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ssa-dado · 1 month ago

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Pride & Pettiness

Aaron Hotchner x deskmate!fem!reader Genre: angst, mutual pining with the same energy of a sitcom Summary: Even the best partnerships - even a fresh one like yours and Hotch’s - had to go through rough patches. But that’s what mentors are for, right? Especially if they happen to be Rossi and Gideon - the undisputed masters of working in a duo. Too bad that even the BAU gods were not immune to human pettiness, and instead of fixing things when you and Hotch each stormed into their offices for advice, they somehow managed to make everything worse. Warnings: Rossi and Gideon, despite technically being your bosses, are way too caught up in their own petty feud to be of any actual help. Instead, they’ve chosen to channel their energy into something far more productive - gossiping about you and Hotch via fax. Because, well, it is the late ‘90s, after all. Word Count: 5.9k Dado's Corner: This piece is based on the first part of a request (and way too many private brainrots) sent by the co-relator of this series @c-losur3 for my 400 followers celebration event YEEEHAWWWW there will be a second part, set many years later… hehehe the angst is never over. Ah, also, the resolution of all of this is so silly. Sorry... I guess.

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The strongest bond someone working in law enforcement could form was a partnership - two people moving in sync, instinct sharpening instinct, and skill complementing skill.

Plato, in The Republic, had grand ideas about an ideal government ruled by two philosopher-kings - an 'interesting' proposition, considering he just happened to be a philosopher himself.

How convenient.

But the most remarkable part of his argument wasn’t the thinly veiled intellectual self-promotion, it was the number.

Two. Not one.

Because, according to Plato, the only way to arrive at truth was through dialogue, through debate, through the friction of two minds constantly challenging each other.

And while most people would assume that ancient political philosophy had very little bearing on the modern world, somehow, against all odds, Plato’s vision of dual leadership had found a foothold in an institution he probably never would have anticipated: the FBI.

Specifically, in the form of Jason Gideon and David Rossi - two men, one partnership, leading the Behavioral Analysis Unit.

And, much like Plato’s philosopher-kings, they operated under the firm belief that they possessed the wisdom to shape the world around them.

Which was exactly how you and Hotch - through what was definitely pure coincidence and not at all the result of their very deliberate meddling - had ended up as partners.

And now, thanks to their brilliant mentorship, you both found yourselves sitting across from them… airing your grievances about each other.

Of course, this wasn’t supposed to happen.

You had gone to Gideon’s office with the perfectly reasonable intent of professionally complaining about Hotch over a minor misunderstanding. Nothing dramatic, just a slight escalation that 'totally' warranted the intervention of your superior.

Or at least, that’s how Hotch saw it.

Because if you had just communicated like a normal person, you would have told him that you weren’t actually filing a formal complaint, you were just looking for advice.

But no, that would have been too easy.

Which is exactly why Hotch, ever the beacon of patience and maturity, having spotted you doing so, decided to return the favor. If you were going to drag your boss into this, then he was going to do the exact same thing, marching straight into Rossi’s office to even the playing field.

What neither of you could have predicted was that, somehow, a discussion that was supposed to be about you and Hotch had instead morphed into a thinly veiled continuation of whatever unresolved argument Gideon and Rossi had been stewing over for days.

Plato may have waxed poetic about two-person leadership as the pinnacle of governance, but clearly, he had never met Gideon and Rossi - what with him being dead for over two millennia and all.

Minor detail.

“I spent ten - ten - minutes explaining the UnSub’s pattern. Laid it all out, even a metaphor that I thought was particularly strong! And you know what Hotch said? You know what he had the audacity to say?”

Gideon, wisely, did not attempt a guess.

He merely adjusted his glasses and regarded you with the patience of a man who had endured enough existential crises - his own and others’ - to know better than to poke an already burning fire.

“He said-” you inhaled, because even the memory of Hotch’s voice made you feel the heat creeping up your cheeks - from rage, obviously, rage…

…“You’re overcomplicating it. That’s what I told her,” Hotch stated at the same time, on the opposite side of the wall, seated in front of Rossi. “It was just a perfectly rational observation.”

Rossi took a long, slow sip of his coffee. If he had known what he was about to deal with, he would have gladly corrected it with enough whiskey to make this tolerable. “Sure, Aaron. Reasonable.”

"But then she looked at me like I had personally insulted her, completely ignored the part where I agreed with her - just with fewer metaphors - and instead of talking to me like an adult, she stomped off to Gideon." Hotch exhaled, rubbing his temple. "That woman is a -”

He paused, searching for the right word, the perfect descriptor, something that fully encapsulated the absolute trial that was dealing with you.

“…A paradox.”

But no, that wasn’t enough. That wasn’t nearly enough.

“…A walking contradiction. She can read everyone else like a book but when it comes to herself? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. She’s-” he exhaled sharply, frustrated beyond belief, “-she’s so infuriating.”

And then he winced.

Because what the hell had just come out of his mouth? A contradiction? A paradox? Was he seriously talking like that now?

Goddammit. You were infecting him.

Meanwhile Rossi, watching him spiral, was mentally preparing himself for the stupidity that was about to unfold.

Because unlike Hotch - who was still stubbornly convinced that this was about anything other than what it actually was - Rossi saw the issue with absolute, irrefutable clarity.

This wasn’t about communication issues.

This wasn’t even about professional disagreements.

This was textbook mutual pining.

And not just any kind of mutual pining - the worst kind.

The kind where both of you were so deep in denial that the only way your brains could cope was by turning every minor inconvenience into a full-blown incident, bickering like an old married couple because neither of you could stand being within five feet of the other without your neurons short-circuiting and risking the horrifying possibility of self-awareness.

It was, frankly, embarrassing.

Rossi knew exactly what he should do.

As Hotch’s mentor, it was his duty to sit him down, force him to face reality, and guide him toward the inevitable conclusion that all of this frustration wasn’t about you being impossible - it was about the fact that he was hopelessly, stupidly attracted to you.

But then he remembered that one time Gideon had acted intellectually superior to him.

And suddenly, this had nothing to do with Hotch and everything to do with the fact that Gideon was wrong about whatever they had been arguing about before.

So, rather than responding to Hotch, Rossi silently reached for his fax machine.

TO: JASON GIDEON

FROM: DAVID ROSSI

SUBJECT: IT’S YOUR KID’S FAULT

Your kid is the reason Aaron has been ranting for five straight minutes without blinking. And while I should be concerned about the blinking thing, I’m honestly more disturbed by the fact that I’ve never heard him talk this much since I met him. It’s unnatural. It’s unsettling. It’s frankly ruining my entire perception of reality.

Fix your kid. She should apologize to him so he finally stops.

You barely registered the whirr of the fax machine as you continued venting, pacing in Gideon’s office.

“What if I’m not enough for him?” you muttered. “I get it, I’d be mad too if I got paired up with someone who’s only been legally allowed to drink for a few months, but at least he could have said it differently.”

Gideon, barely listening - because his brain was currently short-circuiting over the sheer idiocy of Rossi’s latest fax - grabbed a fresh sheet of paper and started typing.

“Don’t worry, I hear you,” he said absently, which, given the circumstances, was not entirely true.

You huffed, still pacing. “He makes it sound like I’m incapable just because I don’t summarize my entire profile in monosyllabic grunts and I don’t stare deep into people’s souls with those unreadable-”

You frowned slightly. “What color are his eyes, anyway?”

That was the exact moment Gideon mentally checked out.

Because while he should have been focusing on mentoring you through this crisis, Rossi had just challenged him.

And there were some things in life that simply could not be ignored.

Like proving David Rossi wrong.

So, without hesitation, he sent his reply.

TO: DAVID ROSSI

FROM: JASON GIDEON

SUBJECT: INCORRECT. TRY AGAIN.

Oh, please. Your kid is the reason my kid has been pacing my office for ten minutes, trapped in an existential spiral so deep she may never escape.

And why? Because your Aaron - stoic, logical, deeply repressed Aaron - is either willfully ignoring her brilliance or is so profoundly distracted by something else (I wonder what that could be, David?).

And now, look at what he’s done. He’s unraveled her. Entirely.

Philosophers have written essays on the fragility of human perception, on the agony of misunderstanding - but even they would struggle to articulate the absurdity of what he’s done here. Because rather than acknowledge the blindingly obvious truth - that he is so disastrously affected by her mere presence that his entire ability to process information has been compromised - he has instead chosen to, what? Dismiss her? Challenge her? Stare at her like she personally upended his worldview and then claim she’s the problem?

So no, David. I will not be fixing my kid.

Fix yours.

Meanwhile, in Rossi’s office, to his absolute horror, Hotch was still talking.

This was unprecedented. Unnatural. Downright unsettling.

Rossi had seen a lot of disturbing things in his career, but this?

This was genuinely alarming.

“I don’t approach profiling the way she does,” Hotch admitted, his voice quieter, almost strained. “I’m not Peter Rogers. I never will be. If she wanted a partner who thinks like that - if she wanted him - I’d understand.”

Ah, Peter Rogers - the one agent in this entire bureau Hotch had the misfortune of knowing, solely because the man had once occupied your desk - which, by extension, meant he had spent far too much time sitting in front of him before you joined the BAU.

That moron.

That living testament to the FBI’s questionable hiring practices.

That bureaucratic seat-filler whose greatest contribution to law enforcement was proving that, apparently, anyone could get a badge.

If Rogers had contributed one remotely valuable thing to society in his otherwise remarkably unimpressive career, it was possessing just enough cognitive function to form complete sentences - and, for some baffling reason, to be your friend.

Which, naturally, checked out - you both had degrees in linguistics, spoke the same academic language, and were intellectually aligned.

Unlike him.

Because, of course, you never let him forget that he had once been a prosecutor - a lawyer - a fact you brought up constantly, with that little glint in your eyes.

