratorial. A fourth guy, younger but just as cocky, smirks. “I mean… she is pretty. If she wanted to use me to get to the top, I wouldn’t say no.”

The laughter grows louder. And then— Silence. Because he’s there… And no, not Roman Reigns.

Joe Anoa‘i.

He looms behind them, shoulders squared, his entire presence heavy with rage. His dark eyes bore into them like a warning shot before the kill, his face unreadable—calm in a way that’s so much worse. The guys freeze.

“Say that again.” The quiet command cuts through the locker room like a blade.

None of them move. None of them speak. Joe tilts his head, stepping forward just enough that the air shifts, thick and suffocating. “You think that shit’s funny?” His voice is low, slow—like a storm rolling in, inevitable and inescapable. “Think it’s real easy to talk about someone who ain’t here to defend themselves, huh?”

The guy who made the worst comment swallows hard. “Hey, man, it was just—”

Joe is in his face before he can finish, his presence alone making the guy shrink back. “I don’t give a damn what you think it was,” Joe growls. “What you’re not gonna do is disrespect her like that again. Not when every single one of you knows she can run circles around you.” No one breathes or even dares to make eye contact with the man. Joe’s jaw ticks as he takes another step forward, ensuring that every single one of them feels the weight of his anger. “I promise you—if I ever hear any of you say some shit like that about her again, I’ll make sure you don’t just walk out of here. I’ll make sure you’re carried out.” His voice drops even lower, dangerous. “On a stretcher.”

A tense, suffocating pause. Joe exhales sharply, nostrils flaring, eyes still burning with barely restrained fury. Then—he scoffs. A single, sharp sound. “That’s what I thought.”

Without another word, he turns and walks away, fists still clenched, mind still racing. He shouldn’t feel this protective over her. He knows that. But the thought of anyone talking about Y/N like that—disrespecting her, reducing her to something she damn sure isn’t—makes his blood boil. And if they ever did it again? He’d make sure they never forgot who they were dealing with.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Y/N was on an absolute high after her match. She just won against Bayley of all people. An absolute legend in the locker room and someone everyone loves. It made her feel like she was truly working her way up in the business. She was proud of herself, however, Roman’s absence in the beginning lingered in the back of her mind for the whole match. It made her angry that he wasn’t there. It’s part of his job to show up and be there for her. That’s what mentors do.

Or maybe she just… wanted him there. Wanted his presence.

She feels a wide array of arms and voices enveloping her in congratulations as Solo, Sami, Jimmy, Jey, and even Naomi come to celebrate her big win. It takes a minute or so but something begins to feel off for her. A sharp pain shoots down her leg and she groans. Bayley had targeted her left leg a bit more than she was expecting, but she felt fine. Until now at least.

“I think I need to sit down…” Y/N tells them, causing every one of them to share a concerned look.

Josh is the first one to notice the small wince in her eyebrows, “What’s going on?” He asks worriedly.

“My leg,” she says, nodding down to it as they guide her over to one of the many stray pieces of furniture backstage.

Sami lets out an audible gasp as he looks at her knee, “Oh my God,” he kneels down in front of her. “That’s definitely not normal.”

Her right knee is battered and bruised from the many times Bayley ran her into the posts and turnbuckles. There were only a few times where it hit harder than anticipated, but she wasn’t expecting it to look this bad. It’s swollen beyond belief, already starting to have a dark bruise surrounding it. It looks very different from her good leg.

“Holy shit,” Trinity places her hands on the site gently making Y/N bite the inside of her cheek with a quiet groan. “Yeah, my bet is that it’s dislocated.” She shoots the younger woman an empathetic look, having experienced a similar injury herself. “I’m sorry hun, but we’re gonna have to get a paramedic or someone over here to push it back in place.”

Y/N winces again but nods, “Okay, yeah, let’s do that,” she manages to grunt out as the adrenaline wears off more and more.

Trinity assigns everyone a job to do to make sure this is as quick and painless as possible. Y/N’s only instruction was to stay where she was, which only made her chuckle because it’s not like she could walk very far.

After a few moments sitting alone, she couldn’t help but grind her teeth together as her knee throbbed relentlessly. She ran a hand through her tangled hair, counting down the seconds until someone could fix her current problem. The only thing she can do until one of them comes back with the paramedics is mentally prepare herself for the pain that comes with putting her knee back in place.

She heard the footsteps before she saw him. A slow, steady stride that was distinctly him. And then, rounding the corner with his usual brooding expression, Roman appeared, his gaze immediately locking onto her injury.

“What the hell happened?” His voice was low, controlled, but the storm in his eyes betrayed his composure. His arms crossed tightly over his chest as he took in the state she was in—her bruised and swollen knee, the way she sat awkwardly to avoid aggravating it, and worst of all, the fact that she was alone.

Y/N exhaled sharply, looking down at her knee. “Bayley happened,” she muttered, flexing her fingers against the cushion beside her. “Guess I took more hits than I realized.”

Roman’s eyes swept over her injury before narrowing. “And why are you sitting here by yourself?” His tone wasn’t harsh, but there was an unmistakable layer of frustration beneath it.

She should be mad at him. And she was. Or at least, she had been. But now, as the anger simmered down, it left behind something softer—something she wasn’t prepared to feel.

So instead of snapping at him, she just looked up, eyes filled with something vulnerable as she asked quietly, “Where were you?”

Roman’s jaw ticked. He knew she wasn’t just asking about now. She meant before the match. Before she stepped into the ring with Bayley, looking for his usual last-minute pep talk or critique. And he had no good excuse—at least, not one he could give her.

Y/N watched as his lips parted slightly, as if he were about to answer, but nothing came.

She sighed, shaking her head before looking away. “Never mind. Forget it.” A humorless chuckle escaped her lips, but it lacked its usual spark. “I don’t know why I assumed you’d be there for everything.”

That stung.

Roman felt his temper flare at her words, not because they were unfair, but because she genuinely believed them. He crouched down in front of her, leaning in slightly, his presence commanding as always.

“I’ll always be there,” he said, voice firm. “Don’t ever doubt that.”

Something about the way he said it sent a shiver down her spine. It wasn’t just a promise—it was a vow.

Her chest ached, but it wasn’t from her knee. She quickly looked away, suddenly feeling too exposed under his gaze.

