new thing i'm working on about the team being super affectionate with hotch because he deserves it, and hotch learning to be affectionate back
BERLERMO NATION, BEHOLD! THE ONLY (KNOWN) PHYSICAL COPY OF THE TIME TRAVELER'S SOULMATE!
Thank you so much @ostanaart and @cookie1244 for making the effort of putting my longest fanfic on paper! I don't deserve you, girls! Love you forever!
art history nerd here! when the notre dame burned a few years ago, the most damaged area was the roof. y'know who has a very extensive 3D model of the roof? ubisoft, for assassin's creed! ubisoft has been very involved in the restoration of the notre dame, pledging over half a million euros in support. so yep, that is most likely an assassin's creed dude carrying the olympic torch!
aaron x supermodel reader?? đđ
Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Supermodel!reader | WC: 1.9k | CW: Fluff, reader is wearing lingerie in a picture at one point
The relentless flashes of cameras were nearly blinding as the black town car came to a halt in front of the venue. You took a moment to steady yourself, exhaling softly before stepping out into the chaos. The city was alive tonight, the buzz of Paris Fashion Week crackling in the evening air like electricity as journalists, media outlets, paparazzi's, and so on had gathered around the velvet ropes to the red carpet.
As you swung one long leg out of the car, the delicate fabric of your gown cascaded in shimmering ripples around you. The dress was a masterpieceâsilk that seemed to flow like water, catching the thousand lights with every movement. Diamond earrings glinted against your skin, and your heelsâcustom-designed, of courseâclicked against the cobblestones as you straightened to your full height.
The crowd outside erupted into a frenzy the moment they spotted you, shouting your name in a symphony of accents, the occasional âover here!â cutting through the noise. You didnât flinch, didnât falter; you were used to this. It was your stage, and you owned it.
But tonight wasnât just about you.
You turned, holding out a hand, and watched as he stepped out of the car.
Aaron Hotchner.
Even in the middle of the whirlwind, he exuded a calm authority that made heads turn. The black suit he wore was impeccably tailored, the kind of understated elegance that spoke volumes without trying too hard. You had insisted on having the designer of your attire make something for him tooâfor the occasion you'd shrugged.
His dark eyes scanned the crowd, not with the excitement of someone dazzled by the spectacle, but with the sharp awareness of a manâan agentâwho didnât miss a thing.
For a moment, you wondered what he was thinking. If he felt out of place or if he was regretting saying yes to your impulsive invitation. But when his gaze shifted to you, the faintest trace of a smile curved his lips, and any doubt disappeared.
You reached for his hand, and when his fingers closed around yours, the crowdâs focus shifted instantly.
âWho is that?â
âIs that her date?â
âOh my God, heâs hot!â
âSomeone get a name!â
The whispers grew louder as the two of you began walking toward the beginning of the carpet. Hotchâs presence next to you was a contrast to your usual presence at these events. Normally you would've given the cameras a little pre-show, before heading inside to get dressed in the collection of the evening.
And where most peopleâeven celebritiesâmight have preened for the cameras in the slowest way possible, he simply carried himself with confidence, his free hand brushing against the edge of his jacket.
When another wave of flashes erupted, he leaned in closer. âThis is... different,â he murmured, his voice so low you could feel it more than hear it.
You glanced up at him, a soft laugh escaping your lips. âDifferent good or different bad?â
He gave you a lookâhalf exasperated, half amused. âLetâs just say Iâm starting to understand why you always come home exhausted after these things.â
Your laugh turned brighter, drawing even more attention from the photographers. âWelcome to my world, Agent Hotchner.â
The questions from the crowd grew more pointed. Someone yelled, âAre you two together?â while another voice called out, âIs this your boyfriend?â
Aaronâs grip on your hand tightened slightly, his thumb brushing over yours as if to steady you both. You could feel his discomfort at the attention, but he didnât let it show outwardly.
As you approached the gilded double doors of the venue, you slowed, tilting your head toward him. âTheyâll figure out who you are by tomorrow,â you said softly with a teasing tone.
He raised a brow. âIs that a warning?â
âMore like a promise.â You smiled, squeezing his hand before leading him inside.
Once the heavy doors shut behind you, the noise from outside faded into a muffled hum. Aaron exhaled, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he looked around the space.
âNow that,â he said, meeting your gaze, âwas intense.â
You couldnât help but laugh, stepping closer to fix his tie, which had shifted slightly during the commotion. âAnd itâs only the beginning.â
The sun had barely begun to stream through the blinds of Garciaâs apartment, casting a soft, golden hue across her kitchen. She hummed quietly to herself, a melody sheâd picked up from the latest show she had managed to binge between cases, as she went about her morning ritual.
Her bright pink robe swished around her as she moved. Everything in her kitchen had just as much personality as her; from the gleaming chrome appliances to the rainbow of coffee pods stacked neatly by her machine.
She hit the button for her usual shot of espresso, the familiar whirring sound filling the room as she reached for her favorite mugâa ceramic cat face with ears that doubled as handles and then turned to her fridge to gather all the fixings.
Her TV, mounted in the corner of her living room and perpetually tuned to a morning show, prattled on in the background. It was her morning white noise, the kind of chatter she half-listened to while focusing on more important things, like perfecting her froth-to-espresso ratio.
â...Paris Fashion Week turned heads last night with more than just couture,â the announcerâs voice chimed, accompanied by upbeat music. âA surprise appearance by a supermodel and her mysterious companion has everyone talking this morning.â
Garcia paused mid-pour, her interest piqued. Her gaze flicked to the screen, where a paparazzi photo filled the frame.
She squinted.