Which was, clearly, because you despised him.

Obviously.

That was the reason.

Not because of… well, what other reason could there possibly be? That you liked him? No, that was ridiculous.

Hell, how could you? He barely liked himself.

People like you weren’t supposed to be attracted to someone like him - someone who had zero ability to flirt, zero charm, and zero interest in playing mind games.

Unlike Peter Rogers.

Oh. Again. That bastard.

And so, Hotch exhaled sharply, as if he could physically shake that idiot’s face out of his mind and replace it with something less infuriating… like yours.

Or - Rossi’s.

Anyone’s, really.

It wasn’t specifically your face he wanted to picture. Any face would be fine.

But now that he was picturing yours, he felt… calmer.

No wait, enraged.

Yes. That was what he was supposed to be. Mad at you.

“If she wants someone more in line with her methods, fine,” he muttered, forcing the words out like they physically hurt. “But she could have just told me. We’ve spent months working together - sharing a desk, hotel rooms - why throw all of that away without a conversation?”

Because, really, if you wanted Peter Rogers, you could have him. In fact, Hotch would be thrilled to gift-wrap him for you and never have to see his smug, thesaurus-abusing face again.

…Though, would that mean he’d never again get to see you frowning down at a case file, tapping a pen against the page whenever something didn’t quite add up - waiting, deliberating, until finally, you swallowed your pride, got up from your seat, dragged your chair around your desk, and settled beside him with a barely muttered, "Tell me if this sounds insane."

Would that mean no more of those moments that were supposed to last just a couple of minutes - just a quick consultation - but always, always stretched into something more?

Where your case somehow became his, where the file he’d left open to return to later suddenly had two sets of eyes on it instead of one?

Would that mean no more of those accidental non-accidental moments - like how you both always ended up in the break room at the same time?

And even though there were two coffee pots, you’d linger just a second too long near his, just so he’d sigh, roll his eyes, nudge your elbow, and pour you a cup before you could ask?

Would it mean no more of those quiet, almost too easy nights in whatever godforsaken motel the Bureau had thrown you into, where you sat cross-legged on your bed, case file open but forgotten, sharing a dessert you had insisted on ordering - because you knew he wanted it but would never ask for it himself?

Would it mean no more of those moments where you’d nudge the plate toward him near the end, claiming you were too full, even though he wasn’t oblivious enough to miss the way you always just so happened to stop right before the last bite?

No more of that way you glanced up from your files when you thought he wasn’t looking, brow slightly furrowed, like you wanted to ask him something but weren’t sure how?

No more of you in his space, where he had somehow, stupidly gotten used to you being?

Would that mean no more of those rare, exhausted moments in transit after a long case, like that time on the train back to Quantico? When, somewhere between wrapping up the last loose ends and reviewing the final report, you had dozed off mid-sentence, your head slowly tipping forward before settling against his shoulder?

Would it mean no more of the way he had to fight off a betraying smile - muttering something about how next time, one of Gideon or Rossi should sit beside you before they had the chance to start poking fun at him - when, in reality, he’d never give up that seat for anything?

No.

No, he couldn’t just give you away like that.

That would be insane.

Unfortunately, not as insane as what Rossi was about to tell him.

If only his mentor could read his mind, maybe he wouldn’t have made such a huge mistake out of sheer spite for his own partner, currently seated on the opposite side of the wall.

“Well, kid,” Rossi said casually, leaning back in his chair like he wasn’t about to detonate a nuclear bomb of bad advice. “She doesn’t trust you anymore. Clearly.”

And just like that, Rossi confirmed what Hotch had been trying to push down - what had been ringing in his head ever since you had walked right past him and into Gideon’s office.

Hotch froze in his chair, fist clenched, his thumb already moving along the side of his index finger. “…What?”

Rossi shrugged, as if none of this was a big deal. “She’s already decided you’re not worth explaining things to anymore. She thinks she’s the oracle of who-knows-what, and your job now is to bring her back to earth.”

There was a beat of silence.

And then, with all the confidence of a man giving genuinely terrible advice, Rossi added, “You should get revenge.”

Like this was a completely reasonable course of action.

Like this was not one of the worst things he could have possibly said.

Hotch frowned, fully expecting this to be some kind of joke. “That is not helpful.”

“Oh, isn’t it?” Rossi lifted an eyebrow, looking deeply, profoundly pleased with himself. “Listen, kid, if she doesn’t think you listen to her, then stop listening to her. Completely. Ignore everything she says for the next few cases. Act like her theories don’t even exist. Hell, outright disagree with her just to make her question herself.”

Hotch just stared at him, expression caught somewhere between disbelief and actual concern. “You cannot be serious.”

“Oh, I’m dead serious.” Rossi smirked. “You need to win this, Aaron. Make her realize how much she needs you to listen. Make her miss it.”

Hotch blinked. “That is-”

“Brilliant? I know.” Rossi shrugged, feigning modesty. “She thinks she’s above working with you? That she doesn’t need to explain things to you anymore? Then fine. Make her prove it.”

Hotch exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. “This is insane.”

Rossi, seeing his hesitation, sighed and leaned back. “Look, Aaron. You came to me for advice. And I’m giving you advice.”

Which was, of course, the only justification he needed before turning to his fax machine with all the righteous indignation of a man personally victimized by his best friend’s existence.

TO: JASON GIDEON

FROM: DAVID ROSSI

SUBJECT: SUCK IT

You ever notice how your kid has a response for everything, until someone dares to disagree, and suddenly, it’s an affront to her entire existence?

Sound familiar, Jason?

Because it should.

She’s got that same holier-than-thou, no-one-understands-my-genius attitude you do, thinking she’s the only one with a fully functioning brain, acting personally offended the second someone suggests she might not be the sole guardian of the truth.

The only thing keeping her from turning into a full copy of you is the massive, pathetic, completely obvious crush she has on Aaron.

I would feel bad for him, but honestly, it’s probably still a better fate than what I’ve been dealing with for years.

At least she’s smarter than you. But then again, so is that half-dead plant you keep on your windowsill.

TO: DAVID ROSSI

FROM: JASON GIDEON

SUBJECT: STOP DIGGING

Oh, that’s rich coming from you, Dave. Aaron’s repression? Learned straight from his brilliant mentor, whose idea of guidance is bad advice and a pat on the back.

And don’t start on my kid when yours is one lingering glance away from self-destruction. If she’s me, then Hotch is just you, with even worse social skills.

Now, unless you want them to figure out we’re talking behind their backs, quit the fax war while you’re ahead.

P.S. The plant is alive, you absolute moron.

It didn’t matter how much the two old men were mad at each other, some things in life were just undeniable truths.

Like the fact that partnerships - the real ones, the ones that settle so deep in your soul they become part of you - created something stronger than just teamwork.

The greatest partnerships - ergo theirs, and, unknowingly to you and Hotch, yours too, despite having far less time to marinate in dysfunction - had a way of forming their own language.

A language of mirroring postures, finishing each other’s sentences, predicting a move before it was even made. A near telepathic connection that let you know exactly what the other was thinking without them having to say a single word.

Some people were just meant to be.

At work, of course.

Not that fate, luck, or - let’s be honest - the sheer misfortune of the universe always knew where to draw the line.

And maybe that’s what Rossi should have told Hotch…

Or - tying it back to the telepathy portion of this completely doomed thesis - what Gideon should have told you.

Because instead of actually helping, they both did what they always did when their own egos got in the way:

They screwed up magnificently.

And gave you the exact same, equally terrible advice – to get revenge.

“…What?” You blinked, certain you had misheard.

“Revenge.” He waved a hand, as if this was a well-established principle of psychology. “If he won’t listen to you, then don’t waste your breath. Let him see how well he does without your insight.”

You squinted. “So… you’re telling me to intentionally not do my job?”

Gideon sighed. “No. I’m telling you to strategically withhold information until he realizes how much he relies on your perspective.”

When you returned to your desk, Hotch was already at his, stiff-backed and stone-faced, his jaw so clenched that you could hear his teeth grinding.

Which was fine.

Because you weren’t speaking to him anyway.

Not that he was speaking to you, either.

Which was also fine.

Except for the fact that Peter Rogers, in all his wheeled-chair-rolling, space-invading glory, had wedged himself directly between you - parking himself right next to you, far too comfortable in a way that made Hotch’s grip on his pen visibly tighten.

"You know," Peter said, "I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen you two actually not talking."

You didn’t respond.

Hotch also didn’t respond.

Which, in Peter’s mind, was an invitation to continue. "Okay, what’s going on with you two?"

You both exhaled sharply through your nose and, in perfect unison - much to no one’s surprise except Peter’s - said, "Nothing."

Because him, a smug ass who apparently lived to poke the bear, grinned. “Oh, you two are so in sync.”

You shot him a glare. "Pete, I swear-"

But before you could finish, he leaned back, tilting his chair just enough that Hotch seriously considered kicking it out from under him - especially when he, with all the confidence of a man who had never been punched in the face, set a file down directly in the middle of both your desks, precisely equidistant, like he was deliberately trying to start a fight.

“So, partners,” Peter started, dragging out the word like he knew exactly what he was doing - or maybe, because he was bitter about the fact that he still hadn’t been formally paired with anyone himself. “Thoughts on this?”

“I’ll let Hotch answer first,” you said smoothly, barely glancing up.

Hotch’s eyes narrowed immediately. “No, I insist,” he replied, voice sharp, looking up from his desk.

“Oh, no,” you said, flipping a page in your file with exaggerated care. “I wouldn’t want to overcomplicate things.”

Hotch’s jaw locked.

Rogers blinked, glancing between the two of you. “…Are you two-?”