Roman cleared his throat and nodded toward her leg. “You need to take better care of yourself,” he muttered. “You should’ve tapped out if it was this bad.”

Y/N let out a scoff, shaking her head. “Of course, even when I’m sitting here crippled, you still find a way to lecture me.”

Roman smirked slightly. “Someone’s gotta knock some sense into you.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”

But then, his expression softened, just slightly. “For what it’s worth…” He tilted his head, eyes never leaving hers. “I still saw you kick ass out there.”

Y/N raised a brow at him, a teasing smirk playing on her lips. “Kick ass? So does that mean you don’t have a single critique for me this time?”

Roman gave a slow shrug. “It’d be mean to tell you while you’re injured.”

Y/N let out a genuine laugh at that, and for a second, the pain in her knee was completely forgotten. Then, without thinking, Roman reached forward, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. It was a simple gesture. Nothing he hadn’t done before. But this time… it felt different. The second his fingertips grazed her skin, something shifted in the air between them. It was like the world had tilted slightly off its axis, like everything had narrowed down to just this.

Her breath hitched. His hand lingered for a moment too long. And suddenly, she wasn’t thinking about her injury, or her frustration, or the match she had just won.

She was thinking about him.

Roman’s fingers curled into a loose fist as he pulled back, as if he was stopping himself from doing something reckless. His throat bobbed slightly, and Y/N could swear she saw the slightest flicker of uncertainty in his normally unreadable expression.

And then—

“Alright, we’re back!”

Jey’s voice sliced through the moment like a knife.

Roman was on his feet in an instant, stepping back just as Jimmy, Sami, and the others came rushing in with the paramedics.

Y/N exhaled slowly, blinking a few times as she tried to process whatever the hell had just happened. But judging by the way Roman was standing a little too stiffly beside her, arms crossed tightly over his chest, she wasn’t the only one feeling it.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

It had been a couple weeks since Y/N’s match with Bayley and she’s been on a winning streak ever since. Her knee healed up quite nicely, occasionally needing to wear a brace to keep the pressure off of it, but other than that, it’s been great.

The only thing that seems to have shifted slightly is her dynamic with Joe. Since that night, things have been a bit more… tense than usual. They still argue and challenge each other like they used to, but now instead of it ending with one of them rolling their eyes and leaving, it ends with one of them getting in the other’s face and staring at each other for way too long to be considered normal.

Even during training, Y/N finds herself shivering whenever he places his hands on her to help correct a move she messed up on. Anytime he’s around her, whispering in her ear how to use the correct form, her mind fogs and she can no longer focus on what they were doing. It frustrates him to no end because he perceives her as being off her game. And in a way she is, but it’s not her fault.

It’s his.

For being sculpted by the damn Greek gods. He’s intoxicating. She didn’t realize how genuinely attractive he was because she was always so focused on making him mad. But now she wants to make him mad for other reasons.

Now she wants to irritate him so he feels the need to get in her space. To invade her senses with everything that is Roman. She knows it’s more than wrong for her to feel this way about the man who is mentoring her, but she can’t help it. He’s managed to worm his way into her mind and she doesn’t mind his residency.

Her knuckles rap on the door to his private office three times. She bites the inside of her cheek until a small “come in” allows her access into the room. She slowly opens the door, her breath hitching when she sees what’s in front of her.

It’s nothing scandalous. Just Joe hunched over his desk, his hair pulled back in a manbun, a tight fitting t-shirt and sweats adorning his body as he fills out some paperwork. But the soft glow of the yellow light and the way his face isn’t pinched so tightly, it makes him look majestic.

“Jon said you wanted to see me,” she says, taking a step closer to his desk, arms folded over her chest.

“Yeah, I do,” he nods as he places his pen down, folding his hands together as he leans forward. Y/N can’t help the way her eyes travel to his biceps, the way they flex with just the smallest of movements makes her heart hammer against her ribcage.

There’s a long moment of silence until she realizes she’s been staring for a bit too long. “About…?” She asks with her usual level of sass.

Y/N watches as Joe leans back in his chair, a slow inhale filling his broad chest. He studies her, his dark eyes dragging over her face like he’s weighing something, considering his approach. She’s used to his intensity by now, but something about the way he’s looking at her tonight sets her nerves on edge.

“I think,” he finally says, voice smooth and deliberate, “we need to revisit your answer from a few months ago.”

She blinks. “My—what?”

His lips twitch, just barely. “Your answer. About the Bloodline.”

Y/N shifts her weight, arms tightening over her chest as she exhales sharply. “Seriously? That’s what this is about?”

Joe tilts his head, unfazed by her exasperation. “Yeah. It is.”

Y/N lets out a humorless laugh, shaking her head. “I thought we already settled this.”

“I didn’t.”

Her eyes snap to his, but he’s already rising from his chair, moving with that quiet, lethal confidence that always makes her feel like she’s on the verge of being devoured.

“Y/N,” he says, stepping closer, voice dropping just slightly. “You’ve been running with us for months now. Winning matches. Representing us. Whether you want to admit it or not, you’re already part of this family.”

She clenches her jaw, heart thudding. “I told you—I don’t do hierarchies.”

Joe hums, as if he expected that answer. He reaches for something on his desk, lifting it into view.

The Bloodline jacket.

The sight of it sends an odd rush through her—one she really doesn’t want to analyze.

“This belongs to you,” Joe murmurs, stepping even closer.

Y/N swallows, forcing herself to hold his gaze. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Joe lets out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “You’re the only one who hasn’t accepted it yet. Everybody else already knows where you stand.”

Y/N narrows her eyes. “And where exactly is that?”

Joe just watches her, the answer in his silence.

It’s in the way Solo always has her back. In the way the Usos claim her as one of their own. In the way Paul Heyman talks about her like she’s already sworn her allegiance.

She is part of this. She just hasn’t said it yet.

Y/N exhales slowly, shaking her head. “I don’t need a jacket to prove I’m good enough to run with you.”

Joe’s smirk is slow, dangerous. “No. But it’d be nice to hear you say it.”

Her breath catches slightly. She can feel the shift now. The sudden weight in the air between them. The way his voice has dipped just enough to make her stomach tighten.

“Put it on,” Joe says, softer this time, stepping around her. The move is so smooth, so fluid, that she doesn’t even realize what’s happening until he’s right behind her.

Her pulse hammers.

