pairing: AJ x f!reader | status: ongoing | masterlist
series summary: you're an editor. he's a headache headline. and for the next two weeks, you're stuck together. what could possibly go wrong?
series warnings: sexual and explicit content (18+), enemies to lovers, bachelor!AJ, billionaire!AJ, slow burn, strong language, mentions of past trauma.
a/n: sorry this took forever! it’s a bit longer, but the payoff is coming and it will be worth it. promise! hope you guys enjoy 🖤 (not really proofread, sorry!)
⟢ ch. 1 | ch. 2 | ch. 4 (coming soon!)
Even hours later, AJ’s words echoed in your head more than you wanted them to.
“Print whatever you want. Just don’t expect me to play nice for it.”
You didn’t bother hiding the twitch of irritation that flared as you started to pack your bags—the very ones his team had specifically told you not to bring because “everything was covered.”
Like you were supposed to show up empty-handed. Grateful, even.
You tossed a few essentials into the open suitcase anyway, ignoring the little voice that questioned whether this was stubbornness or survival.
Honestly, you were already planning to pack your own things. But after the meeting earlier today—one that somehow managed to be both a power play and a personal attack—that decision turned final.
Once Camilla had managed to ease the strain between you and AJ, things finally got underway.
The three of you had moved to the glass table tucked into the corner of his office. It wasn’t the full boardroom spread, just eight chairs instead—but it was still clearly meant for one thing: control. A space for AJ West to lay down demands if he felt like it.
And clearly, he did.
As everyone moved to take their seats at the table, he bypassed the head chair, ignored the open one across from Camilla, and sat directly across from you instead. Deliberate. Calculated.
A dick move, no question.
And if that wasn’t bad enough, he watched you the entire time—tracking every movement like he was still waiting for round two. His jaw was locked tight again, gaze unwavering. The only time his eyes left you was to blink—and even that felt reluctant.
Camilla had caught it, more than she probably wanted to. Her eyes flicked to him in intervals, each one followed by another careful attempt to keep the meeting moving without directly calling him out.
When he did speak—which wasn’t often—he didn’t look at Camilla. Not even when the words were clearly meant for her. His attention stayed fixed, focused entirely on you.
So you met him. Once. Stared back, your tone all dry restraint as you answered a question that wasn’t really about logistics. Then you turned—eyes shifting to Camilla instead.
You didn’t look back after that.
Not because you were intimidated.
But because a man like that didn’t need any more attention than he already commanded.
Just remembering it made your expression tighten without meaning to. You let out a sharp exhale and shoved another pair of heels into your bag.
Camilla had walked you through the itinerary like it was nothing. Tablet in hand, voice smooth, barely a breath between cities.
“First stop is New York,” she said. “There’s an exclusive shoot—AURUM gets first pick of the photos, full control of the initial release. Then the gallery event. Art meets press. High visibility. Carefully curated.”
She moved through the other locations lightly. Miami. Austin. Then finally, the last leg of it all—Los Angeles.
That’s where things would close: first the private AURUM dinner, then the crown jewel—the West Ball.
“We’ll send over the full itinerary,” she added with a quick smile, like it wasn’t a calendar packed to the brim. “It should cover everything you’ll need.”
AJ’s publicist had joined in right after that.
Harrison Slate.
You’d never met him in person, but the name wasn’t new. You’d heard it plenty—always in the same sentence as AJ’s. The way people said it made it sound like a warning. Like he was the last line of defense.
He didn’t look like a publicist either. More like someone who used to work corporate law, maybe finance. Serious. Clean.
And unlike Camilla, who had been tactfully managing the mood in the room, Slate didn’t blink at the tension. He talked straight through it, unfazed, launching right into a breakdown of expenses and expectations.
He was sure to reiterate—emphasize, really—that every single thing was covered. Flights. Lodging. Car service. Meals. And wardrobe, which, apparently, included full hair and makeup.
You didn’t say anything. But you sure as hell thought it.
All of this was absurd.
For a man who supposedly couldn’t care less about image, this read like the opposite. It didn’t feel like vanity, though. It felt like business. Power. Precision. Which only made you question it more.