“Fine,” Hotch interrupted, because the last thing he needed was Peter Rogers analyzing his relationship with you. He turned his attention to the file, scanning it for a total of three seconds before declaring, “This isn’t the UnSub’s pattern.”

“Oh, really?” you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “Because I could’ve sworn that the signatures do match-"

“They don’t,” Hotch countered.

“They do,” you shot back.

“I disagree.”

“Well, I disagree with your disagreement.”

Hotch exhaled. “That’s so childish, it’s not how that works.”

Rogers, still holding the file, hesitated before looking at his own notes. “…Actually, I think-”

Both of your heads snapped toward him so fast it was a miracle he didn’t die on the spot.

“Oh, do tell, Pete,” you said, voice sweet in a way that was clearly threatening. “What do you think?”

“Well,” he mused, rubbing his chin - probably in an attempt to convince the two of you that he was capable of actual thought and not just winging it as usual - “I think I just walked into the middle of a divorce proceeding.”

If he thought that was a joke, he was probably the only person on earth who considered it funny.

Didn’t help that you and Hotch were tough critics at the moment.

“But don’t worry,” Peter continued, absolutely delighted now, “I would be thrilled to play mediator. You know - help you work through your issues, since I’m obviously neutral in this.”

“I mean, I’ve known little Y/N since she was only fifteen,” he said, reaching out to ruffle your hair before thinking better of it, then he turned to Hotch. “And I was your desk mate buddy for two whole years, am I right, Big H?”

Silence.

To top it all off, Peter actually had the audacity to make a stupid finger-gun gesture, wink at Hotch, and fire.

Click. Click.

And was met with absolutely nothing.

Just the coldest, most silent, most deeply unimpressed stare Hotch had ever delivered in his life.

Peter, undeterred, clicked his tongue. “That makes me, what? Your best man, Champ?”

In Hotch’s opinion, that made Peter Rogers the best possible candidate to be murdered right here in the FBI building.

And yet, the absolute audacity of this man.

Something - something trickling at the edges of Hotch’s sixth sense, or maybe just his profiler instincts - had never sat right with him about the way Peter always had to stress that he had known you since you were fifteen…

…While he had been twenty-one.

And maybe Hotch could have voiced that. Could have said something. Could have acknowledged the way that detail had always gnawed at him.

But, unfortunately, Peter was your best friend.

Which meant, for the sake of professionalism, and also the fact that you would probably take a bullet for this absolute idiot, Hotch had to keep that particular opinion to himself.

“Well,” Peter continued, flipping casually through the file like this wasn’t a crime scene in the making, “Don’t you worry, guys. Every great partnership has rough patches.”

He paused, smiling.

“But - I can fix it... it is surely your lucky day. Divorce attorneys are expensive, you know?! And with this pay?!”

Silence.

Nobody laughed.

Again.

"Alright, fine. Moving on," Peter announced, standing up with way too much enthusiasm. "Step one: acknowledging the problem. And for that, we’re gonna do a little trust exercise."

Your eyes immediately narrowed. "Peter, no-"

"Peter, yes," he shot back, already gesturing for both of you to stand up - and, when Hotch predictably refused to move, physically dragging him out of his chair because, apparently, he hadn’t budgeted time for stubbornness today.

"Great! Okay, now come closer - yeah, you stay there - Hotch, maybe less like you’re standing in front of a firing squad… perfect, that’s my man..."

That made Hotch almost roll his eyes.

"Before either of you start whining-" Peter clapped his hands together, "let’s just-"

So, before even finishing his sentence, he shoved you forward.

Directly into Hotch’s arms.

And despite the fact that the last time either of you had done a trust exercise like this was probably in kindergarten, the entire world stopped.

Because for a moment - for one infuriatingly long, electric moment - every single reason you were mad at each other suddenly took a backseat to an entirely different kind of tension.

The kind that was definitely not workplace appropriate.

The kind that had Hotch’s hands tightening around you on pure instinct before he could even process it.

The kind that had your breath catching in your throat when you realized that, yeah, he was definitely built like a solid wall of muscle under that suit.

The kind that made you far too aware of how close his face was to yours, how you could actually feel the faint warmth of his breath against your hair.

The kind that had Hotch’s face immediately turning the exact shade of his tie.

The kind that had you way too afraid to check if yours was the same.

The kind that meant neither of you had stepped away yet.

“Oh.. alright now...” Peter beamed, far too entertained. “hold the pose …and tell each other how you feel.”

Hotch scoffed, like he was seconds away from handing in his badge, changing his name, and disappearing into the mountains to escape this entire mess.

Too bad his body language was telling a completely different story.

His grip on you tightened - just barely, almost imperceptibly - so slight that if you weren’t hyperaware of every tiny shift around you, you might have missed it.

“Look into each other’s eyes,” the idiot instructed, brimming with the confidence of a man whose entire playbook came from a $2 self-help book he picked up at a gas station.

And so you raised your eyes, leaning back slightly - and there he was, already looking at you, his pupils blown wide.

You convinced yourself it was from the shadow cast on him by that one broken lamp you’d been shuffling underneath, the dim light flickering in just the wrong way.

Because there was no way, no possible way, that his pupils were that dilated just from standing too close to you.

Just the lighting.

And yet, despite knowing that, your pulse still spiked.

Silence.

Absolute.

Dead.

Silence.

Peter sighed, as he glanced between the two of you, who - after who knew how many seconds - had still yet to utter a single word.

“Do you want me to count to three?” he deadpanned.

And maybe it was true, maybe the greatest partnerships were in sync, maybe they did move in tandem, maybe they did know each other too well-

Because at the exact same moment, you both spoke.

“I’m not enough for you,” Hotch said, voice steady, controlled - wrong.

“I’m too much for you,” you admitted, quiet, careful - wrong.

And then, you both turned to each other, eyes locking, like the other had just said the single most idiotic thing in existence.

More idiotic than Peter Rogers’ entire existence.

More idiotic than every ridiculous word that had come out of his mouth up until now.

“That’s not true,” you said, in sync.

And yet-

You had both believed it.

You had both convinced yourselves that this was the truth for a few hours.

That you were too much - loud, overwhelming, excessive, impossible to follow - while he was not enough - too restrained, too distant, too closed-off, too incapable of keeping up with you.

You stepped back - not entirely, just enough to put space between you, enough to feel the cool air where his warmth had been -

But not enough to look away.

Not enough to actually leave.

Because as much as you loathed to admit it, as much as you didn’t want to acknowledge it, there was something deeply unsettling about the way you had both spiraled into this.

How you had both ended up in opposite places, on opposite sides of the same fear.

And how, somehow, in all of it, the one thing neither of you had ever questioned-

Was each other.

TO: JASON GIDEON

FROM: DAVID ROSSI

SUBJECT: MAYDAY CANCEL PROOF

From the way they’re both storming toward our offices, I have a sinking feeling something’s gone horribly wrong. Yes, they’re dumb, but they’re also profilers. Very good ones.

And sure enough, Hotch burst into Rossi’s office like a man ready to prosecute a case in real-time.

Rossi, already prepared for impact, barely looked up. “Well, to be fair, you came to me for advice. I gave you advice.” He spread his hands like that was a reasonable defense.

Hotch stared at him, unimpressed. "Old man, have you taken your medicine? This is your fault."

Deciding Rossi was no longer worth another second of his life, Hotch turned on his heel and stalked back toward his desk - only to find you already mid-way, coming back from Gideon’s office, looking just as exasperated.

You jerked your chin toward the two closed doors. "They’re still mad at each other."

Hotch sighed. "Shocking."

Your gaze lingered on Rossi and Gideon’s offices for a beat before you spoke again. "Maybe we should intervene… before they cause any more damage."

Hotch gave you a skeptical look. "Do you have a plan?"

The second he saw the look on your face, he groaned. "If we seriously tell them to do a trust exercise, I think Rossi might just file for early retirement." His dimples flashed as he tried - and failed - to keep a straight face… they always seemed to betray him.

"Retire?! And what’s he gonna do to pay the bills? Become a bestselling author?" You scoffed, rolling your eyes. "Oh, please."

You and Hotch had no idea, at the time, just how painfully accurate that little joke would turn out to be.

And you definitely hadn’t anticipated how often it would come back to haunt you - every single time you collapsed onto your shared couch, exhausted but grinning, only to glance at the monstrous, leather-bound book sitting on your coffee table.

A book that contained every single fax Rossi and Gideon had ever exchanged, all meticulously preserved and bound, because apparently, their legacy wasn’t their actual contributions to criminal profiling, but rather their collective inability to mind their own damn business.

It was your favorite bedtime read.

Except for the times when you were too busy doing things that two newly engaged lovebirds, in a brand-new home, had far better uses of their time for.

You both made sure to put the book away when that happened.

Because somehow, despite knowing full well that Rossi and Gideon were nowhere in your house, the sheer existence of that book made you feel watched.

Unfortunately, this time, your Aaron - who had been mindlessly flipping through its pages - suddenly froze.

"...No."

You, half-dozing against him, cracked an eye open. "What?"

He cleared his throat, stiffened, and angled the book just enough so you could see the offending text exchange.

TO: JASON GIDEON

FROM: DAVID ROSSI

SUBJECT: START STEAMING YOUR GOOD SUIT, OLD MAN

Because I bet they’re getting engaged in three years.

TO: DAVID ROSSI

FROM: JASON GIDEON

SUBJECT: THREE IS GENEROUS

For how it’s going, I give them two.

Silence.

You and Hotch stared at each other.

Then, in perfect unison - "They forgot to add ten."

Which felt even sweeter when Aaron pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your temple, his breath warm against your skin.

“…Aaron,” you murmured, fingers threading through his hair, already tugging just enough to make him hum.

“…Yes, honey?” he replied softly… knowing.

You smirked. “Could you hide the book?”

A deep chuckle rumbled in his chest - because, oh, he knew exactly what that meant.