Because now he’s close. So close she can feel the heat radiating from his body, the soft tickle of his breath against the side of her neck. Y/N’s whole body locks up, her fingers twitching slightly at her sides. She should step away. She should shake her head and make some smart-ass comment and put space between them before this tension swallows her whole.

But she doesn’t. Because for some godforsaken reason, she loves it. She likes the way his presence wraps around her like something tangible. Likes the way he makes it impossible to think straight.

His fingers brush over her shoulder, guiding the jacket into place like a crown being placed on royalty.

“Say it,” he murmurs, voice a low, steady hum against her skin. “Acknowledge me.”

Y/N exhales, eyes fluttering shut for half a second before she forces them back open. She doesn’t do this. She doesn’t submit. And no matter how badly her body is betraying her right now, she won’t start with him.

So with every ounce of control she has left, she steps forward, letting the jacket slip from her shoulders before turning to face him. Joe watches her, his expression unreadable. “I don’t take orders,” she says, voice steady despite the rapid beating of her heart.

A slow smirk curves his lips. “I know.”

There’s something about the way he says it—like he isn’t mad. Like he likes this push and pull just as much as she does. Y/N clenches her jaw, forcing herself to ignore the way her stomach flips at the sight of that goddamn smirk. “So that’s it?” she asks, tilting her chin. “You’re just gonna let it go?”

Joe exhales through his nose, looking almost amused. “You think I’m gonna stop just because you’re being stubborn?”

Y/N scoffs. “I think you’re gonna try.”

Joe’s eyes darken slightly, his tongue running over the inside of his cheek. She should really stop provoking him. But God, it’s fun.

Before either of them can say another word, the door swings open.

“Hey, Uce, we got—”

Josh stops short, his eyes flicking between them.

Joe takes a step back, his posture shifting, expression smoothing back into something unreadable. Y/N clenches her jaw, pulse still thundering in her ears as Josh gives them both a slow, knowing look.

“Uh-huh,” he mutters under his breath before shaking his head. “We’ll talk later, big dog.”

Joe doesn’t look at her as Jey exits, but Y/N feels his attention shift back to her. The air between them is different now. Electric. Dangerous. And as much as she wants to put off her decision—she knows she won’t be able to. One way or the other, Roman’s going to get an answer. Y/N just doesn’t know how long she’ll be able to stand her ground with him.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The roar of the crowd is deafening as Y/N saunters her way to the ring. It’s a buzzing Friday night in Atlanta Georgia as her theme music echoes around the large stadium. Y/N stops dead center of the walkway, dropping it low which causes whistles to emerge from the audience. She laughs, stopping to say hi to fans and sign posters on her way.

Roman, Jey, Jimmy, Sami, Solo, and Paul Heyman watch with a mix of curiosity, irritation, amusement, and anger as she had just interrupted their segment. None of them knew this was planned beside her which is what made their reactions even better.

It was all Paul Levesque’s idea. To have her go out and interrupt an important moment to cause some tension. The crowd loves her attitude so it was good for business to do something like this.

Y/N moves toward the steps, taking her time, soaking in the moment before slipping into the ring. She doesn’t acknowledge the tension immediately, instead adjusting the leather jacket over her shoulders before finally turning to face Roman.

The Tribal Chief.

She lifts the mic, tapping it twice before speaking, her voice carrying over the noise. “So this is what a Bloodline family meeting looks like,” she muses, glancing around. “I gotta say, it’s a little culty.”

Roman stares at her blankly as the room buzzes with anticipation and tension. Everyone’s eyes flicker between Roman and Y/N, the Tribal Chief staring her down like she just committed a war crime. Y/N can’t help but chuckle. She tilts her head, running her tongue over her teeth before lifting her mic again. “You don’t look happy to see me, Chief.”

Roman exhales through his nose, jaw tight. “You got a habit of interrupting things that don’t concern you.”

She scoffs, pacing a slow circle around them. “See, that’s where you’re wrong.” She gestures around the arena, the thousands of screaming fans. “This? This concerns me. Everything concerns me.” She shrugs. “Guess that’s the price of being a free agent. No orders. No one to answer to.” Her smirk sharpens as she turns back to him. “Unlike you.”

Jey lets out a sharp laugh before he schools his face, coughing into his fist. Jimmy’s grin widens, clearly entertained, while Sami presses his lips together like he’s trying to become invisible.

Roman, however, remains still. Controlled. Watching.

Y/N clicks her tongue. “You like to call yourself the Head of the Table, right?” She steps forward, deliberately closing the space between them. “But from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re just another guy scared to eat alone.”

The tension in the ring spikes. Jey’s brows shoot up. Even Solo shifts slightly, his gaze flickering to Roman.

Y/N takes another step, lifting a hand to count off on her fingers. “You need your cousins to fight your battles. You need your Wise Man to do your talking. Hell, you even needed Sami here to boost morale. But you?” She gestures to him with her mic. “Take all that away, and what are you?”

The crowd lets out an “OHHHHH!” in response, feeding off her confidence, her defiance.

Roman doesn’t react immediately. He just tilts his head slightly, as if considering her words. Then he finally lifts his mic. “You don’t stand with us. We know that You’ve made that clear.”

“Damn right, I don’t.” Y/N folds her arms, her eyes burning with challenge. “I don’t fall in line. I lead.”

Roman hums low in his throat, nodding as he steps closer, his presence suffocating. “That why you’re out here? You trying to prove something?”

“Nah.” Y/N tilts her chin up, her smirk unwavering. “Just thought someone should finally tell you the truth.”

Roman watches her, dark eyes unwavering, before he slowly shakes his head. “Nah.” His voice is calm, controlled. “Nah, you know what I think? You’re out here because you want my attention.”

Y/N raises a brow. “Oh, you think so?”

Roman exhales slowly, stepping even closer, his voice dropping to something almost intimate despite the thousands watching. “You want to stand across from me. Test me. Push me.” His head tilts slightly. “You want to be noticed. But sweetheart, the only person here who deserves to be noticed… who deserves acknowledgment is me,” his voice drops an octave making the crowd erupt. “I am your Tribal Chief.”

The crowd screams, chanting, urging her to do as he asks, “Acknowledge him! Acknowledge him!”

Y/N’s smirk falters for half a second before she lets out a scoff. “That’s cute, really. The whole cult leader act.” She leans in slightly, voice dripping with mock sympathy. “You need my validation that bad?”