He already had the world eating out of the palm of his hand. So why a press tour? Why a full rollout of exclusives, red carpets, and exposure?
Why you?
Damage control was a given. The man practically invited headlines. But this wasn’t reactive—it felt preemptive. Like he was getting ahead of something you hadn’t seen yet.
Whatever it was, it was under lock and key—because of course it was. AJ West probably didn’t even sneeze without a contingency plan.
You zipped your bag shut with a little more force than necessary. The resistance was minor, but you pulled hard anyway, like force alone could make a statement.
AJ could play the game however he wanted—but there was always a crack. A hairline fracture beneath all that perfected control. You just had to press hard enough.
And you would.
Eventually.
The next morning, you arrived at AJ’s private terminal, chauffeured by Easton. Naturally.
He had shown up at your building right on schedule, exactly as the itinerary had said he would. Yes—it even included that, along with every other detail you could possibly think of and then some. The whole thing was ridiculously specific. Almost offensively so.
You glanced out the window as the car rolled past security and onto the tarmac, weaving between hangars until his private jet came into view.
It was black, which was expected. But not just black—matte. A flat, brutal shade that swallowed light instead of reflecting it. Power disguised as silence. Sleek, towering, and obnoxiously perfect.
You stared at it, unimpressed. Okay—maybe a little impressed.
There were no logos. No name. Just a tail number printed in dark gray, barely visible unless you were looking for it. Subtle in the most arrogant way. And the more you looked at it, the more it made sense.
It was AJ’s forte.
Easton slowed the car to a stop, then stepped out and moved smoothly to your side, opening the door with that composed nod you were starting to become familiar with.
“Mr. West is already on board,” he said as you stepped out onto the tarmac.
No surprise there.
You murmured a quick thank you and adjusted the strap of your shoulder bag over your coat. There was a slight chill in the morning air. It wasn’t harsh, but it carried that bite that told you winter had arrived. Still, you didn’t complain—it was nothing compared to the cold waiting for you in New York.
As you approached the jet, you caught voices behind you and glanced back toward the car. Easton stood near the trunk with two other men, presumably AJ’s onboard staff, now gathering your bags. One. Then another. Then another.
You didn’t miss the look on their faces. The same one Easton had worn earlier when he picked you up. Confused. Slightly stunned. Like they couldn’t quite believe you’d packed this much, or that someone might actually think for themselves.
It made you smile. Just a little. Then you turned back around, reaching the bottom of the stairs—black with dark wood inlays that caught the morning light just enough to gleam.
But that smile fell almost instantly when your eyes lifted.
AJ stood at the top of the steps, just inside the jet’s open door. Dark suit, crisp as ever. One hand tucked casually into his pocket, the other holding a glass filled with that same deep amber liquid from yesterday.
His posture was relaxed, but there was nothing easy about the way he looked at you—in that sharp, quiet way you were starting to recognize. And hate.
Still, you climbed the steps, holding his stare the entire way. You only eased your pace when you reached the top, stopping just in front of him on the last step—eye level with his chest, but looking up.
Neither of you spoke.
Not at first.
He took a slow sip, eyes on you the whole time. When he lowered the glass, the words came—dry and pointed.
“I thought we told you everything was taken care of.”
You didn’t need him to clarify. You already knew what he was referring to.
Your bags. All five of them.
“You did,” you said, voice soft like you were agreeing. You tilted your head, just a little. “But your word isn’t law. You do know that… right?”
For half a second—just a flicker—you thought you caught something in his expression. The faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. But the glass was already back at his lips before you could be sure.
Then, without a word, he turned and walked deeper into the cabin. That signature coolness cloaked in movement. His way of ending the conversation without ever having to say so.
You barely had a moment to process it before polished heels stepped into the space he’d left behind.
Camilla.
“Good morning,” she said, voice smooth as her entrance.
Only then did it start to click—everything felt less like a retreat and more like… a maneuver. Too composed to be coincidental.
Had he walked off because she was arriving?
Had he seen her coming?
Timed it?
Before you could dwell on it any longer, Camilla turned and led you toward the forward lounge.