Still, with a reluctant sigh - because this required temporarily leaving your side - he stood, barely resisting the urge to toss the damn thing across the room. Instead, he made his way to the bookshelf, scanning for a worthy hiding place.

“What about behind this one?” he asked, holding up a book.

You barely glanced at it before nodding. “That’ll do.”

Aaron exhaled, shaking his head as he returned to the couch - where, of course, you immediately pulled him back down into your space, arms wrapping around him like he'd been gone for years instead of thirty seconds.

"There," he murmured against your hair , lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Book’s hidden."

Hidden.

Buried.

Tucked away behind Plato’s The Republic.

Fitting, really.

that absolutely incredible gifset I used is by the insanely talented @holoship AAAAA I LOVE YOUR GIFS

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @hayleym1234 ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mxblobby ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softestqueeen ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24

#dado 400 #aaron hotchner #hotch #aaron hotchner x reader #hotch x reader #aaron hotch x reader #symposiumff #criminal minds

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fuckyeahgoodomens · 1 year ago

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youtube

Very funny Staged-like opening of BAFTAs 2024 with David and Michael! :D ❤

David: Can you hear me? Michael, how is it going.

Michael: Yeah, I don't have time for pleasantries, David. Some of us are big in America. In fact, I have a zoom with LA in ten minutes.

David: It's 04:00 a.m. in LA.

Michael: Well, that was the only time I could fit them in, so they're getting up early. Anyway, look, I just wanted to confirm, I'm going to drop the new dog off on Sunday morning. We've called him Bark Ruffalo. It's cute isn’t it?

David: That is actually quite good. But listen, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. I'm afraid I can’t dog sit on Sunday.

Georgia: Oh, hi, Michael.

Michael: Yeah, hi, Georgia. Look, I don't want any of your excuses, David, you promised. I can't leave him with a neighbour because he peed in her kitchen.

Georgia: Right. Whereas we are desperate for him to come and pee in our kitchen.

David: I know that I did promise to dog sit on Sunday but since I promised, something else has come up and I-

Michael: Well, that sounds like a you problem.

David: Hi, Stan how are things?

Stanley Tucci: Hi, David. How are you?

David: Okay, listen, I need a favour. Michael Sheen has asked me to look after his dog on Sunday, but I agreed to host the BAFTA Film Awards on the same day. I was wondering if you could look after his dog for me?

Stanley Tucci: I would love to do that for you, David.

David: Oh, Stan, you're a lifesaver. Thank you so much.

Stanley Tucci: Is there anything else I can do for you?

David: No, looking after the dog is... I mean, that's obviously amazing.

Stanley Tucci: I could wash your car or something or the windows in your home.

David: You're not really gonna look after the dog, are you?

Stanley Tucci: And the BAFTA for Catching On Very Quickly goes to...

David: Himesh! Oh, Himesh, I think your computer is frozen. Oh, no it’s not frozen because I just saw someone.

Himesh Patel: Look, I know you're just calling because you want something from me.

David: Yeah. What are you doing on Sunday? Oh for crying out loud. Tom Hiddleston!

Tom Hiddleston: Hey, David. What's the pitch?

David: Pitch is dog sitting for Michael Sheen.

Tom Hiddleston: Wow. Okay. Yeah. Interesting. I'm guessing that we're going for, like, funny.

David: Could be funny, it’s a cute dog.

Tom Hiddleston: Yeah, I suppose the dog sitter initially could present as benign, and then he and the dog get up to all kinds of hijinx and ultimately disrupt stuffy old Michael Sheen's boring life. But for the better.

David: Listen did your agent tell you that I wanted to talk to you about a film?

Tom Hiddleston: Well yeah, obviously, unless you're actually, you know, calling me to ask me to dogsit for Michael Sheen.

David: No. Oh. Dame Judi. Long time no see.

Judi Dench: I thought you were going to be that beautiful Michael Sheen. What do you want?

David: Well, I wonder if you'd be up for a bit of dog sitting. I promised to look after Bark Ruffalo for Michael on Sunday, but I'm double booked.

Judi Dench: David. Bark Ruffalo. He pees everywhere. And anyway, I shall be watching a BAFTA Film Awards with a big glass of champagne. What's with the kilt?

David: Wait and see.

Judi Dench: Ooh.

David: Hi, David Tennant signing in. There's a courier here with something for production.

announcement: David Tennant to stage. David Tennant to stage.

David: Hi. Hello. Hi, everyone. Hi. Hi. Hi there.Sorry. I've got-Are you good with dogs? Yeah, and not on your dress. I'm sorry. Thank you. Hi. Hi. Sorry. Hello. Hello. Hi. This is fine. This is fine. This is. Michael? Michael?! What? What is this?

Michael: What are you doing there?

David: I'm hosting the show.

Michael: What?!

David: This is why you wanted me to dog sit, so you could sit there?

Michael: Yeah.

David: You going to have to take the dog.

Michael: What? What if I have to go up on the stage to be given an award? Yeah. All right. Give me.

David: Yeah. Come on. Get that one. You take that. And this weird thing.

Michael: Was this Scottish man mean to you? All right, come on to me. Oh, darling, hello, hello.

David: Never work with animals or Michael Sheen. Not a great start. Not a great start. Don't worry, though, tonight is going to go smoother than Ken's chest. For one thing, he's not a dog anyway. He is actually being played by Andy Serkis. Look at that. What a performance. Andy.

#david tennant #michael sheen #staged #david and michael #funny #videos #transcripts #bafta 2024 #awwwww #stanley tucci #himesh patel #tom hiddleston #judi dench #Youtube

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weirdly-specific-but-ok · 1 year ago

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doctor who but i've never watched it

and so it begins again. the people asked for it. the people got it. i will ensure the people regret it.

i have never watched this show, or seen an edit, but i am a thorough researcher and i feel that i've got the essence of it.

this is what i have gathered. academicians worldwide take note.

Firstly, so I don't anger anyone, I accept and acknowledge that the tardis is blue and not yellow. My misinformation was from a Drarry fanfiction, and I had hitherto regarded Drarry fanfiction as the absolute truth.

There are doctors, and there are at least fifteen of them. At least two of them are David Tennant, which I can respect.

I'm not sure why the doctors are doctors, because I can find no trace of any medical procedure except for one doctor who licks things, which he learned from the previous doctor. If this is sufficient reason, I apologise for doubting their credentials.

On the other hand, if they are doctors thanks to a postdoctoral degree, this is also fine, though I have never seen anyone study anything. There is however a doctor, and there were people upset about her, but the fandom pointed out she set the tardis on fire, which is apparently a very doctor thing to do. Setting things on fire is absolutely something any research scholar would love, so again, apologies for doubting their credentials.

At least one doctor is gay. It is probably one of the David doctors, which checks out. He says someone, I think a dentist, is hot. I envy the maybe-dentist.

A t least one doctor is trans. I was unable to find them. But they exist. Oh yes, the fandom assures me they exist.

David Tennant as well as Ncuti Gatwa were fanboys, first of the show, and second of David Tennant, and thus they got into acting. Just a fun tidbit from me, since I am now the authority on this fandom.

There are time machines with which the doctors have sex by piloting them, which is questionable because the time machines are only partially sentient. I am not sure if the time machines are the tardis. But the tardis is blue, and not yellow, of that I am certain.

There was a stage play. Or maybe that was a metaphor for the production budget of the early seasons. I am not sure, but toddler David Tennant watched it. I assume no one took a 3 year old to a stage play, so through scientific deduction, it must have been a metaphor.

At some point, Death is an agony aunt and they have to spill secrets to it, or drown in a lake of human skulls. Who is this they? It's so obvious that the fandom sees no need to explain it, and neither do I. I do know it though. Of that you may remain certain.

A David doctor has a niece and she likes being his niece.

A David doctor has a best friend named Donna. He kisses her head. She supports his fruitiness. It is wholesome. It killed him when he lost her.

Slight tangent, but younger David doctor looks like Andrew Garfield. Current David in photos does give Ben Barnes energy. Any Wolfstar shippers, I believe you've found the Wolfstar kid. It is David Tennant.

A lot of people are David Tennant. A reliable Pinterest post on Doctor Who, clearly well researched, gave me the statistic that 15% of Doctor Who is David Tennant. From the amount of David Tennant that I ran across in my research, I don't understand it but I don't doubt it, either.

Speaking of Andrew Garfield, he in involved in this somehow. I am not sure how, but you cannot escape Andrew Garfield. He is even a part of fandoms he never acted in.

There is an individual named Catherine, I think she is the actress, but she could be a character. She seems to have much less knowledge about Doctor Who lore than I do. David Tennant finds it funny. Maybe he would find me funny, too.

The doctors installed some things in the tardis, from a wheelchair ramp to a jukebox. I don't know why a jukebox was needed. If I'm honest I don't know what a jukebox is. I don't know what the tardis is. But it is blue, and not yellow.

There is a French catchphrase.

Something happens in Wales. I don't know what it is, but something always seems to be happening in Wales in these fandoms, so I don't doubt it.

There is an old Doctor Who in a wheelchair, and he is happy to see a David doctor.

They go around in space, and do things. Who is this they? You and I both know the answer, so we needn't talk about it.

The show intro is "doo wee doo".

There is an alien who is not a mouse, the alien is The Meep, and uses the definite article as pronouns. David doctor is supportive of this, which is very good.

I found baby Yoda in the show, but apparently they call it a 'goblin' there, and someone doesn't like it.

There is a lot to do with time. There is a time hole, and things happen, and people die and are resurrected. There is danger, but it is fun.

They have CGI, and it is not good, which is the best thing about it. Who is they? Please stop asking me. It is rather obvious and something I definitely know.