Roman just watches her, waiting. The crowd chants louder, the entire stadium shaking.

Y/N exhales, shaking her head. “Yeah, sorry, big guy. Not happening.” She shifts her stance, glancing at his cousins before looking back at him. “If anything, maybe this table needs a new head. Maybe… you should acknowledge me.”

There’s a flicker in his expression—something dangerous, something unreadable. “You better watch your mouth.”

And that’s when she makes her mistake. She clicks her tongue, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Or what, Roman? You gonna have your lapdogs do your dirty work for you again?”

The air shifts instantly. Jey’s grin vanishes. Jimmy stops smirking. Even Sami looks alarmed. Roman doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Then, he exhales slowly, hands on his hips, before he turns slightly—to no one in particular. “Solo. Jimmy.”

That’s it. No further instruction. No elaboration.

And before Y/N can fully process what’s happening, hands grab her arms, yanking her back.

“What the hell?” she snaps, struggling against them. The crowd erupts in a chaotic mix of cheers and shouts, but she barely hears them over the sudden shock of the moment.

This wasn’t part of the plan.

Jimmy has a firm grip on one arm, but it’s Solo who truly locks her down, his strength damn near unshakable. Y/N thrashes, planting her feet, but they don’t stop, dragging her out of the ring as she shouts, “You seriously this pressed, Roman?!”

Roman doesn’t react. Doesn’t stop them. Just watches.

And as she’s hauled up the ramp, the last thing she sees before disappearing behind the curtain is him standing there, unmoved, unreadable.

But still watching.

She kicks and yells at Solo and Jimmy as they drag her to Roman’s office. Some of the other wrestlers watch as she’s taken. She sends them all pleading looks, silently begging for someone to save her but no one does. A part of her is genuinely fearful that she crossed a line, but he knew it was all acting, right? He had to. It’s part of their job, their characters. The world knows he’s offered her a spot at the table and she’s been very vocal about where she stands. It aligned with their story, so why is he doing this? Could it be to add to it and she’s worried for nothing?

Jimmy and Solo open the door to the room, allowing her to walk inside. Both men look like they want to say something, to apologize, wish her luck, save her, but they decide against it. Y/N sends them a reassuring smile before they walk off. She looks over her shoulder for a split second and suddenly the door closes with a small click, indicating the door has been locked.

She turns back around and sees a seething Roman Reigns standing in front of her. His chest rises and falls with every breath, his jaw clenched tightly as he stares at the mouthy woman in front of him. He’s been slowly losing it since the day he met her and today might be the day where he disregards the importance of professional boundaries.

Today might be the day where he snaps.

The silence between them stretches tight, humming with something thick and electric.

Y/N stands her ground, her breath even despite the wildfire running through her veins. But Roman—he’s not still. His fists flex at his sides, his chest rising and falling with slow, measured breaths. Like he’s trying to steady himself. Like he’s fighting the urge to do something neither of them can take back.

Good.

She wants to push him.

Because he’s been pushing her for weeks, forcing her into this—into whatever this is. The way he looks at her like he sees everything. The way he steps too close, speaks too low, lingers too long. She’s not stupid. She’s noticed. But he won’t admit it. Not outright.

So she’ll make him.

She tilts her head slightly, keeping her voice cool. “If you have something to say, Chief, say it.”

Roman exhales slowly through his nose, his jaw flexing. “You think this is a joke?”

Y/N smirks. “I think you like being in charge of everyone in your life, and it gives you an insatiable itch that you can’t scratch knowing you can’t break me. That you can’t get me to beg for your validation.”

His fists clench. There it is. A crack in the armor. A flicker of something darker in his eyes.

Y/N steps closer, feeling reckless, feeling emboldened by the way his breathing changes, the way his shoulders tense, the way his eyes track every single movement she makes like he can’t help himself.

She lifts a brow. “Or am I wrong?”

Roman doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But the air shifts. Tightens.

And that’s when she knows she’s right. She lets out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “That’s what this is, isn’t it? You don’t like that I don’t fall in line. That I can read you like a damn book. That I can see through all those stoic walls you put up. I see what you hide from the world.”

Roman’s jaw ticks. She takes another step forward. “What is it, huh?” she pushes. “You bark orders at everyone else, and they listen, but me? I don’t make it easy for you, do I?”

Roman exhales, slow, measured. “You need to watch yourself, Y/N.”

She ignores the warning. “No, I think you do.” She sees it again—the flicker of something barely restrained. So she keeps going. “Because you can pretend all you want, but I see it,” she murmurs. “The way you look at me.”

Roman’s gaze darkens. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

She tilts her head. “Am I?”

His fists flex again, and she doesn’t miss the way his breath catches, just slightly, at the challenge in her tone.

“Tell me, Chief,” she continues, voice smooth, sharp. “Did you like it?”

His brow furrows slightly, just barely. “Like what?”

“The jacket.”

His entire body tenses.

Bingo.

Y/N smirks, stepping even closer, forcing him to either back away or stand his ground. He doesn’t move. Of course he doesn’t.

“I saw the way you looked at me when I wore it,” she says, voice quieter now, more pointed. “I saw the way your grip tightened, the way your jaw clenched. You couldn’t stop staring.”

Roman exhales sharply, his eyes locked onto hers with a fire that wasn’t there before. Y/N tilts her head. “Why is that?” Roman doesn’t answer so she presses further. “Was it because I didn’t belong in it?” she muses, watching him closely. “Or was it because I did? That the simple thought of me walking around in your colors did something to you?”

That’s when it happens. The shift. The moment his restraint snaps. Roman moves before she can blink. One second, he’s standing in front of her, barely keeping himself in check—

The next, he’s shoving her back, forcing her down into the chair behind her.

The movement is fast, precise, effortless. His hands grip the arms of the chair, caging her in, his face inches from hers, his body looming over hers like a storm about to break.

Y/N’s breath catches, her pulse hammering. Roman stares at her, breathing heavy, his chest rising and falling in sharp, deliberate movements.

And then—

“You have no idea what you’ve been doing to me,” he murmurs, voice low, rough, dangerous.

Y/N swallows, her skin burning where he hovers, where his presence presses down on her like gravity. She wants to speak. Wants to throw something back at him. But she can’t. Because she feels it now. The weight of it. Of every single one of their battles, their challenges, their little wars. They weren’t just about dominance.