You stepped in, blinking against the soft wash of natural morning light filtering through the narrow windows. It cast pale reflections across every surface.
The space smelled like him—again. But stronger this time. Settled, not worn. Like the jet had absorbed it through repetition.
And visually? It was him. Every detail.
Black oak wrapped the walls, the grain barely visible under its glossy finish. The seating—deep charcoal leather with tailored lines and intricate stitching—looked more like it belonged in a private club than on an aircraft.
It was exquisite in a way even you couldn’t deny. Cold, but not sterile. Clean, but not bland.
Camilla gestured toward a wide leather seat near a polished table, but your attention was still tracing the space—taking in every silent indication that this jet was just another extension of AJ West’s world.
A soft voice broke your focus.
“Welcome aboard,” said a blonde woman—flight attendant, clearly. Her tone was friendly without overstepping. She reached out, offering to take your coat.
You slipped it off without a word, nodding in thanks before finally moving to the seat. The leather was firm but tailored, molding beneath you as you set your bag at your side.
Soon after, the others began to settle in. Camilla took a seat across the lounge, flipping through something on her tablet, Harrison joining her. Easton followed quietly, choosing a seat near the rear.
But AJ?
Nowhere in sight.
As the flight carried on, the cabin fell into a gentle rhythm. Camilla and Harrison sat nearby, casually going over details about New York—more logistics, more timing. The conversation stayed light, looping you in now and then, though nothing required more than a brief response.
You still hadn’t seen AJ.
Not that you were looking for him exactly, but the absence was noticeable. Strange, all things considered. Then again, after the stunt he pulled this morning, maybe it made sense.
And truthfully? The lack of his presence was welcome. Peaceful. If there was one thing to be grateful for, it was that.
You spent most of the flight with your notepad balanced across your lap, jotting thoughts when they came. A few observations. A rough list of questions to hit AJ with when the time came. Bits of phrasing that might help you shape the piece later.
But no matter how many times you reread what you’d written, one problem remained: you still had no idea how the hell you were going to flip his image. Not when every time he opened his mouth, he seemed determined to sink it further.
You were mid-note, pen paused just above the paper, when a voice broke the quiet.
“Miss Y/L/N.”
You glanced up, met by the flight attendant’s smile—her expression just as composed as her voice.
“Mr. West asked me to let you know—if you have any questions for your profile, he’s available now.”
Your brows lifted slightly. Oh, is he now?
Over three hours into the flight. Not a word. Nothing. Just radio silence in a pressurized tube thirty thousand feet in the air. And now, suddenly, he wants to talk—to acknowledge that you do, in fact, exist.
How generous.
Even Camilla and Harrison glanced up at that, momentarily caught off guard. Their eyes flicked to the attendant, then to each other, before quietly returning to the tablet like nothing had been said.
You forced a smile back to the attendant, kind but restrained. “Thank you.”
For a moment, you stayed seated, irritation creeping in again—suspicion too. You didn’t like the timing, didn’t like the way he suddenly decided he was ready—on his schedule, not yours.
But, as much as you hated the setup, the truth was still the same—AJ hadn’t given you much. And if he was finally willing to talk, you couldn’t afford to pass that up.
You stood, sliding your notebook under one arm and clicking your pen closed. The floor stayed steady beneath your heels as you followed the attendant down the aisle.
The walk wasn’t long, but the shift came quickly. Past the forward lounge, the cabin opened up—quieter, darker, warmer. Same design language, but deeper now. Richer. Brooding. To the right, a sleek bar stretched along one wall, glassware perfectly aligned. On the left, two wide leather seats faced one another near the window.
AJ sat in the one opposite, his profile angled toward the view outside.
His jacket was gone, shirt sleeves smooth beneath a fitted vest. One leg rested over the other like he’d been there for a while. His posture was relaxed, but in that rigidly unbothered way that said he was still in control. One hand rested near his jaw, thumb brushing the line of his mouth before sliding to the armrest.
He didn’t look at you right away.
But you knew he heard you. There wasn’t a world where he hadn’t.
Still, he stayed exactly as he was.
With a slow breath, you lowered yourself into the chair. Legs crossed. Composed. The notebook landed across your lap with a soft thud, the pen following with a pointed snap as you clicked it to life.
