#flufffanfic

You hadn’t expected a simple recon mission to spiral into a full-blown disaster. One moment you and Carlos were sweeping the upper floors for survivors, and the next, the building trembled beneath your feet. A deafening blast roared from somewhere below, sending tremors through the concrete. Debris rained down, alarms screamed, and the elevator you had just stepped into lurched violently before screeching to a halt. The lights flickered as the emergency brakes slammed into place.

Now, you were trapped in a half-collapsed, groaning elevator shaft, pressed shoulder to shoulder with Carlos Oliveira. Sparks danced overhead. The metal creaked ominously with every vibration, and dust trickled through fine cracks in the walls. The emergency light buzzed, dim and flickering like a dying firefly. The silence between you pulsed with tension, broken only by your shallow breaths and the distant clangs from above.

"We’re gonna be fine," you whispered, more to yourself than to him.

Carlos gave a dry chuckle. "You always say that when we’re definitely not fine."

You turned to shoot him a playful glare, but his smirk had already faded. His jaw was set, and his gaze was fixed on you—not with fear, but something far more vulnerable. He wasn’t just tense. He was unraveling.

"Carlos?" you asked, softening your voice, searching his face.

He met your gaze, eyes wide and raw. "If we die here," he murmured, the words catching in his throat, "I need to tell you something."

Your heart stuttered. "Carlos—"

"I know, I know. It’s not the time. It’s the worst time. But I’ve been holding this in for too long—through every mission, every close call. I can’t go out without saying it."

The air in the elevator grew heavy with unspoken emotion.

Carlos inhaled sharply. "I like you. No—that’s not enough. I’m in love with you. I think I have been since that first mission in Raccoon. You cracked a joke about zombie etiquette, and I laughed so hard I nearly dropped my rifle. That was it. I was gone."

You stared at him, stunned. His words clung to the silence like a final breath.

He looked away, then back again, hesitating. "I know it’s probably one-sided, and I’m sorry if this makes things awkward, but—"

"Carlos," you cut in, reaching out to take his hand. His head snapped up.

You smiled, breathless but steady. "We’re not gonna die. But even if we were... you deserve to know. I’ve been in love with you too. Since day one. You just never noticed, idiot."

He exhaled a shocked laugh, eyes glistening with disbelief and something dangerously close to hope. And right on cue, the elevator jolted—then began to slowly rise. You both looked up as the movement steadied.

"See?" you said with a soft laugh, your nerves spilling out in a wave of relief. "Told you we’d be fine."

Carlos blinked, dazed. Then that crooked, boyish grin bloomed across his face. "Okay, but when we get out of here... first date. Non-negotiable."

You chuckled. "Dinner. Somewhere safe. No zombies. No explosions."

"Deal," he said, voice low and warm.

Paul started to rise, panic flashing behind his glasses. "My Tribal Chief, surely it is better to rest—" 

"Stay here, Wiseman." 

It wasn't a request. Paul sank back into his chair, nodding fervently. He knew better than to argue when my voice dropped that specific octave. 

I walked out into the concrete hallway. The backstage area of Madison Square Garden was a labyrinth, a hive of activity that usually parted like the Red Sea when I walked through it. Producers scrambled out of my path. Referees averted their eyes. Mid-card talent pressed their backs against the cinder block walls, offering silent nods of acknowledgment. 

They respected me. They feared me. It was the same thing. 

But my mind wasn't on the match tonight. It wasn't on Cody, or Seth, or whoever the company decided to feed to the shark this month. My mind was on a specific laugh I had heard earlier in catering, a sound that cut through the noise of the business like a bell. 

YN. 

YN Devitt. 

The name itself was a headache. Being the younger sister of Finn Bálor—the Prince, the leader of the Judgment Day—placed her squarely in enemy territory. The Judgment Day was chaos. They were anarchy in black leather and purple light. We were order. We were royalty. Oil and water. 

And yet. 

I turned a corner near the loading dock, seeking the cooler air near the bay doors. It was quieter here, away from the manic energy of the locker rooms. 

She was there. 

She was sitting on a stack of road cases, her legs swinging idly. She wasn't dressed for TV yet. She wore a simple oversized hoodie and leggings, her dark hair pulled back in a messy bun that highlighted the sharp, aristocratic structure of her face—a trait she shared with her brother. But where Finn’s eyes were cold, calculating, and often demonic, YN’s were warm. They were a dangerous kind of warm. The kind that made you want to take your armor off. 