She suddenly finds it hard to maintain eye contact, but Roman can see her trying to mentally escape. He quickly takes her jaw into his hand, holding it in place so she can’t look away from him. She got to talk, so now it’s his turn.

“Don’t look away from me.”

Y/N can feel the chills surge through her body at the command. His hand is warm on her icy skin, causing her cheeks to flush from the actual heat and the situation. She blinks slowly, her eyelashes fluttering which makes Roman suck in a sharp breath. The innocence in her face is more than misleading. Looking at her, anyone would think she’s nice, well-mannered, and behaved.

How wrong they would be.

Roman exhales slowly, his gaze dropping to her lips for half a second before flicking back up. “I shouldn’t be looking at you the way that I do,” he says, voice quieter now, but no less intense.

Y/N’s throat tightens. She breathes, steady despite the fire running through her veins. “Then stop.”

His lips twitch, just barely. “You think it’s that simple?” he asks, tilting his head.

Y/N narrows her eyes. “I think you’re scared of what happens if you give in.”

Roman hums, his grip tightening slightly on the chair. “I think you look at me the same way I look at you.”

Her stomach flips. She doesn’t answer. Because if she does—she might just crack.

“You look at me like you want me to do something about it,” he murmurs.

Y/N’s heart continues to hammer at a rate that can’t be considered healthy. His face is so close to hers. If she simply leaned forward, she could satisfy the craving of wanting his lips on hers.

Roman exhales slowly, his thumb grazing the underside of her jaw. “Say it,” he murmurs.

Y/N swallows. “Say what?”

“That you don’t feel it.” His voice is almost a whisper now, but it’s rough, heavy with something dangerous. “That you don’t feel this.”

Y/N’s throat tightens. She should lie. She should laugh. She should roll her eyes, shake her head, tell him he’s imagining things. But she doesn’t.

Instead, she exhales slowly, forcing herself to keep her voice steady. “Now look who’s playing dangerous.”

Roman’s grip on the chair tightens. “And you don’t mind playing high risk, do you?”

Y/N lets the smallest smirk touch her lips. “No,” she murmurs. “I don’t.”

And just like that— Roman lets her go.

The absence of his touch is immediate, almost jarring, but Y/N refuses to back down. She holds his gaze for a long moment, neither of them speaking, neither of them breaking.

Then, finally, Roman exhales, voice quieter now. “This isn’t over.”

Y/N’s pulse is still racing, but she smirks. “I would despair if it was.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Y/N sits in the locker room, her head tilted back against the cool metal of the lockers, eyes shut as she tries to steady the storm in her head. But it’s useless. Roman’s voice is still there. The feeling of his fingers on her jaw, the weight of his stare—every moment of their last confrontation is still there. And it’s driving her insane.

The worst part? It’s not just the tension, the fights, the way they keep pushing each other to the edge. It’s the fact that deep down, something in her craves it. Craves him. And that? That’s unacceptable.

A sharp sigh leaves her lips, frustration simmering beneath her skin as she rubs her hands over her face. “Fucking hell,” she mutters under her breath.

“That bad, huh?”

She jerks her head up at the sound of Seth’s voice. He’s leaning against the lockers, arms crossed over his chest, his expression somewhere between amused and knowing.

Y/N groans, dropping her head back. “Please don’t start.”

Seth chuckles, pushing off the lockers and dropping onto the bench beside her. “I haven’t even said anything yet.”

She shoots him a look. “You’re thinking it.”

“Well, yeah,” Seth admits, smirking. “You’re sitting here, looking like you wanna put your head through a wall. And considering your favorite hobby lately has been trying to start a war with Roman, I’m gonna go ahead and assume he’s the reason you look like you’re about to lose your damn mind.”

Y/N scoffs. “I am not starting a war with him.”

Seth raises an eyebrow.

She rolls her eyes. “Okay, fine. Maybe I am. But it’s not like he doesn’t deserve it.”

Seth hums. “Mm. Sure.”

She glares at him. “Don’t ‘mm, sure’ me.”

Seth just smirks again, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Alright, so tell me—what’d he say after he had his goonies drag you to his office?”

Y/N exhales sharply. “It’s not even—ugh. It’s not just one thing. It’s everything. The way he looks at me, the way he gets in my face, the way he acts like I belong to him or something.” She throws her hands up. “It’s like he’s always there, always pushing, always—watching me.”

Seth tilts his head, studying her. “And that bothers you?”

She blinks. “Obviously.”

Seth shrugs. “You sure about that?”

Y/N narrows her eyes. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Seth sighs, resting his elbows on his knees. “Look, I know you like to fight. It’s what you do. But if this was just about him trying to control you, you’d have walked away by now.”

Y/N tenses. “I have walked away.”

Seth snorts. “Yeah? How’s that working out for you?”

She falls silent.

Seth gives her a knowing look. “Y/N, you’re not fighting him because you hate what he represents. You’re fighting him because you feel it too, and you don’t know what the hell to do with that.”

Her breath catches. “No,” she says automatically. “That’s not—”

“Then why do you care so much?” Seth challenges.

Y/N clenches her jaw.

Seth exhales, shaking his head. “You wanna know why he gets under your skin? Why you can’t get him out of your head?”

She doesn’t answer. But she doesn’t stop him, either.

Seth leans back, his expression shifting, no longer teasing but thoughtful. “Because you don’t trust it,” he says simply.

Y/N stiffens.

“You don’t trust that someone like him—someone as powerful as he is—can want you without trying to own you,” Seth continues. “And maybe, yeah, maybe a part of him does want to own you. But not in the way you think.”

Her throat feels tight.

“You think he wants control?” Seth shakes his head. “No. He wants you. And that scares the hell out of you.”

Y/N swallows hard, looking away. “You’re wrong.”

Seth smirks. “Then why are you still sitting here like you’re trying to solve the world’s hardest riddle?”

She says nothing.

And Seth? Seth just pats her shoulder before standing up, his voice lighter now as he walks away. “Think about it, princess.”

Later that night, Y/N finds herself wandering around aimlessly as she waits for Jey and Jimmy to finish their match. The backstage halls are quieter than usual, but Y/N barely notices. Her boots echo against the concrete floor as she walks aimlessly, lost in thought, Seth’s words playing over and over in her head.

"You don’t trust that someone like him—someone as powerful as he is—can want you without trying to own you."