Only once the flight attendant stepped out, leaving the two of you alone, did he finally look at you.
Like clockwork.
Eyes on yours—flat, guarded, impossible to read.
You didn’t give him the satisfaction of drawing it out. No waiting, no shifting. No invitation for him to lead.
“Ready whenever you are, Mr. West,” you said, your voice even but edged, offering him nothing but the terms you set.
To your surprise, he didn’t react. No quip back. Not even the slightest shift in posture.
Instead, his gaze held firm, voice smooth and level.
“Where would you like to start?”
The question should have felt neutral. Polite. But something in the way he said it caught you.
It was too calm, too polished.
Nothing like the biting tension from yesterday. No, this was colder. Muted. Like it had been filed down on purpose.
What was he playing at?
But you didn’t press. Not yet.
You flipped open your notebook, eyes scanning the first line you’d written on the flight.
“Let’s start with the tour,” you said, looking up. “What’s it for?”
AJ didn’t hesitate. “Not relevant.”
That was it. No explanation. No inflection.
You held his stare, pen tapping once against the edge of your pad. So this was how it was going to be.
Calm didn’t mean easy, and he made sure you understood that.
So you shifted gears, leaning into the basics:
How do you spend your time when you’re not running West & Vale?
What would you say people misunderstand most about you?
What do you want people to take away from this feature?
He answered. Every response wrapped in PR language—clean enough for a press release, forgettable enough for everything else.
And you?
You didn’t write a word.
You held your pen like a prop, balanced in your fingers, your notebook still open on your lap. But the page stayed blank. Deliberately so.
Because none of it was worth recording. Every answer was a dodge—deflection wrapped in charm.
It wasn’t a conversation. It was a performance. And you knew it.
Still, you tried again.
“Your company’s name is on everything from tech deals to watch launches. How would you define what you actually do?”
There wasn’t even a pause.
“We look for value where other firms overlook it,” he said, settling deeper into the seat. “Early-stage ventures, legacy brands, private equity opportunities—it’s about long-term infrastructure, not noise. I don’t chase trends. I build past them. Watches, tech, real estate—they’re not trophies. They’re leverage.”
The words came clean. Clipped. Like they’d been carved down to their most marketable shape years ago. His tone was measured, posture unmoving, like he’d practiced the answer so often even his breath had learned when to fall silent.
“At the core of West & Vale is sustainability, yes, but also—”
Silence.
Then his voice cut in again. Quieter this time. Sharper.
“Your pen hasn’t moved in the past twenty-five minutes.”
His tone wasn’t curious. It was calculating.
He hadn’t just noticed—you realized—he’d been watching. Assessing, even in stillness. Tracking your hands, your gaze. Maybe even the exact second you stopped pretending to take him seriously.
You weren’t sure what unsettled you more. The fact that he’d been studying you like that, or the fact that you hadn’t caught on sooner.
Still, you didn’t let it stop you. If he wanted to play mind games, he’d have to do better than that.
“I only write down what’s useful,” you said with a shrug, your tone easy, almost bored.
AJ’s expression finally shifted. That dry edge you remembered from the day before started to creep back in—slow, precise, and unmistakably present.
“Haven’t I given you plenty?”
The words landed like he thought they should shut you up. But they only lit a spark.
“You’ve given me the same answers you’d give Forbes,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly. “I’m supposed to be showing LA’s most eligible bachelor, not West & Vale’s Q4 highlights.”
You didn’t stop there. “Unless that is your whole personality.”
That hit.
His jaw clenched slowly, the muscle in his cheek ticking once before settling.
Then, flatly—his voice cold, final.
“You’re wasting my time.”
You saw the look on his face—that flicker of temper barely contained. That was probably the closest thing to a warning you were going to get. And still, you didn’t back off.
“What?” you asked, tone cutting. “This the first time your god complex hit a wall?”
He leaned forward slightly, elbows braced on his knees. The move was unhurried but exact, calculated like everything else he did. His stare locked with yours, not blinking, not softening.