She looked up as I approached, and unlike everyone else in this building, she didn't flinch. She didn't scramble. She just smiled. 

"You look like you're plotting a murder, Joe," she said, her Irish accent softer than Finn's, but just as distinct. 

I stopped a few feet away from her. I shouldn't be here. Paul would have a stroke if he knew I was unsupervised with her. 

"I'm always plotting," I said, my voice rumbling in the empty loading bay. "It's part of the job description." 

"Heavy is the head?" she asked, tilting her head to the side. 

"Something like that." I moved closer, invading her space. It was a test. It was always a test with people. I wanted to see if they would break, if they would step back. 

YN didn't move. She held my gaze, her chin lifting defiantly. 

"You're not supposed to be back here," I told her. "This is a restricted area." 

"I'm Finn Bálor's sister. I go where I want." 

"You're talking to the Tribal Chief. I decide who goes where." 

She laughed again, that sound vibrating in my chest. "You know, for the scariest man in the industry, or so they say, you sure do spend a lot of time lurking in hallways." 

"I don't lurk. I survey." 

"Semantics." She hopped off the road case, landing lightly on her feet. She was small compared to me—everyone was—but she carried herself with a kinetic energy that commanded attention. She stepped into me, placing a hand on my chest, right over the logo on my jacket. 

The contact was electric. It was forbidden. If Finn saw this, there would be a war. If the cameras caught this, the internet would melt. But right here, in the shadow of the loading dock, it was just us. 

"You look tired," she murmured, her thumb brushing the fabric. "Real tired." 

"I'm fine," I lied. I was exhausted. My bones ached with the weight of carrying this company for over a thousand days. The paranoia of betrayal was a constant hum in the back of my skull. 

"You don't have to be the Chief right now," she whispered. "Just for a minute." 

I looked down at her. It was a dangerous proposition. To stop being the Tribal Chief was to show weakness. Weakness was blood in the water. But with YN, the water always felt calm. 

"Your brother is looking for you," I said, deflecting. "The Judgment Day has a segment in an hour." 

"Finn worries too much," she dismissed, but her hand lingered on my chest. "He thinks everyone in this building is out to get me." 

"He's not wrong," I said darker than I intended. "This place... it eats people, YN. It chews them up and spits them out. You're too..." 

"Too what?" Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Too soft? Too nice?" 

"Too bright," I admitted. "You haven't let the darkness in yet. Not like him. Not like me." 

She sighed, dropping her hand, and the loss of contact made me physically colder. "Maybe I like the darkness, Roman. Maybe that's why I'm standing here talking to the biggest wolf in the forest instead of knitting in the women's locker room." 

I reached out, my hand cupping her cheek. Her skin was soft. "You shouldn't be standing here. You should be far away from this." 

"I don't want to be far away." She leaned into my touch. "I want to be where you are." 

The admission hung in the air, heavy and terrified. It was a complication I didn't need. A weakness I couldn't afford. And yet, looking at her, I knew I would burn the entire Bloodline to the ground before I let anyone hurt her. 

"Roman!" 

The voice was sharp, cutting through the moment like a blade. I didn't pull away immediately. I turned my head slowly, keeping my hand on YN’s cheek for a second longer than necessary—a claim—before dropping it and turning to face the intruder. 

Finn Bálor stood at the end of the loading bay corridor. 

He wasn't in his gear yet, but the paint was already around his eyes, the demon lurking just beneath the surface. He looked from me to YN, his expression unreadable, which was worse than anger. Damian Priest stood behind him, looming like a gargoyle, but Finn waved him back. 

"Leave us," Finn commanded. 

Priest hesitated, glancing at me, then nodded and retreated around the corner. 

Finn walked toward us. His steps were silent, predatory. He stopped five feet away, his eyes locked on mine. The history between us was long and violent. I had beaten him. I had broken him. I had taken everything from him to secure my spot at the head of the table. 

"YN," Finn said, his voice low. "Go to the bus." 

"Ferg, don't start," she snapped, stepping between us. "We were just talking." 

"I said, go to the bus." He didn't look at her. He kept his eyes on me. "Now." 

YN looked at me, looking for a sign. I gave her a nearly imperceptible nod. This was between me and him. She hesitated, frustration evident in the set of her jaw, but she respected the tone. She squeezed my arm briefly—a gesture Finn definitely saw—and walked past her brother, disappearing down the hall. 

Silence stretched between us. The hum of the arena ventilation seemed to get louder. 