"He wants you. And that scares the hell out of you."

Her jaw clenches as she swipes a hand down her face. He’s wrong. He has to be wrong. Because if he’s right—

No. She won’t let herself finish that thought.

Y/N exhales sharply, trying to shake the feeling, but it clings to her like a second skin. Her body is restless, like an itch she can’t scratch, an answer she can’t find. She needs to move, to do something—anything to distract herself.

Then she hears it. Roman’s voice. She stops in her tracks.

It’s low, rough with something she can’t quite place, but there’s a weight to it that makes her breath catch in her throat. The door to his locker room is cracked open just enough to let the sound slip through, an unguarded moment not meant for anyone else to hear. She shouldn’t listen, but she does.

Inside, Roman runs a hand over his face, his fingers dragging down his beard as he exhales heavily. “I don’t know what else to do,” he mutters, voice strained.

Paul, standing beside him, folds his hands in front of him. “She’s stubborn.”

A short, humorless chuckle leaves Roman’s lips. “Yeah. Tell me something I don’t know.”

Paul tilts his head. “She fights you at every turn. That doesn’t surprise me. But what does concern me…” He hesitates.

Roman looks up at him, already knowing where this is going. “Go ahead, Wise Man. Say it.”

Paul sighs, carefully choosing his words. “I think you’re making this personal.”

Roman scoffs, shaking his head. “It is personal.”

Paul studies him for a moment. “More than it should be?”

Roman tenses. That’s the problem, isn’t it? It is more personal than it should be. At first, it was just about bringing her in, keeping her close, making sure she understood who she belonged to. It was about loyalty, about keeping her safe in the way he deemed necessary. But somewhere along the way—he stopped thinking about it as just a responsibility. Somewhere along the way—it became about her. Roman exhales sharply. “You don’t get it, Paul.”

Paul raises a brow. “Then help me understand.”

Roman leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his fingers laced together as he stares at the floor. “I’ve tried everything. I’ve given her space. I’ve given her time. I’ve tried forcing her hand. None of it works.” He lifts his gaze, eyes dark with frustration. “She’s still fighting me.”

Paul hums thoughtfully. “She’s also scared.”

Roman’s eyes flicker. “Of me?”

Paul shakes his head. “No. Of what you mean to her.”

Roman stills and Paul steps forward slightly, his voice careful. “She’s never had someone like you before. Someone who watches over her. Someone who sees her.” He tilts his head. “And I don’t think she knows what to do with that.”

Silence stretches between them.

“I’m not trying to control her,” Roman says quietly. “I just…” He trails off, voice rough around the edges. His fingers tighten together. “I don’t want her to be alone in this.”

Paul watches him for a long moment. Then he exhales, nodding slowly. “You care for her.”

Roman’s jaw tightens. “She’s one of mine.”

Paul doesn’t look convinced. “It’s more than that. I can see it. She’s more than just numbers to you.”

Roman exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face again. He doesn’t answer. Because what is there to say?

Outside the door, Y/N can barely breathe. Her pulse pounds in her ears, her hands clenched at her sides as she tries to process what she just heard. She wasn’t expecting this. Wasn’t expecting him to be struggling just as much as she was. Because he is struggling. She hears it in his voice, the weight behind his words. She feels it. It isn’t just about dominance or control for him. It’s about her.

It’s about them.

The realization makes something shift inside her, something she can’t ignore any longer. Because if she’s been fighting this— So has he. If she’s been pushing him away— He’s been holding himself back. Her breath catches.

Seth was right.

The reason Roman gets under her skin isn’t because she hates him. It’s because she’s terrified of what it means to want him. To trust him. To let herself be his. And for the first time, she wonders… What if she stopped fighting? What if she acknowledged him?

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Looking at herself in the mirror, Y/N couldn’t believe what she was doing. She shrugs on the familiar black and red colors, a small smirk on her face as she admires how she looks in the mirror. Roman has his own segment in the next few minutes and she intends to make it one he’ll never forget.

After everything that’s happened between them, she’s finally come to realize that fighting him is only a way of trying to deny how she really felt about Joe and what he meant to her. She was trying hard to fight his control because truthfully, she wouldn’t mind belonging to him.

Her eyes dance over the Bloodline jacket that fits her far too well, her fingers dancing over the fabric. She runs her fingers over the stitching, the weight of it heavier than she expected. He’s been waiting for her to wear it. To claim her place.

And for the first time— She thinks she might actually want to.

This time It’s not about defiance. It’s about choice. It’s about him. And this time… She’s finally ready to choose.

The arena is electric. The crowd is still buzzing from the match that just ended, the energy thick with excitement, with awe, with dominance. Roman Reigns stands in the center of the ring, championship slung over his shoulder, sweat glistening against his skin as he takes in the sea of fans, the deafening chants of his name.

Another victory. Another opponent put down.

Whoever stood across from him tonight had already become an afterthought. It didn’t matter who it was—Cody, Seth, AJ—because the result was always the same.

Roman Reigns. On top. As always.

He lifts the mic to his lips, smirking as he lets the audience’s reaction settle.

But then— The music hits. Her music. And Roman’s entire demeanor shifts.

The crowd erupts at the familiar sound, voices rising in a chaotic mixture of cheers and gasps. The camera pans back to the entrance, but Roman doesn’t turn. He doesn’t need to. His grip tightens around the mic, his fingers flexing, his jaw clenching. He already knows what this is. Another interruption. Another challenge. Another night where she tries to test him.

He exhales through his nose, fighting the instinct to roll his eyes. She’s been doing this for weeks now, throwing herself into his moments, standing against him with that fire in her eyes, acting like she has any kind of control in this game.

And tonight, she’s trying it again. At least—that’s what he thinks.

Then he sees her. And for the first time in a long time—Roman Reigns is shocked, the breath feeling like it’s been knocked out of his lungs. Because Y/N isn’t strutting out in her usual gear, not in the colors she’s worn every time she’s stepped onto this stage before.

No.

She’s wearing his colors. Black and red. The Bloodline colors. And not just that. The Bloodline jacket. His jacket. The one she’s refused to put on, the one she’s ignored, rejected—until now.