Someone's boyfriend dies and the boyfriend is then resurrected but then gets lost with his boyfriend but then is reincarnated as a girl who would still call herself the someone's boyfriend but then she is replaced by the boyfriend but he's different now. I apologise for any errors that have crept it, but the tardis is blue and not yellow.

Someone named Martha is a doctor, and someone is very proud of her for it.

The eleventh and twelfth doctors like bow ties.

David Tennant wants to be ginger. David Tennant always gets what he wants. Who can refuse David Tennant? David Tennant is then ginger.

A David doctor gets a happy ending.

Someone yelled at Neil Gaiman about this. It was a mistake. He said that since it had already been done, he wouldn't want to give David's character a happy ending in S3, that would be a trifle unoriginal.

A lesson to be learned, Good Omens fandom, just a bit of advice from your son, do not yell at Neil Gaiman, it does not go well. Rumour has it he murdered the people who complained about him always wearing black. Of course, there is the fact that he doesn't exist, but that doesn't seem to have stopped him.

The doctors manifest in the previous doctor's clothes, which is apparently so last season. The tardis also manifests. I don't know where, or how. But it is blue, and not yellow.

I know, there was a lot of lore, so many of you thought I wouldn't be able to gather it all. But look how much research I did! I've got it better than maybe-actress-maybe-character Catherine, I'm sure :"]

Anyway, all the major plot points are covered above, so anyone who hasn't watched Doctor Who, feel free to refer to this and impress your Whovian friends with your knowledge! [not to be judgemental, but what a dreadfully Dr Seuss name, I rather like it]

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eddiemunson-reader-shame · 3 months ago

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Be My Wife: Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Summary: A “friend” freaks out when you split a Coke with Eddie the Freak.

Warnings: references to A Clockwork Orange, bullying, STI/STD mention, backwash drinking

A/N: So… I know this isn’t a Christmas fic. But I wrote this because I had those times in my youth where someone spread horrid rumors about either me or my friends, and I had to make those split second decisions to determine my loyalty. I always try to be loyal as best I can.

Thank you to @writhingg for giving the green light on this fic. And big thanks to @rxqueenotd and @melodymunson as well. And big thanks to viewers like you. Thank you. ❤️

Resources: @strangergraphics-archive for the dividers.

Taglist: @ali-r3n @melodymunson @twihard28

“Hey droogie, can I have a sip of your Coke?”

You looked up from where you were perched on the pony wall by the Seven Eleven bike rack. You had been chatting with a classmate, Chessie Hagar, about purchasing a purse from her mother’s Avon Colorworks catalog. It was a new collection for the year 1977. Said eye catching magazine with its spread of rainbow themed products was currently held between the two of you, and the pages began to rattle as Chessie shook in fear upon hearing the deep voice.

A flutter-smack sounded from the girl dropping the catalog when Eddie The Freak approached. His stride was casual as one could be, whilst battling both midwestern humidity and pit sweat in a white hand-me-down Jimi Hendrix shirt and sleeveless denim vest. As one of the middle schoolers who had been blessed with a growth spurt, his lanky height, shredded second hand clothes, and shaved head often made those in your grade— and some of those above— piss their pants.

You alone did not fear him.

The Fates had elected to weave you both in a tangled web of coincidences: you had been his project partner in every shared class since you started at Hawkins Middle School together, and you just so happened to live in the same neighborhood on occasion. The distance from Al Munson’s janky two bedroom home to yours was but a hop skip and a jump. Eddie used to ding dong ditch your house when he was six, until one day your mother caught him by the ear and brought him in to mend his tattered jeans and offer up a hot meal.

To any other rando, he was an unstable pariah. But to you, he was just Eddie Munson— the cute boy next door who sometimes ate at your place. And you had become his droog after spending winter 1972 sneaking into the Hawk Theater, and making Stanley Kubrick films your new big boy personalities.

Without thinking, you handed the soft drink over. His fingers brushed against yours as he took the Coke out of your grip and went for a swig, with plush pink lips wrapping around the transparent jade glass of the lip and neck. His protruding Adam’s apple was bobbing with the rhythmic gulping, and you couldn’t stop staring.

“Thanks.” He belched out.

“You said a sip, not half the goddamn bottle!” You whined.

Eddie grinned sheepishly and backwashed a good mouthful. Giving a half assed apology and a promise to pay you back mumbled under his breath, he handed the bottle back.

“Still up for doing last minute project prep?” You asked, swirling the leftovers he’d saved for you.

“Nah, let’s take a break from the train wreck brothers. Catch you tomorrow, though?” He said, scratching a blackhead off his nose and snorting a bit, “I had an idea for the oral report that might earn us a little extra credit. Think you can mimic a British accent?”

“Eh. Can’t do an accent without sounding like fucking Alex DeLarge.” You groused.

“We can work on that. Leave your milk-plus at home, though. Don’t want me own droog reenacting some Roman ultra violence on me.”

“Just don’t go popping out from behind your curtains at me again, that’s a good way to get stabbed in the neck with my mom’s kitchen scissors.” You snorted.

“Ahhh, the droog’s no fun. I guess I can tone down the surprise pop ups, though. If you insist. Catch you later?” Eddie said, waving.

“Later. Peace out, man.”

Chessie let out a shaky, sobbing exhale when you made to drink the dregs of your soda, and you turned and raised an eyebrow.

“Whassamatter?” You asked.

“Are you nuts?! You just shared your drink with the freak!” She blurted out.

… since when the hell was sharing with Eddie a crime?

“Yeah, so? It’s hot out. He looked thirsty.” You said.

“Did you seriously forget everything we’ve heard about him?!” She whisper-screamed, “Don’t you care what everyone talks about?!”

You rolled your eyes. Everyone talked about Eddie. If you hadn’t heard at least one rumor from a faceless student whenever he walked by, you were either stupid or living under a rock. They said he was a bad boy— yes, even with a full vocabulary of slurs and insults available, they still called him a bad boy. Like if he was still in diapers drawing with crayon on the wall, and needed a spanking.

Depending on who you asked, Eddie either did or sold drugs, it was never clear which. Some of the other trailer park kids said he was a mean scrapper when he went to his uncle’s on alternate weeks. Women’s restroom lore stated that he carried a switchblade in the back pocket of his Wrangler jeans, and that he used it to torture animals for his Satanic rituals.

A million and one things were said about him on the daily, but you knew none of them were true in the slightest. None of the talk deterred you from spending time with him. Sometimes he came to your house, more often than not you went to his.

Every other day found the two of you parked in front of his mom’s turntable, jamming to Deep Purple and putting together an elaborate poster board with some spray painted fake leaves made into laurel crowns, along with a block of text about your chosen co-emperor of the early Roman Empire.

You had wanted to write about Caligula so you could use the word ‘orgy’ in the report without getting in trouble, but Eddie had insisted he had a better idea when he discovered a two years tumultuous ruling of brothers from 209 AD to 211 AD.

“As much as I love a good sex party on paper, you just know that’s what everyone else is gonna write about. Let’s write about this nut job Caracalla instead! Dude killed his brother in the arms of his mother, and struck his name from the record. That’s like, the most metal shit ever! Also, here’s a better word for you to learn: fratricide. Apparently there’s a whole list of technical terms for when you kill a family member.”

“… what’s the rumor mill gotta do with my Coke?” You deadpanned.

“If you drink after him, you’re gonna get mono like Cindy! You gotta throw it out!”

Cindy Bishop in your science class had told everyone that had functional ears— swearing up and down on her life— that Eddie Munson had kissed her and given her mononucleosis. A dreaded affliction whose nickname to you sounded like one of the variations of sound formats for any sort of audio.

“Mono…?”

“Yes! Or the syph!”

You knew Eddie had to have heard Chessie’s vitriol. Turning around, you could see him staring at the two of you from across the parking lot, one leg over his bike. There was a stinging look of betrayal on his face. Telltale signs of a wet cherry nose and shameful red cheeks gave away his mistrust; as if he was expecting you to do as your friend told, and throw the bottle he drank from in the trash.

His imaginary affliction was just that: imaginary. You knew that to be gospel.

The kiss with Cindy was real, unfortunately. It happened way before Cindy was kept home with mono, and you remembered the incident well. Eddie had come running to your house just to brag that he’d finally gotten his first kiss, and that pretty soon he’d be popping girl’s cherries left and right.

Just learning about the simple kiss had pissed you off, because the closest you’d ever gotten to kissing Eddie was sharing the same fork whenever you both roasted Vienna sausages on the gas burner in his kitchen. Eddie hadn’t been sick when Cindy stayed home, he came faithfully to school to trap you on the playground and speculate about the thousand and one hidden meanings behind the kiss.

With all the excitement, he never noticed the smallest details like you did. One of the guys in your PE class had been sent home with a rash and a high fever, and it was only a month after Cindy was rumored to have also kissed the collapsed boy that she got sick. You had always shared cups, utensils, and other things requiring mouth use with Eddie and had been fine. Yet Cindy and Tommy Hagan swapped spit once, and both were out of commission.

But no one would ever say anything about Tommy Hagan getting mono. They’d always redirect every disease outbreak to the poor loser who split time between Cherry Street and Forest Hills Trailer Park. The same poor loser who had the misfortune of wasting his first kiss with Cindy; a girl who frenched behind the portable classrooms with anything that had a pulse. People could be so blind and stupid, they failed to notice the sickness timelines were not matching up.

No one deserved their first anything to be with Cindy. Not with the way she stabbed people in the back.

You took a long, hard pause as you stared into Eddie’s wet brown eyes. He was asking you a silent question you already knew the answer to: were you a stinking traitorous droog, or a loyal one? Were you, his one friend in the entire world, going to stand against him?

Without saying a word, you looked at Chessie, then looked back again at Eddie.