"You have a lot of nerve," Finn said finally. 

"I do what I want," I replied, crossing my arms. "I'm the Tribal Chief. I don't ask for permission to speak to anyone." 

"She's not just anyone. She's my blood." 

"I know who she is." 

Finn laughed, a dry, humorless sound. "Do you? Do you know what happens to people who get close to you, Roman? Look at your cousins. Look at your 'Wiseman.' You drain them. You use them as shields. You demand loyalty and you give back nothing but trauma." 

I stepped forward, towering over him. "I give them greatness. I give them relevance. Without me, they are nothing. Without me, they are mid-card acts struggling for TV time." 

"And YN?" Finn looked up, unflinching. "Does she need relevance? Or does she need safety?" 

"I can keep her safer than you can," I growled. The truth of it flared in my chest. "You run with a pack of hyenas, Finn. Judgment Day is a circus. You can't protect her from the politics. You can't protect her from management. I am management." 

"You're a target," Finn countered. "Every gun in this company is aimed at your head. And if she stands next to you, she gets hit by the stray bullets." 

"I don't let bullets hit what is mine." 

The words slipped out before I could check them. What is mine. 

Finn’s eyes widened slightly. He heard it. He processed it. The tension in his shoulders didn't drop, but the aggression shifted into something more contemplative. He looked at the floor, then back at me. He looked tired, too. We were all so tired. 

"She defends you, you know," Finn said quietly. "In the locker room. When the girls talk. When Seth runs his mouth. She tells them they don't know the real you." 

"She sees clearly." 

"She sees what she wants to see." Finn walked past me, toward the stack of road cases where she had been sitting. He traced a finger over the metal edge. "I've tried to keep her away from this life. I tried to keep her in Dublin. But she has the sickness, same as us. She needs the noise." 

"Then let her have it." 

"With you?" Finn turned back. "You're a monster, Roman. You've manipulated your own flesh and blood to keep that gold on your shoulder." 

"I did what was necessary." 

"And you'll do what is necessary to her, too. Eventually." 

"Never." The word was absolute. "I would tear this world apart before I let her carry my burdens." 

Finn studied me. He was looking for the lie. He was looking for the politician, the manipulator, the Tribal Chief. But I wasn't giving him a promo. I was giving him the truth. 

He let out a long breath, shaking his head. A strange, twisted smile touched his lips. It wasn't happy, but it was resigned. 

"She hates the nice ones," Finn muttered, almost to himself. "She always has. She gets bored. She wants the fire." 

He walked back toward me, stopping within striking distance. He was smaller, yes, but Finn Bálor was a man who had stared down demons. He wasn't afraid of a Chief. 

"I hate you, Roman," Finn said calmly. "I hate what you represent. I hate that you're sitting on a throne that I could have built." 

"But you didn't," I reminded him. 

"No. I didn't." He paused. "But I can't watch her 24/7. And I can't stop the vultures in the back who see her name and want to use her to get to me. Or to get to you." 

He looked down the hallway where she had disappeared. 

"She thinks you're a hero," Finn said. "God knows why." 

"Maybe I am." 

"No. You're a villain. The biggest one we've ever had." Finn looked me dead in the eye. "But she deserves someone like you." 

The air left the room. 

I blinked, processing the words. "Excuse me?" 

"You heard me," Finn said, his voice hard. "She deserves someone like you. Not because you're good. But because you're the only one arrogant enough, strong enough, and selfish enough to keep the rest of the world away from her. The nice guys? They'll fold. They'll let the business crush her. You..." He gestured to the title belt that wasn't there, but was always there in spirit. "You crush the business." 

It was a twisted blessing. A darkly pragmatic handoff. He was acknowledging that in a world of sharks, only the Leviathan could ensure her survival. 

"If you break her heart," Finn added, his voice dropping to a whisper that sounded like a curse, "I won't come for your title. I won't come for your spot. I will wait until you are asleep, and I will end you." 

"Understood," I said. And I meant it. 

Finn held my gaze for one second longer, then turned on his heel. "Get to Gorilla. You're holding up the show." 

He walked away, slipping back into the shadows of the arena, back to his Judgment Day. 

I stood there for a moment, absorbing the interaction. She deserves someone like you. 

It wasn't a compliment. It was an assignment. 

I turned and headed back toward my locker room. The walk felt different now. The burden of the title felt... shared, in a way. Not that I would let her carry it, but that the reason for carrying it had shifted. It wasn't just about the legacy of the Anoa'i family anymore. It was about maintaining the power structure required to keep her safe. 