Roman’s body goes still, his expression unreadable, but inside, his pulse is pounding. She steps onto the stage slowly, deliberately, her smirk unmistakable as she scans the crowd, soaking in their reaction. She knows what she’s doing. The way she walks, the way her fingers play with the edges of the jacket, the way she makes a show of it. Roman’s eyes darken. She’s teasing him. Pushing him. But this time—it’s different. Because for the first time, she’s not pushing him away. She’s coming closer.

Y/N starts her slow descent down the ramp, taking her time, milking the moment. Roman doesn’t move, doesn’t take his eyes off her, his championship hanging loosely from his grip. The closer she gets, the more the tension builds. By the time she reaches the steps, the anticipation in the air is thick. She climbs into the ring smoothly, sliding between the ropes with ease, and then—finally—she stands before him.

Roman stares down at her, his breath slow, controlled, his face still a mask of dominance. But inside, he feels the fight in his veins, the war between wanting to push her back or pull her in. Then she smiles. That smile. The one that tells him she knows what she’s doing to him. She lifts the mic, tilting her head slightly, her voice laced with amusement. "You like what you see, Chief?"

A muscle in Roman’s jaw ticks. The crowd erupts. A slow smirk plays on her lips as she takes another step forward, intentionally making him feel the heat of her presence, making sure he sees every inch of her in that jacket. She turns in a slow circle, dragging her fingers along the hem of the fabric, as if showing off. Roman’s fingers twitch. She stops in front of him again, the playful tilt of her head only fueling the tension stretching between them. "You look surprised," she muses, eyes flickering over his face, watching his every reaction.

Roman exhales sharply through his nose. “Should I be?”

She hums, trailing her fingers along the sleeve of the jacket now. “I don’t know, Tribal Chief. Should you be?”

Roman clenches his jaw. She’s testing him. Again. But it’s different this time. Because now, she’s his. Even if she doesn’t fully realize it yet. His voice is lower when he speaks, edged with something darker, something controlled. “Why are you wearing that?”

Y/N runs a hand down the front of the jacket, smoothing the fabric over her frame, and then—without warning—she reaches out, her fingers ghosting over his bicep. Roman’s muscles tighten instinctively beneath her touch. She doesn’t move away. "I just figured it was about time," she murmurs, her tone laced with something dangerously close to sweet.

Roman’s nostrils flare. “Figured what was about time?”

She smiles again—soft, slow, knowing. "For me to look this good in your colors."

Roman clenches his fists once again. The crowd is losing their minds, but Roman barely hears them over the sound of his own thoughts. Over the heat building in his chest, in his veins. She’s pushing him to the edge of his own restraint. And she knows it. He watches her, silent, his dark eyes burning into hers. “You think this is a game?”

Y/N bites her lip, amusement flickering in her gaze. “No. But I do think this is fun.”

Roman fights the urge to exhale too hard. Fights the urge to reach for her, to do something. He tilts his head, stepping closer, his voice dropping. “And you think wearing that makes you one of us now?”

She smirks. “Maybe.”

Roman watches her for another long second, studying her face, trying to find anything in her expression that might tell him what she’s really thinking.

And then she turns to the crowd. Her gaze sweeps over them before she lifts the microphone again. "I think it’s time to accept my rightful place at the table, no?"

The arena explodes. Roman feels something shift in the air—something real. She turns back to face him, standing tall. And then she lifts her hand, raising her finger in the air. The acknowledgment. The submission. The choice. Then, locking eyes with him, steady and unshaken. "I acknowledge you."

Roman doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t breathe. Because for weeks, for months, she has fought him. Denied him. And now— Now she’s standing in his ring, wearing his jacket, looking him in the eyes and giving in. By choice.

Roman clenches his jaw, his chest rising and falling with every controlled breath, forcing himself to stay composed. Because every instinct in his body is screaming at him to grab her. To claim her. To remind her who she just gave herself to. But he doesn’t. Because he is the Tribal Chief. He is in control. He forces a slow, measured smirk to tug at his lips, his voice dropping to something only she can hear.

"Took you long enough."

The crowd erupts. Y/N just grins. And for the first time— She feels like she belongs.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Walking backstage, Y/N could feel her heart hammering in her chest. Roman has his hand placed gently on her lower back, no words being exchanged as he guides her back to his private office. Her nerves are on fire. She could see in his eyes how satisfied he was seeing her representing him and his family. She just hopes it sent the message she wanted it to.

She doesn’t want to just belong to the Bloodline. She wants to belong to him. Because for once in her life, she isn’t afraid to let someone help her. To give someone else a say in her life. As they walk, Y/N notices Colby staring at her from his spot against the wall with a knowing smirk on his face. She rolls her eyes at him, mouthing for him to “shut up” as they finally round the corner and walk into his office.

There’s a comfortable tension between the two of them as the door smoothly shuts. Y/N fiddles with the fabric of her new jacket, still trying to decipher what’s going on in Roman’s head. His expression hadn’t changed since they left the ring. He stays silent, walking past her to set his championship down on his chair. He’s deliberate, taking his time, making her squirm before he finally leans back on his desk to face her.

His arms are outstretched behind him as he leans comfortably on the wood. He can see the gears turning in her head and part of him wants to make her wait before saying anything. It would serve as a form of punishment for all the back talk she’s been giving him since he took her under his wing.

But seeing her there, rocking his colors better than he ever could, glancing around the room all nervous. It made his heart clench. He couldn’t let her sit there and think he was mad. “Well, you were right about one thing,” his voice comes out low and gruff, making Y/N’s eyes widen slightly. She wasn’t expecting him to be the one to break the silence, let alone say something like that.

“What?” Y/N asks. She almost cringes at how small her voice sounds in comparison to his. She normally matches his energy, his dominance, but right now her anxiety is too high. She doesn’t know if what she did was the right move.

Suddenly he’s standing from his spot, slowly walking over to her. Y/N can feel the heat rising to her cheeks as he cups her chin the same way he did the other night, but this time it’s much more gentle, soft even. Her heart flutters at the way he’s looking down at her. Normally his eyes are filled with some sort of irritation whenever he looks at her, but now they’re just filled with what she can only call adoration, longing maybe. “Seeing you in these colors does do something to me,” he admits quietly, the corner of his lip quirking up into an almost smile.

Y/N feels a small weight lift off her chest. He likes it. She finds herself leaning into his touch, allowing her head to rest on his hand. “Does it now?” She says, her teasing edge returning to her voice.