In a world of traitors— where brothers stabbed brothers in the arms of their mothers, or where violent men disowned each other with drug laced milk bottles to the face, you would always pick instead to be Eddie Munson’s loyal droog.

You lathed at the lip of the bottle and stuck your tongue down the neck, and shotgunned all of Eddie’s backwash.

Chessie’s mouth dropped open as she began to gag, and Eddie opened his mouth in an obnoxious and breathless laugh as you chugged the entirety of his germs. The carbonation caught up to you, so you let a belch rip before turning back around to face him.

“I GOT YOUR MONO NOW, MUNSON!” You screamed out to him, “NOW YOU GOTTA MARRY ME!”

“IS THAT HOW IT WORKS, DROOGIE?” He shouted back, a shit eating grin stretched across his face, “YOU SHOULD HAVE LET ME KNOW BEFORE I TOOK A SWIG, I WOULD HAVE MADE SURE I GOT YOU A RING POP FIRST!”

“IT'S GODDAMN ROMAN CONFARREATIO LAWS, EDDIE! YOU GAVE ME MONO INSTEAD OF SPELT BREAD, NOW YOU GOTTA MARRY ME!” You joked.

You noticed from the big, smart ass grin that he was about to do something outrageous, and your heart began to sing. He immediately got to his knee on the asphalt, everyone in the Seven Eleven parking lot watching as he began to scream like an orator in the colosseum. He used your full government name and everything when he called out to the small parking lot audience.

“HEAR ME, CITIZENS OF HAWKINS! I AM BUT A VESSEL FOR THE GODS, A BEARER, A MESSENGER OF THAT MOST HOLY WORD FROM MOUNT OLYMPUS! I HAVE SHARED OF THE COOTIE WITH A WOMAN, AND THUS OUR MARRIAGE BETWEEN EMPEROR AND DROOG IS SOLEMNIZED-…!”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP, FREAK!” Someone called out, immediately flinching back when Eddie rounded on him.

“THE GODS. HAVE. SPOKEN!” Eddie screeched, a glob of spit flying out of his mouth and onto the hot asphalt.

He was wide eyed. Deranged. Eddie lifted up the hem of his denim vest and held it out and to the side, to look like wings unfurling, screaming to the heavens as you began howling with him.

“YEAH!” You screamed out, raising your bottle and shouting every bit of nonsense you could think of, “GOD SANCTIONED DROOG MARRIAGE CO-RULER ULTRA-VIOLENCE! MAZEL TOV!”

“THE IMPERIAL HUSBAND NOW DEMANDS TO KISS THE DROOG BRIDE!” Eddie screamed, “PLANT ONE ON ME, GODDESS DIVINE OF THE REPUBLIC OF HAWKINS!!”

You looked at Chessie, who looked as if she was going to throw up or scream. It wasn’t immediately clear which. Instead of ending the joke, you grinned. Shrugged. The glossy magazine paper pages of the forgotten Avon Colorworks catalog ripped under the tread of your shoes when— without warning— you took off towards Eddie, and planted a fat wet kiss on his mouth. He froze for a moment, but returned the kiss with fervor, making an obnoxious hum and wet smack when you pulled away.

“Yum.” You gushed, licking your lips and changing your cadence to the unhinged Kubrick Cockney, “Them’s tasty cooties, they are, brother sir!”

“Yeah? Them false cytomegalovirus germs are what taste good to ya, droog?” He laughed, wrapping his arms around you and putting on his own terrible accent.

“That they are, sir, that’s what gives all me food and drink that plus flavor.” You grinned.

The two of you cackled, thoroughly enjoying throwing out random quotes and various insanities that to the normal person would put them off of your insanity and edge-lord humor. Chessie had long since taken off for the gated community of Loch Nora on her bike, but you didn’t care. You could live without a selection of eyeshadows, a rainbow tote purse, and all of your false friends if the choice came down to choosing them, or Eddie.

“Wanna go into the gas station and split another bottle of mono before we blow this joint?” You asked.

His grin could have rivaled that of Malcolm McDowell.

“Now, how can I say no to my new wife?” He grinned, holding out his arm for you to take, “But I am a man of my word, so you’re getting a new Coke, plus that Ring Pop so’s we can make this thing official.”

“Spare no expense, huh?” You grinned, and he pulled you in closer. Both of your hips knocking together.

“Hey… Only the best and finest gems and refreshments for Empress Droog the First of Hawkins, Indiana.” Eddie said with a confident smile.

You smiled at him, nudging one another with your bodies all the way into the gas station, until he pulled you in for another sloppy kiss in the middle of the snack aisle.

#stranger things #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #stranger things x reader #eddie munson fandom #joseph quinn #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson reader insert #eddie munson fanfic #fluff #friends to lovers #Spotify

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jellyfishsthings · 1 year ago

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Nerves and Stolen Kisses

I have been toying with the idea of writing a fic about him for quite sometime and after last weekend I just had to. Estelle ( Ollie's rumoured gf is mentioned here but it is a fake relationship for PR reasons.) Also Paul Aron has a gf... friends to lovers trope.

Shoutout to @httpiastri for the inspiration

The Saudi Arabian Grand Prix was fast approaching. And Ollie was a jumble of nerves and excitement as usual. Since the early hour of the day, he opened the curtains letting the sun into the room and you groaned into the pillow.

“Wakey wakey, sleepyhead. Come on, we have a whole day ahead of us.”

“No, you do. I don't know why I came.”

“Because I am your bestest friend and I paid for your ticket and let you stay with me.”

“Both of which are for your benefit.”

“Come on….”

“Fine.” You say with a dejected sigh as you get up and you both get ready for the day. David, Ollie's dad was already waiting for you and you headed towards the paddock.

Everything was a frenzy and was passing by so quickly. As Ollie got into the garage and got ready for the quali you headed towards the stands trying to find Cassie, Paul's long-term girlfriend. Throughout the years you have formed a unique friendship. She was the only one who knew about your crush on Ollie and she teased you endlessly about it. Ollie and you had been best friends for the better part of your life, joint to the hip, having endless sleepovers, even if Dad didn't approve.

It was an endless nightmare being close enough to get a taste of all the what ifs, but never experiencing them.

“Do you and your lover boy share a room, huh?”

“It's not like that and you know it, Cassandra.”

“Yeah, it hurts, doesn't it?”

“So much. You have no idea. Yesterday I couldn't sleep and as the hours passed, he came closer and closer. He ended up holding me in his sleep. And I felt so bad because of Estelle. I know that they aren't really together and it's for PR, but still, I feel awful because technically I am the other woman… and she is just so nice and sweet. Never overstepping, I think she knows.”

We both stay quiet after that as the session continues.

“You know… whatever the case. You both love each other, platonically or not.”

“Yeah, I know.” I say as I watch the times set by all the drivers, Ollie having the fastest one yet.

“Looks like your man is on pole.”

We both make our way through the paddock, trying to pass the roaring sea of fans and we hand out already-signed autographs to anyone who asks for them. When we finally arrive, we part ways, before making promises about having dinner together at a restaurant Cassie wanted to try. And I head towards the Prema garage finding two beaming Bearmans, hugging.

“Hey Bear. Did you drive fast enough?” You call at him. And he grins like an idiot before swooping you into a tight hug spinning you. His laughter echoes in your ears as he sets you down.

“Yeah I drove fast enough, you minx.”

“Good. Now let's go. We are having dinner with Paul and Cassie in four hours and I want to see the city.”

“Give me five minutes to change and we are good to go.”

The afternoon is spent visiting local stores, trying to communicate in scrappy English and making terrible puns with products or street names. When they finally head to the restaurant their sides hurt from laughing. Dinner passed by as quickly as it came. As everyone says, time flies by when you are with the people you love.

Just as they open the door for their hotel room, Ollie flops in the bed as you head towards your computer and open it as hoards of emails and messages appear on the screen. Great more deadlines and essays to write until the end of the week.

“Leave it. We can pretend that we have nothing to do and watch a movie or local TV and try to understand what the hell is going on.”

“Thanks Bear. But I can't, as tempting as your offer is. Go to sleep, I will join you soon.”

And so you sit in front of your computer, ending essay after essay, sending them on time, until your eyes hurt from the pale blue light. The bed seems more welcoming than ever before as Ollie starfishes the entire length of it and his soft snores fill the empty space. Yeah, maybe it's time to call it a day.

An awful sound echoes in the room and eventually wakes you.

“I swear if it's one more ad I will jump from the window.” You grumble into your pillow as you steal the blankets and turn yourself into a burrito.

Ollie hisses as he opens his phone only to find a ton of messages and many missed calls from Ferrari. He dials Fred back as he moves towards the bathroom, trying to let you steal a few more minutes of much needed sleep.

When he emerges back in the room he sits down in front of you, his back supported on the bed.

“Ols, what's going on?”

“Carlos has an appendix”

“Oh no. Is he having surgery?”

“Yeah.” He says softly. “They want me to replace him.”

“What?” At that you are fully awake. Your hair is a netted nest and you look at him in shock. He looks at you, you his best friend who would look like a mess to anyone else but to him you look like the most beautiful and amazing creature in the world. Your mere presence has a more calming effect on him than anything else. If it weren't for you, he would have already lost his mind. “How? When? I…”

“We need to get to the paddock, if I don't want to miss FP3. I will wake up Dad and break the news to him.”

Soon after you enter the paddock and thousands of reporters try to get a better look at Ollie, flashing their cameras at you and bombarding you with questions as you make your way to the Ferrari garage and mechanics steal Ollie from you and David as they set to work quickly. David looks pale and sick as he paces into the garage trying to control his nerves through the FP3 and the Quali. When Ollie finally got off the car when he scored the 11th place, missing Q2 only by 3 hundreds of a second, you knew that this was it. He was finally shining like the bright star he was. He had done more than enough, his raw talent showing with barely one hour to get used to the car. And as mechanics and reporters closed around him. You couldn't help but feel like you didn't belong here. Where did you fit in? The reality hit you and it hit you hard. You hid in the back corners of the garage, eyes glued to the screen as everyone passed by without acknowledging you. You would happily hide in the shadows where he shined but this world wasn't meant for you. The anxiety was picking up at you, eating you alive from the inside.