“You were handed a feature most people would kill for,” he said, voice laced with steel. “And you’re treating it like some personal crusade. You want to write about the man behind the business? Then start acting like you’re worth the access.”
“Worth the access?” you repeated, the words rolling out with a scoff as you snapped your notebook closed, pen caught inside.
You didn’t flinch. Didn’t cower. Just leaned in to match him—legs still crossed, voice colder than it had been all morning.
“You act like this feature is some kind of gift. Like letting me sit across from you should mean something. You think being difficult makes you complex? It doesn’t. It makes you predictable.”
He chuckled. Quiet and unbothered. The kind of laugh that didn’t break tension but fed it.
“Don’t act like you’re not benefitting from this, too.” The words came in a voice so deep it settled low, just shy of a threat.
Then he leaned back, just enough to signal the shift. The pressure he’d been pushing forward with now pulled back—not in surrender, but in strategy.
“You get to put your name next to mine in print. A feature that’ll outpace every spread you’ve written this year—probably your career.”
He paused, just long enough to let the next words cut clean:
“If we’re being honest, you probably need this more than I do.”
Your brows furrowed before you could stop them. “I don’t need anything from you,” you said, words clipped, but too fast to pass as casual.
He met your stare with a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Right.”
With that, AJ stood, fluid and unhurried, his hand reaching for the jacket draped over the armrest. He didn’t glance your way, didn’t offer even a flicker of acknowledgment as he slid the jacket on with practiced precision.
“Enjoy the rest of the flight, Miss Y/L/N.”
The words landed polite on the surface but were stripped of any warmth. Then he turned, leaving you with nothing but the polished leather and the fading trace of that damn cologne clinging to his sleeves.
His footsteps carried him deeper into the cabin, further away, without a second look.
You sat there, jaw tense, pulse still simmering from the exchange. But before the silence could settle in too deeply, the flight attendant reappeared, stepping into the lounge with a gentle smile as she spoke.
“We’ll be landing shortly.”
You gave a small nod, eyes drifting to the window as the hum of the engines filled the silence.
Below, the clouds had begun to thin, the city just starting to form in the distance. But your thoughts weren’t on the skyline.
They were still on him.
The way he spoke. The way he looked at you without giving anything away. You could still feel the chill he left behind—sharper than the winter waiting on the other side of touchdown.
New York would be cold, sure.
But at this point? You were almost certain AJ West was colder.
please do not repost, copy, or claim my work as your own.
if you want to be tagged in my future posts, comment or message me! i’m happy to do it! :) just let me know if you want all works or just for specific characters <3
hellooo party people so i made a bot for john and aj from taker because ugh i’ve been on a paul walker spree lately/ aj is hayden and aj is so hot and omg them at the same timeee.
i made the bot on c.ai ANDDDD j.ai because this bot is pretty freaky and i felt like it deserved to be on j.ai for all my fellow freaks. if you wanna do that on c.ai too i recommend the soft launch style because it has less of a filter i think. anyways please give feedback i wanna know if you guys like it i haven’t ever posted a bot with multiple people.
home — 🤍 | wc: 2.4k
home pt. 2 — ❤️🔥 | wc: 2.7k
E.T.A. — 🤍 | wc: about 3.1k
E.T.A. (alt. version) — ❤️🔥 | wc: about 4k
exes and… ohhhs — ❤️🔥 | wc: 1.7k
you've been missed —❤️🔥 | wc: 2.9k
bitters n' bourbon — 🤍 | wc: 1.5k
bitters n' bourbon (alt.) — ❤️🔥 | wc: 2.7k
after (requested) — 🤍 | wc: 1.3k
⟢ headcanons:
AJ + bubble baths
AJ + movie nights
⟢ mini series:
wicked games 🥀 (pairing: AJ x f!reader):
series summary: it was supposed to be simple. no feelings. no fallout. but when tempers flare and lines blur, simple turns dangerous fast. because AJ plays just as dirty outside the bedroom as he does in it—and you? you’re not afraid to match him move for move.
series warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), fwb gone sour, mean!AJ, toxic dynamics, jealousy, angst, petty behavior, emotional tension, possessiveness, brief degradation, unresolved feelings, explicit language.
part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | epilogue
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