When I got back to the room, Paul was pacing. 

"My Tribal Chief! Thank heavens. The producer was just here, they are queuing the music in five—" 

"Relax, Paul." I walked past him and picked up the title. I slung it over my shoulder. 

I checked my phone. One new message. 

YN: Fergal says he didn't kill you. That's a plus. 

I allowed a small smirk to touch my lips. I typed back a quick response. 

Me: He knows better. Watch the monitor. 

I pocketed the phone and looked at Paul. "Let's go." 

We walked to Gorilla Position. The energy shifted as we got closer to the curtain. The crowd noise was a deafening roar, a physical force that vibrated against the heavy black curtains. 

Solo Sikoa was there, standing with his arms crossed, his face a mask of stone. Jimmy was bouncing on his toes, hyping himself up. They looked at me, waiting for the cue. 

I looked at the monitor on the wall. The camera cut to the backstage area, showing the Judgment Day walking. I saw Finn. And just behind him just as he passed, looking at a monitor of her own, was YN. 

She looked happy. She looked safe. 

I adjusted the title on my shoulder. I puffed out my chest. I flipped the switch that turned Joe Anoa'i into the Head of the Table. 

"Paul," I said, my voice commanding the space. 

"Yes, my Tribal Chief?" 

"Tell them to hit my music." 

The opening notes of my theme hit—the deep, orchestral doom that signaled the arrival of a god. The crowd erupted, a mix of boos and cheers, mostly acknowledgments of power. 

I walked through the curtain, the bright lights blinding me for a fraction of a second before my vision adjusted. I saw the thousands of faces. I saw the signs. I saw the empire I had built. 

I raised my hand, the finger pointing to the sky. Pyro exploded behind me, the heat washing over my back. 

Let Finn think what he wanted. Let the locker room whisper. I was Roman Reigns. I was the Tribal Chief. And now, I had something new to fight for. 

She deserved a monster to keep the nightmares away. 

And I was the best monster there was. 

“So did he call?” Nancy asks you. 

“Will you keep your voice down?” You hiss at her, a playful smirk on your lips. 

“Well did he?” Barb speaks up beside you. You shake your head no, walking up to your locker. 

“I’ve told you before, it's not like that,” you tell them as you work to open your locker, Barb shooting Nancy a knowing look. “Okay, I mean, yes, fine, he likes me, you both know that, but not like that. We’ve only made out a couple of times.”

“We only made out a couple of times.” Barb mimics you as Nancy giggles beside her.

“Jesus, you’re gonna be so cool now,” Nancy tells you as Barb nods along in agreement.

“No, I’m not!” You retort back.

“You better still hang out with us, that’s all I’m saying,” Nancy tells you.

“Yeah, if you become friends with Carol and Tommy H…” Barb trails off.

“Ew, no. Gross. And I’m telling you guys again, this was just a one-time… two-time…thing.” You tell them as your open your locker up to have a folded slip of paper fall out. You pick up the small slip of paper and open it. 

Meet Me. Bathroom. Steve.

You look to Nancy and Barb as they read the note over your shoulder. 

“You were saying?” Barb comments. 

Before you know it, you're in the girl's restroom at Hawkins High, full-on making out with none other than Steve Harrington. As your lips continue to clash as the kissing becomes more and more intense, a bell rings, indicating the 5-minute warning before the first period starts. You crash into reality, no longer lost in lust for Steve. You reluctantly pull away from Steve and he tries to chase your lips with flushed cheeks. 

“Okay, I, have to go.” You tell Steve as he continues to kiss your neck.

“Just one more minute.” He murmurs against your hot skin. You enjoy his lips on your neck for a few more seconds before calling him again.

“Steve…”

“Yeah?” he asks in between kisses. 

“I really, like seriously, have to go.” You gasp out before finally tearing your body away from his and pulling your backpack on. 

“Let’s do something tonight, yeah?” Steve asks, doing the same.

“I can’t, I have to study. For Kaminsky’s Chem test.” You stutter out as Steve pulls you close to him again.

“What’s your GPA again? Three-point nine?”

“Kaminsky’s tests are impossible.”

“So let me help you.”

“You failed chem.”

“Oh come on, it was only a C minus.” You look at him sternly, shaking your head and giving a little laugh.

“So, should I come over, say, eight?”