And when Ollie got too close to the wall, your heart stopped beating. He was driving a car that was twice as fast and twice as dangerous than his normal F2 car. It was too much. The sound, the danger, everything really. Breathing suddenly seemed so hard and you needed a way out. As you hide behind the garage you call the one person who could understand. Terri picks up in the second ring her soft voice already calming you.

“Hey love. Is everything alright?”

“How do you do it? How can you stand back and do nothing?”

“You love him, don't you sweetheart?”

“I thought it was obvious.”

“Well … no I always hoped but… whatever the case, to answer your question you simply do it, you just have to. A driver needs his support system and you are it for him. You are his forever person, whether that is romantically or not. He needs to be near you and as much nervous as you are, so is he. Without you he would be lost, believe me I know my son. And I can bet you that as much as your heart breaks right now, you are also immensely proud.”

“Of course I am. But where do I fit in, in this world.”

“Right beside him, love.”

“Thanks Terri. Please call David. I think he is losing his mind and he is sick with worry.” You say chuckling before saying your goodbyes and head back towards the garage. The session is already over and Ollie is nowhere in sight.

Ollie plays with the power button of his phone trying to calm down but to no avail. The lock screen is a photo of the two of you. It was last summer both your skins flushed and hair slightly wet and tangled. You both smile at the camera and your eyes look bright with happiness. He feels slightly lighter but he knows that there is an impending panic attack and so he turns to the one person who could help him in this situation.

"I got your text," you say, tiptoeing inside and shutting the door behind you, careful to not make any loud sounds to scare him. "How are you doing?”

Ollie is sitting on a massaging table, elbows on top of his legs and head resting in his hands. His eyes are stuck on the floor, his silence is defeaning. When he still doesn't answer, your heart rate picks up. Is something really wrong?

You make your way over to him, hands finding his cheeks and softly tilting him up to look at you – and you swear you've never seen him look this wrecked before. Not after his worst crashes, not when he lost the rookie championship last year, not when he was cheated out from the Formula 3 championship. Once again, you've entered completely new territory, and your heart breaks at the sight.

"Ollie, talk to me," you plead, holding back the tears that starts to form on your eyes and threatento spill. It's so painful to look into his eyes, but you can't back down. Not now, not when he needs you this much.

"I'm-" his voice cracks but he shakes his head, clearing his throat. "I'm so nervous, I don't know what to do."

It's like he's oozing anxiety, and his heavy sigh is like a stab in your chest. Ollie, your usually so calm and collected best friend is probably going crazy over this – you know him well enough by now to understand that he's definitely freaking out even more on the inside than what he shows or tells. He is a messy jumble of nerves.

"I get that. One hundred per cent. But.." your thumbs begin to stroke over the skin of his cheeks, along his jaw, and then finally across his eyebrows, to which his eyes flutter closed. "This is your dream. It's been your dream since forever, and now you finally have the chance.”

"And it's not just any car, it's a Ferrari. Do you realize how cool that is? Do you realize how many people would kill for an opportunity like this?" You smile at the sight of him with his eyes still shut, eyelashes resting atop his cheeks, messy fringe covering his forehead. Even like this, at his most stressed state, he's completely gorgeous, not that you would ever tell him that. "You would've killed for an opportunity like this just 24 hours ago."

"But what if I ruin it?" His voice is barely above a whisper when he speaks, shoulders slumping forward. "What if I go out there and I'm shit, and then they realize what a big mistake they've made by even putting me in the academy? What if-"

"It won't happen." His eyelids slowly open and he looks up at you, seemingly not even the slightest upset that you cut him off. "You're too good to do that. You'll get in that car and it will feel like your second home, just like it always does."

Finally, a small smile makes its way onto his lips. It's only been a few minutes since you came in, but he seems much more relaxed now, leaning into your touch completely. "I'll try my best to make you proud."

“I'm always proud of you, you mufflehead.”

A laugh bubbles from his chest and he stands up from the table, opening his arms wide and pulling you in for a tight hug. His heart is still beating louder than a drum in his chest when your ear is pressed up against it, and you're almost worried it will jump out any second now. But his breaths are much more controlled now, and his mind seems much lighter. And soon enough his heartbeat slows to normal.

“I bet that in twenty four hours not only will you finish the race, you will score points and beat Max Verstappen.”

“Let's not get ahead of ourselves” he says chuckling. “God, my neck is killing me.”

“Sit down. I've got you.” And so you start massaging his neck. It's stiff and hard under your hands and he lets a small groan as you untangle one of the knots that were quite painful. After a few minutes he is putty in your hands, his eyes closed, trusting you completely and feeling at ease for the first time in the past two days.

True to your world, Ollie crosses the finish line in seventh place, having gained points in his debut. But the one thing that kept him calm through the process was the thought that she was waiting for him in the cool down room. When the race finishes and drives the car back home he jumps from his seat and he can't get fast enough to her. People around him are praising him and congratulating him but they all fall to deaf eyes.

When he finally gets into the room to change into new fireproofs, she is patiently waiting for him. Her eyes are a little misty and her face flushed.

“I told you.”

“I didn't beat Max.”

“Still.”

She closes in on him and her hands are thrown around his neck, he reciprocates the hug immediately as his heart beat finally slows down. They doth draw away after a while only for him to dive back into her and kiss her firmly on the lips. Shock petrifies her and when he stops, he places his forehead on top of hers. He is a flustered mess and he is mumbling apologies, before she reconnects their lips.

For the following hours Ollie sports a shit-eating grin on his face. Everyone thinks that it is because of his amazing performance and not for kissing the girl that held his heart captive since they were five years old.

#ollie bearman #ollie bearman imagine #ollie bearman x reader #ollie bearman x you #ollie bearman x female reader #oliver bearman #oliver bearman x reader #oliver bearman imagine #formula 1 #formula 2

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myster-roca · 10 months ago

Text

The Catfish Incident

"Thanks for the energy drink, man," Jake said, cracking open his can of blue energy soda as we ambled down the dimly lit hallway back to our apartments. The gym members' party had left us both hot and sweaty, and I thought a refreshing drink would be the perfect cap to our evening.

"Yeah, no problem, bro. You owe me one next time!" I replied, although I was thinking something else entirely as I watched him guzzle his beverage.

He was tall, about six feet three inches, with a toned physique that would make anyone envious. His hair, the color of wheat, was slicked back with some kind of product, and he wore a tank top that hugged his chest tightly, emphasizing his broad shoulders and thick arms. His shorts were tight enough to show off his wide hips and well-defined ass.

Standing beside him, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of insecurity. While I was reasonably fit and steadily working towards what I hoped would be my ideal body, Jake's presence ignited a deeper yearning within me. It wasn’t just about having muscular broad shoulders and a confident stride—it was about embodying that effortless aura of masculinity, the kind of identity that defines an alpha male.

"Oh yeah, almost forgot—I need to head back to my apartment now," Jake said abruptly. "I have a little rendezvous tonight," he added, flashing a smile.

"Sounds like a plan. What time is your date?" I asked casually, pausing beside him.

“About an hour from now, so I should probably hit the showers first. Gotta freshen up and work out these guns again,” he laughed. Then, without warning, he raised his left arm above his head and flexed his bicep, staring intently into my eyes. “It’s been too long since they’ve seen any action.”

I felt myself blush uncontrollably at his words, but luckily Jake didn't see it, and he continued heading down the hallway.

"See you tomorrow, Dave!" he called out over his shoulder before disappearing through his apartment door.

Little did he know, I was well aware of who he was meeting tonight.

As I stepped into my apartment, the familiar walls and furnishings offered no comfort to the restless longing stirring within me.

Each well-placed book and neatly aligned chair seemed to echo the structured, unyielding life I had sculpted for myself—a life of discipline as a respected professor, always mindful of reputation and societal expectations.

With a sigh, I removed my glasses and set them aside on the table. The lenses caught the fading light of the day, scattering beams that danced across the blandness of my living space, teasing me with glimpses of brightness in my otherwise predictable world.

This simple act felt like peeling away the layers of a persona crafted over years.

It felt symbolic, like I was discarding a part of myself that was too familiar, too constricted by old fears and inhibitions. Tonight was not a night for the timid David hidden behind those lenses; it was a night for someone entirely new.

I pulled off my tank top, feeling the cool air hit my bare skin, followed by the soft cotton of my white gym shorts. Finally, I slid down my underwear and tossed them aside. I felt incredibly vulnerable, standing there nude with no one else around.

Across the room, my gaze then shifted to the bed, where the realistic bodysuit of a Latino model lay outstretched. The room lighting cast a bright hue over its meticulously detailed surface, accentuating each muscular contour and shadow, making it look almost alive. It wasn’t just a garment; it was a gateway to another existence.

As soon as I saw it, I couldn’t resist touching its smooth skin. I ran my fingers over its chest and arms, feeling the softness of its skin. Then I slid my hands down to its waist and squeezed its firm butt cheeks. It even had a built-in penis that was larger than my own, which gave me a sense of excitement.

"Alright," I muttered under my breath, "let’s get started."

I could feel my dick twitch as I reached down and grabbed hold of the slit at the back of the bodysuit. The suit itself was made of a special material that allowed for easy movement and flexibility. Slowly, I began pulling the two sides apart so that there would be enough room for me to get inside.