The image showed a stunning figure draped in a flowing gown, her hand firmly clasped in a manâs. His face wasnât entirely visible, but his strong profile and familiar suit cut made Garcia gasp.
âNo. Freaking. Way,â she whispered, her coffee momentarily forgotten.
The announcer continued, the screen now displaying the bold headline:
Supermodel Spotted With Mystery Man at Paris Fashion Week!
The next photo zoomed in on the manâs face, his stoic expression unmistakable.
âOh my God,â Garcia said louder, her hand flying to her mouth. âThatâs Hotch!â
The caption beneath the image confirmed it, sending her brain into overdrive: Mystery Man Identified as Aaron Hotchner, FBI Unit Chief.
Her half-made latte was abandoned on the counter as she scrambled for her phone. âThis is not happening. This is not happening,â she muttered, her fingers flying over the screen until she found the contact she needed.
The phone barely rang before Derek Morganâs voice came through, groggy and unamused. âGarcia, itâs not even eight, Hotch is away there's no need to wake up this earââ
âDid you see it?â she blurted, cutting him off.
âSee what?â
âOur boss!â she shrieked, pacing the length of her kitchen. âHotch! He was at Paris Fashion Week! Holding hands with a supermodel! Itâs on every channel!â
There was a pause, followed by Morganâs skeptical laugh. âYouâve gotta be kidding me. Hotch? Our Hotch?â
âYes, our Hotch! The Aaron Hotchner! Heâs on TV right now looking like James Bond at a runway show!â
Another pause, and then Morganâs full-throated laugh rumbled through the line. âThis I gotta see. Send me the link.â
Garcia was already snapping a picture of the TV screen, muttering under her breath. âI canât believe this. Heâs going to walk into work on Monday like nothing happened. Nothing happened!â
Morganâs voice was rich with amusement. âThink heâll bring her to the office?â
âOh, donât even joke,â Garcia groaned, dramatically flopping onto her couch. âThis is going to be the topic of gossip for weeks. Months. Years! I need answers, Derek. Answers!â
Morganâs chuckle softened. âGood luck getting any. You know how tight-lipped he is.â
Garcia sighed, already plotting her strategy. If anyone could get the inside scoop, it was her.
The streets of Paris were alive with the afternoon bustle as busy Parisians were heading home after a day's work. The sunlight streamed through the wrought-iron balconies and cast warm patterns on the cobblestone streets as the sun started to set. You sat at a small cafĂ© table nestled in the corner of a quiet terrace, the scent of freshly baked croissants and strong espresso mingling in the air. Across from you, Aaron was the picture of peace, a man who seemed utterly unbothered by the flurry of attention heâd unwittingly garnered in just one night.
On the small table between you sat a glossy gossip magazine, its cover adorned with a candid shot of the two of you from the night before. The headline practically screamed: Supermodelâs Mystery Man: Who Is He? FBI Unit Chief Turns Heads at Paris Fashion Week!
You couldnât help but laugh, the sound light and bubbling as you traced a finger over the grainy image of Hotch, his sharp profile and protective grip on your hand immortalized in print. âTheyâve already printed it,â you said, your tone a mix of amusement and disbelief.
Aaron leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other. His phone buzzed incessantly on the table, the notifications relentless, but he didnât so much as glance at it. Instead, his focus remained entirely on you, his lips curving into a faint smirk.
âTheyâre calling you a âmystery man,ââ you teased, flipping the magazine open to the full-page spread inside. The photos captured every angle of the two of you from last nightâthe hand-holding, the shared smiles, the way he had leaned in to speak to you amidst the chaos of flashing cameras.
âAnd hereâs my personal favorite,â you added, pointing to a particularly flattering shot of him looking utterly smitten as you had walked down the runway in a set of silver lingerie.
Hotchâs dark eyes flicked to the image before returning to yours. âI think I prefer to keep them guessing,â he said, his voice was warm, he knew that wouldn't be the case. He reached for his coffee, the faintest trace of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth.
âHmm,â you mused, tilting your head as you studied him. âNot sure your team agrees.â You nodded toward his phone, which buzzed again with what had to be its twentieth alert in the last ten minutes.
He sighed, a sound more affectionate than exasperated, and finally picked up the device. âGarcia,â he muttered, his eyes narrowing slightly as he read a series of increasingly unbelieving messages. âAnd Morgan,â he added, his smirk deepening.
You rested your chin in your hand, grinning at him. âI told you theyâd find out.â
Hotch set the phone back on the table without responding to the messages, his gaze softening as it met yours. âLet them talk,â he said simply, his voice carrying the conviction you adored. âRight now, Iâm exactly where I want to be.â
Your chest warmed at his words, and you leaned forward, reaching across the table to take his hand. âGood,â you murmured, your thumb brushing over his knuckles. âBecause I wouldnât want you anywhere else.â
For a moment, the world seemed to shrink to just the two of you, the noise and chaos of the city fading into the background below.
âThough,â you added, breaking the moment with a mischievous smile and a wink, âI wouldnât mind seeing you on next yearâs cover of GQ. You know, for the sake of balance.â
Hotch chuckled, the sound so utterly endearing, as he shook his head. âLetâs not get too carried away.â
ao3 turns 15 today
reblog if youre older than ao3
(there's a lot of people asking about this, but the legal age to use social media is 13, except in few countries. so yes, there are people here under 15)
i think we all need to complain about LED headlights more. please can we all complain about them more. night driving is nearly impossible for me to do now without having to white knuckle my way through a thousand evil suns. every time i see those headlights in my mirrors i take 2d6 radiant damage. i want to destroy every single LED headlight under my feet like theyâre goombas
Knowing them this is actually hoes over bros
bros over hoes