“Uh, are you crazy? My mom won’t allow that, no way.”

“Who says she needs to ‘allow’ anything? I’ll just climb through your window, she won’t even know I’m there. I’m stealthy, like a ninja.”

“You are crazy.” You tell Steve, turning away from him towards the door to go to class.

“Okay, okay, forget your place, we’ll just chill in my car, find a nice quiet place to park.”

“Steve, I have to study, I’m not kidding.”

“Why do you think I want it nice and quiet?” You can’t help but smile at him. 

The final week of the mission arrived with the same deceptive calm as the rest of the suburb. White fences gleamed beneath the soft glow of porch lights, lawns carried the scent of fresh-cut grass, and Brenda still waved far too cheerfully from across the street, her endless casserole dishes a constant reminder of the strange life you’d been living. Yet beneath that postcard-perfect image, you could feel the weight of the end pressing down—each glance with Leon edged with the unspoken question: what happens after this?

HQ’s call came the night before extraction. Umbrella’s operatives had been neutralized, evidence secured, and your cover assignment officially ended. By morning, you’d hand back the house keys and return to being just two agents with badges and files—not rings and routines. You were supposed to feel relief, but instead the thought left you restless and hollow. The house was too quiet, as though it knew it was about to be stripped of the warmth it had borrowed. The rooms still carried traces of you both: laughter echoing faintly in the kitchen, the scent of burnt lasagna clinging like an inside joke, the low rumble of Leon’s laugh drifting through the living room.

Sleep eluded you. You sat up in bed, staring at the fake wedding photo still pinned to the fridge across the hall, the stiff smiles now softened in your memory. That’s when you heard it—Leon’s knock. Not sharp or professional, but soft, hesitant. He stepped inside, hair tousled, sweatpants and a plain shirt replacing his usual tactical edge. He looked less like the legendary agent whose name carried too much weight, and more like the man who had fallen asleep beside you during late-night surveillance shifts.

“You’re awake,” he murmured, voice thick with something unsaid.

“So are you.”

He lingered at the doorframe before crossing the room to sit on the edge of your bed. His eyes searched yours, as if trying to memorize every detail before it slipped away. Finally, he exhaled.

“I don’t want this to end.” His tone was steady, though you could hear the storm behind it. “Not the mission. Not… us.”

Your throat tightened. “Leon—”

“I know it sounds insane. We were supposed to fake a marriage. Maybe it started that way, but—” His hand brushed yours, thumb tracing small circles. “It stopped being fake a long time ago.”

The silence felt fragile, like glass holding a whole world inside. You laughed softly, nerves bubbling through the smile tugging at your lips. “Good. Because I was afraid I’d have to be the one to say it first.”

Relief washed over him so vividly it made your chest ache. He pressed his forehead against yours, and when he kissed you, it wasn’t hurried or stolen between mission briefings. It was slow, deliberate—every second steeped in the weight of everything you’d been holding back. The walls of the fake house didn’t matter. The neighbors didn’t matter. For once, it was just you and him.

Morning light crept through the blinds, gilding tangled sheets and warm skin. For the first time in weeks, the house didn’t feel like a set. It felt like home. Cheryl arrived promptly at nine with her clipboard and overenthusiastic smile, chirping about “the next lucky newlyweds” as you handed back the keys. You nodded politely, but when you slid into the car with Leon, you noticed the gold ring still on your finger. You started to remove it—then paused, seeing he hadn’t taken his off either. Neither of you spoke. You didn’t need to.

Back at HQ, bureaucracy took over. Debriefings, forms, endless reports. The mission reduced to black-and-white text, stripped of the color that had defined it for you both. Yet when Leon walked out beside you afterward, his hand brushed yours and didn’t retreat. In broad daylight, in front of colleagues and strangers alike, he didn’t let go. No cover. No neighbors. No charade. Just you.

Weeks later, life had shifted into a new rhythm. No surveillance gear humming in the background, no Brenda knocking at your door with questions about children. Instead, it was Leon’s jacket slung casually over your chair, his mug sitting beside yours in the sink, a playlist you’d made together filling the kitchen as you cooked—burning Brenda’s lasagna recipe spectacularly but laughing until you cried. On nights when nightmares clawed at you both, comfort came not from pretending to be married, but from knowing you truly weren’t alone.

One evening, Leon stood in your kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hair a mess, fixing the jammed drawer he had once silently repaired during the mission. You caught yourself smiling, realizing just how much had changed—and how much had stayed the same.