As I sat down in the chair, I began sliding my right leg into one of the muscular legs. They were tight but not uncomfortable. As I pulled them up over my thigh, I could feel the skin stretching slightly as it moved up my leg. This was going to be so fucking hot!

I continued moving my left leg into the second leg until both feet were on the ground. Next, I positioned my shaft to the built-in dick and slid my arms into the sleeves. My biceps bulged with each movement.

Standing up, I took a few steps forward, feeling the incredible strength of my legs against my skin. I flexed my arm, watching the veins pulsate under the surface. I couldn’t help but smile at my new, sexy body.

Finally, I put on the built-in mask that resembled the handsome face of a Latino model.

As I slid it over my head, I felt the soft material conform to the contours of my face.

Once the mask was fully secured, the ’Heddon’ app on my phone opened up.

In order for the bodysuit to work properly, it needed to be activated. I selected “Start Sealing” and watched as the screen filled with images of the process.

Suddenly, there was a click, and the suit began to seal shut around me. I felt the muscles of my legs begin to tingle as they fused with the suit.

My thighs and calves became more defined as the skin tightened around them. The same sensation spread across my chest and shoulders, making them bulge outward. My arms seemed to grow larger as the suit conformed to my muscles.

Within seconds, the transformation was complete, and the suit fully integrated with my body, leaving no trace of its presence. It was as if I had become one with this sexy, lifelike skin.

With a grin, I stepped towards the mirror, admiring my reflection. The face staring back at me was that of a young, fit Hispanic man with broad shoulders and narrow hips.

“Welcome back,” I whispered to myself as I looked in the mirror at my new reflection. “Diego.”

My jawline was strong and defined, giving me a masculine appearance. I flexed my biceps, showing off the definition in my arms.

I ran my hands over my hard chest, feeling the firmness beneath my fingers. Then, I squeezed my pecs, enjoying the way they rippled beneath my touch.

I let my hands travel down to the bulge between my legs, squeezing it gently. My cock throbbed with excitement as I imagined what it would feel like to fuck someone with this body.

I picked up my phone, opened a dating app and messaged Jake using the Diego profile. We’d chatted a little bit on the app a few weeks earlier, and he seemed really interested in meeting up.

“Hey sexy,” I typed into the chat window. “Want to see some pics?”

“Sure thing, stud,” Jake responded. “Whatcha got?”

I smiled as I sent him a couple of pictures of myself wearing different leather and latex outfits.

“That’s hot,” Jake wrote. “Do you think you can do something even hotter tonight?”

I grinned as I typed back, “Of course, baby. Anything for you.”

****************************************************

A few weeks ago, I stumbled upon a Reddit thread mentioning "Heddon: House of Transformation" — a service offering realistic bodysuits that promised an entirely new level of personal transformation. Intrigued yet skeptical, I clicked through.

The website was adorned with glossy images of transformations and detailed testimonials from users who spoke of life-altering experiences. Video demos showcased the suits’ incredible realism and functionality, portraying seamless transitions from person to suit.

Admittedly, the site and service were new, which did little to alleviate my skepticism. However, a promotional offer for first-time users—a significant discount on their first order—was enough to tip the scales.

Despite my initial doubts and the nagging thought that it could all be an elaborate scam, I decided to take the plunge with some disposable income I’ve set aside.

I ordered a customized bodysuit modeled after a muscular Latino—a physique and persona so starkly different from my own that it felt like it could only exist in fantasies.

When the package arrived, it included not just the bodysuit but also detailed instructions for using the accompanying "Heddon: House of Transformation" app.

The app, once downloaded, allowed me to control the bodysuit’s features, including the crucial sealing process which would integrate the suit seamlessly with my own body.

When I first donned my new Diego bodysuit a few nights ago, I created a fake profile on the dating app and got tons of messages but one message caught my attention�� it was my gym buddy Jake.

“Hi there! You’re so hot and cute!” he wrote.

“Thank you! You’re pretty handsome yourself,” I responded.

We chatted for a bit, discussing our hobbies and interests. I told him that I was looking for someone to share my fetishes with, and that I loved wearing latex.

He responded quickly, saying that he was also interested in exploring his kinks and that he loved wearing leather and latex. Before long, we were messaging each other every night, sharing our deepest desires and fantasies.

A few days later, Jake asked me if I would be willing to come over to his apartment and have some fun. I agreed, excited to finally meet him in person.

“I’m so glad you’re coming over,” he wrote back. “I’ve been dying to meet you in person.”

“Me too,” I replied. “I can’t wait to see you.”

****************************************************

Now, here I am, standing outside Jake’s apartment door, feeling nervous and excited all at once. I knocked on Jake's door and soon heard the sound of footsteps approaching. The door swung open, revealing Jake standing there in nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist.

Diego! Come in!” he says, grinning at me. I follow him into the apartment, and he shuts the door behind us.

Jake leans against the door, studying my body. “Wow, you look amazing,” he says. “I never imagined you would actually look like this.”

“Thanks. It feels good to finally be able to meet you in person,” I reply. Jake smiles and directs me toward the living room. I remove my jacket, revealing my tight black muscle shirt and latex pants.

Jake’s eyes widen, and he lets out a low groan. “Damn, you’re fucking hot,” he says, running his hands along my chest. His hand then slides down my chest and over my crotch. “And you’re hard.”

“I am,” I whisper. “You make me feel so horny.”

We sit down on the couch, and Jake pours us some drinks. “So, tell me more about yourself,” he says. “What kind of stuff do you like doing?”

“Well, I love wearing leather and latex,” I say. “And I love playing different characters. Sometimes I dress up as a superhero, sometimes as a villain. It really depends on my mood.”

“That’s cool,” Jake says. “Me too. I love wearing my costumes, especially when I’m out with friends. It helps me let loose and have fun.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” I say. “Sometimes it’s hard to be yourself when you’re around other people, but when you’re in your costume, you can let go and be whoever you want to be.”

“Exactly,” Jake says, smiling. “It’s like a whole new world opens up when you put on a costume.”

Jake leans closer, his eyes locked on mine. “And sometimes, they bring us closer to our true selves than we ever thought possible. Maybe because we feel safe behind the mask, we can express our true feelings.”

The air between us charges with an unspoken understanding. I swallow hard, my heart pounding in my chest. “Have you ever felt that way? Like you’ve discovered something real about yourself through a character?”

Jake nods slowly, his gaze intensifying. “More often than you might think. Sometimes, it’s only when I'm someone else that I can express what I really feel... what I really want.”

I watch as he removes his towel, revealing his hard cock. I gasp in pleasure as he strokes himself slowly, looking straight into my eyes. The moment hangs heavy between us, laden with unvoiced desires.

Then, impulsively, Jake closes the distance, his lips meeting mine in a passionate kiss that feels like the culmination of our shared revelations. Our tongues dance together, exploring each other's mouths, as I moan softly and my fingers thread through Jake's soft hair.

Jake breaks away from our fervent kiss, leaving me breathless and longing for more. With a sultry grin, he stands up and begins to undress me, one piece at a time.

My excitement grows as he pulls my tight latex shirt over my head, exposing my toned chest and chiseled abs. He trails his fingers down my torso, sending delicious tingles through my entire body.

As Jake continues to undress me, his touch becomes increasingly intimate and sensual. He caresses my skin, grazing his fingertips along my shoulders, arms, and sides. I lean into his touch, letting the warmth of his hands linger on my skin.

Finally, Jake reaches my pants and skillfully slips them down my legs, revealing my matching black briefs. He pauses for a moment, admiring the sight of me in my underwear, before slowly removing them as well. Standing before him completely naked, I feel exposed yet empowered by his admiration.

Jake's eyes sparkle with lust as he looks me up and down. "You're beautiful," he whispers, his voice thick with desire.

My heart races as he bends down to press his lips against my chest, trailing kisses down to my abdomen. His hands explore my body, massaging my muscles and stroking my skin. I close my eyes, surrendering to the waves of pleasure that wash over me.

Just as I start to drift into blissful oblivion, Jake abruptly stops. I open my eyes to find him looking intently into my eyes, a small smile playing on his lips.

"What's wrong?" I ask, confused by the sudden pause.

"Come with me," he murmurs. "I have something I want to show you. It’s my private collection."

He then gestured to a door at the end of the hall. My heart pounded in my chest as I followed him into the room.

Entering, I gasped in surprise at the sight. Scattered all over the room were several realistic bodysuits, each one more impressive than the last.

While pretending to be amazed, I wondered if Jake realized I was wearing a fake body.

Jake grinned. "My job has its perks," he explained. "I'm a beta tester for 'Heddon', so I get access to their entire collection."

"This is amazing," I remarked, feigning ignorance. My hands ran over one of the suits. "What are these things and how do they work?"

"Don't pretend you don't know," Jake chuckled. "You may think you're fooling me, but you aren't."

He was right. Staring at him in disbelief, I asked, "What?... what do you mean?"

"It's not a secret," Jake replied. "These suits have a distinct smell, and I've gotten used to it. I know when someone is wearing one."

I sighed, knowing I couldn't deny it any longer. "Okay, fine," I admitted. "You caught me. But please, don't tell anyone else. This is just between us."

"Of course," Jake nodded. "I understand."

He reached out and touched the side of my fake face. "I don't care who you are or what you're doing. I like the idea of someone else being able to take on a new identity for a while."

"Thank you," I said, smiling. "But seriously, why are you showing me all of these suits?"

Jake shrugged. "Since you're wearing one, I thought of wearing one as well," he suggested. "Maybe we can have a little role-play fun."

He then picked up a bodysuit that resembled a tanned male model with long hair. "Do you think this fits the bill?" he asked, holding it up.

I smirked and touched the bodysuit Jake had chosen. "Let's find out, shall we?"

#male body transformation #male transformation #male bodysuit #male disguise #male body suit #male impersonation #male skinsuit #male skin

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