She raises her hand up to his arms, her fingers lightly facing the tribal tattoo that covers it. Joe sucks in a breath, fighting off the chills that threaten to explode over his skin. He loves how her touch feels. It’s almost like sliding into a freshly warmed hoodie on a cold day. “You look beautiful.”

Every brick Y/N had put in place to keep herself guarded crumbles. Any ounce of professionalism she had left disappeared at that moment. The way he said that was different than anything he had ever said to her before. He said it like it was the only truth he had ever known. Nobody has ever looked at her the way Joe is right now. There’s that same small voice that’s haunted her, telling her to run away, that he doesn’t mean it. But when she sees the unwavering expression on his face, it silences any doubts she could have. She tilts her head, “You really think so?”

“I’ve always thought so,” he confirms. “Just fought really hard to not admit it… but I don’t think I want to fight it anymore.”

Y/N chuckles softly, “I actually kinda like it,” she says, messing with the jacket once more. “I don’t know why it took me so long to just put it on. It’s pretty cute.”

Roman shakes his head, his smile growing, “Cause you’re a stubborn ass who does the exact opposite of what she’s told.”

Y/N slaps his chest with a playful glare, “Well, maybe if you weren’t so bossy I wouldn’t feel the need to defy you all the time.”

“Nah, you just did it ‘cause you like pissin’ me off,” he says, his hands finding their way to her hips. He squeezes the soft flesh there, finally feeling like the world isn’t going to crash down around him by admitting how he feels.

“You liked it too,” she counters with a grin. “But I came around eventually didn’t I?” She raises her eyebrows.

Roman studies her for a moment, his dark eyes flickering over her face as if trying to commit every little detail to memory. The teasing, the playfulness—it’s always been their dynamic. But tonight, there’s something different. Something heavier in the air between them. He feels it in the way she’s looking up at him, waiting, holding her breath like she’s expecting him to finally say what’s been left unspoken for so long.His hands tighten slightly on her hips, grounding himself in the reality that she’s here, in his colors, letting him hold her like this. Letting him see the parts of her she doesn’t just give to anyone.

“You did come around,” he repeats, his voice softer now. “Took your sweet ass time, though.”

Y/N tilts her head, lips twitching. “Yeah, well, I had to be sure it was worth it.”

Roman smirks, cocking a brow. “And?”

Her fingers trace lazy patterns over his chest, her touch barely there, but enough to make his skin burn. “I think it is.”

A satisfied hum rumbles in his chest. “Damn right, it is.”

Y/N rolls her eyes, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. She shifts a little closer, her hands sliding up his biceps, fingers pressing against the firm muscle beneath them. “You know, I think it’s funny” she muses, “even the Wise Man picked up on it.”

Roman quirks a brow. “Picked up on what?”

She gives him a knowing look. “How different you are with me. How I mean more to you than just numbers.”

His expression doesn’t change, but she feels his fingers twitch slightly against her hips. He knows exactly what she’s talking about.

“Oh,” he drawls, smirking. “So you were spying on me?”

Y/N giggles, her eyes dancing with mischief. “Maybe...”

Before she can say anything else, he moves. Swift and effortless, like it takes no effort at all to lift her up. A surprised squeal leaves her lips as he hoists her into his arms, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. “Joe!” she exclaims, laughing breathlessly as her arms loop around his neck.

He just chuckles, the sound deep and rich in her ear. “You know, you got a real bad habit of eavesdropping.”

Y/N grins. “It’s not eavesdropping if you’re talking about me.”

Roman shakes his head, his smirk never faltering. His hands slide along her thighs, securing her against him as he presses her back against the nearest wall. His gaze drops to her lips, his grip tightening just a little.

“You drive me insane, you know that?”

Y/N hums in amusement, her fingers threading into his hair. “I do.”

Then, finally, after what feels like forever, he kisses her. It’s not hesitant or uncertain. It’s not careful or slow. It’s deep, firm, and claiming—like he’s been holding back for too damn long and he’s finally allowing himself to take what he’s wanted. Y/N melts into him instantly, her body molding against his as her hands tug at his hair, pulling him impossibly closer.

He groans into her mouth, one hand sliding up her back, pressing her tighter against him as he deepens the kiss. She tastes like victory, like home, like every damn thing he’s been too stubborn to admit he needed.

When they finally break apart, Y/N’s eyes are bright with mischief, her lips swollen from his kiss. “Took you long enough,” she teases, mocking his words from the ring.

Roman lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head before his hand drops to her ass, delivering a playful smack.

Y/N gasps, eyes widening slightly before a delighted giggle escapes her.

“Gonna have to teach you some manners,” he murmurs, his voice dark with promise.

Y/N bites her lip, eyes gleaming with challenge. “Oh yeah? Think you’re up for that?”

Roman grins. “Oh, I know I am.”

And as he kisses her again, she knows she wouldn’t have it any other way.

[coconutlyalex]

Push ups

Roman Reigns x girlfriend reader

Author's Note-This is a dialogue only fic and I'm posting it on Valentine's Day (NZ time) 🥰. So Happy Valentine's Day to those who celebrate ❤. Gif credit to owners.

Tag list: @there-goes-thefighter @mytribalnightmare @eringobragh420 @madhatterbri

Warning(s)-Dirty Talk, MDNI!!, Not proof read.

Y/N is lying underneath Roman while he is doing push ups on top of her

Y/N: Remind me again why you thought that doing push ups on top of me was a good idea?

Roman: Because you're my motivation baby girl

Y/N: Motivation for your cock to get hard you mean

Roman: You know you love it when I rub my cock against that sweet pussy of yours

Y/N: (Giggles) Oh shut up!

Roman: *Winks down at her* Now be a good girl and let your man workout

Y/N: Yes daddy!

*Minutes later*

Y/N: (Whispers) Ooh right there daddy, right there, yeeees, I love it when you go deep

Roman: (Groans) Y/N I'm trying to workout here but you aint exactly helping with your nasty'

Y/N: It's not my fault that you're practically thrusting your hips like you're actually pounding into me

Roman: *Rolls his eyes*

Y/N: *Grins* I mean if you wanted my pussy so bad daddy, all you had to do was say soo

Roman: *Scoffs* Behave yourself

Y/N: Make me!

Roman: *Growls* That's it we're leavin!

Y/N: But-

Roman: No buts, imma teach your ass a lesson when we get home......