#jim gooder

[zmediaoutlet]

“I’m starving. You think they’ll let me sell your ass for a Slim Jim?”

“You made that joke last time we were arrested.”

“What, you think a good bit is only good once? I get no respect, no respect.” The last part not much of an impression because Sam presses harder on the bullet wound with the wad of toilet paper and Dean’s voice goes thin and crackly. A clean-ish hole, in through the meaty part of his shoulder and out by his armpit. Could’ve got his heart or a lung but it doesn’t even feel like it cracked the collarbone. Apparently demons are terrible shots. Lucky, Dean had said, swallowing hard and making his voice harder after. Sam didn’t dignify it with a response.

Dean’s trying to get blood off his hand with more TP. It’s thin, awful stuff, shreds against the tacky stain. The chain between the bracelets clinking. “In those Norwegian prisons I bet they get wet wipes, huh?” he says. Sam takes a deep breath through his nose. “Pampered, or whatever. Could go for some pampering.”

“I’m not killing you,” Sam says, “does that count,” and Dean laughs breathy and weird. It must really hurt. He’d be throwing Sam off already, otherwise.

They dragged the body of Henriksen’s old boss out into the main part of the jail. There’s been shouting. A boom that shook the building but no one has told them what it was, exactly. They aren’t currently top priority, despite being such world-class criminals. A break but not much of one, with Dean still bleeding over Sam’s hands. With what’s coming.

“Demons, huh,” Dean says. On the same train of thought when blood’s on the line, as always. He shifts on the shitty jailhouse mattress, gets his bootheels square on the ground. Sam shifts along with him, keeping the slack easy between their manacled ankles. “Better or worse than cops?”

Henriksen’s vicious little grin, telling them they’d never see each other again. Not quite yellow eyes but Sam’s stomach flips. Dean’s fingers slide over his, in the enveloping shadow of Dean’s jacket. Sam’s let his grip go slack.

“Can’t exorcise a cop,” Dean says, answering his own question because Sam feels like he’s going to puke. Taking point, as always. “Gotta be a point in the demons’ favor.”

“How are we gonna get him to believe us,” Sam says.

It’s all he can think. There are demons and there’s this asshole, do-gooder cop, who thinks he’s saving the day from monsters when he doesn’t know what monsters really are. If they had iron and salt and silver and a chance they might make it out. Maybe. Not like this.

“He thinks we’re psycho graverobbing murdering cannibals, Sammy, I’m not sure we’re in the circle of trust,” Dean says. He jostles his shoulder against Sam’s chest, even though that must hurt. “But hey, at least he didn’t guess about—”

“Jesus,” Sam says. Dean grins white in the emergency lights. No, Henriksen didn’t say that, did he. Although he did—about Dad—

“You think if we start making out in here, they’d open the door?” Dean’s fingers slip against his, pressing both their hands harder against his shoulder. He flinches. Still grinning. “Just to pull us apart, anyway. Worth a shot.”

“Shut up,” Sam says. Dean bites his lip, turning his face away. His chin trembles and Sam wants to—lay full length over him, take the next bullet if it comes. Go back in time and exorcise the demon before it could pull its gun, get Henriksen against the bars and get his hands around Henriksen’s neck and force him to hear the truth. That the dark was swarming up around them and if Henriksen didn’t let them go then it was going to take everyone in this station and, worse, it was going to take Dean and there was no chance, not one in the fucking world, that Sam was going to let his brother go without a fight. That it was impossible for that to happen again. Everything in him was solid on that part. That just—there’s no way that was going to happen.

Dean’s knee sags and presses against Sam’s. “Okay, so,” Dean says, chin tipping down. “We’ll take out the demons, save the day. Guess even cops beat demons. And save the making out part for later, huh? Though I could go for some of that surf and turf.”

Sam breathes out. He puts his forehead down to Dean’s shoulder for two seconds, and then sits up straight. There’s more shouting, somewhere past the hall to the holding cells. Sam squeezes his wrist, lets him drop his hand, presses the compress hard and solid against the wound. Dean’s looking straight ahead, steady. A well, somewhere in him, that always seems to have one last drop of relief.

[hughungrybear]

I don't do deep dives (because there are far more better persons in this site that specialises in those) but I can't help rewatching the scene where Heart confronts his mother's inability to communicate with him.

You can see it in Heart's eyes - the hope when his mother started (and failed) to gesture what she was trying to say, ultimately turning to Li Ming, the boy she thought was a no-gooder and liar, to interpret the conversation. Doubled by Heart's insistence that Li Ming says out loud what Heart devastatingly discovered during his three years of forced silence and captivity at home - that his own mother did not care about him and is ashamed to have a deaf son. I mean, if Li Ming, who is not even living full-time in their house and has only known Heart for a couple of months is already proficient in sign language, what is stopping Heart's parents to do the same?

Uncle Jim does not get a safe pass from me either. I can understand wanting to keep peace, but in this very instance, it could not hurt if he let Li Ming voiced out his thoughts instead of needlessly kowtowing to Heart's parents.

[ghostenluvs]

i saw people making seperated aus for rise, so i thought i’d try my hand at it!

here’s what the bullet points say:

mikey:

• raised by lou jitsu himself

• only child so his dad taught him all the cool fighting skills

• knew he had brothers but never thought he’d meet them

• understandably very hyped when he does meet his brothers

leo:

• grew up on the streets of the hidden city

• backpack boy

• “steals” from senior hueso’s but he knows he just let’s him take it

• jupiter jim fanboy

• absoutely jazzed about  lou jitsu being his father

raph and donnie:

• these two aren’t separated

• they’re with todd

• secret vigilante do-gooders club

• high tech secret base full of puppies (every kid’s dream)

• donnie is on his game theory arc constantly

• they have to work a lemonade stand some days

in this au they might be a bit younger than the actual show? i dunno they’d be around 12 or 13 maybe, i just want to set it a bit before the plot of the actual show.

[pendraegon]

im literally drunnk and your posts about sam dna jim are making me sob pls

they are brothers they care for one another they love one another….sam who was never on tarsus and watched what that damage wrought on jim…jim seeing sam live on deneva with his wife and children and then seeing sammy dead….aos jim who begged sam to not leave, to not leave him behind and alone, aos sam saying that jimmy would be okay bc he’s a do-gooder, he always does the right things and aos jimmy then changes into a reckless mess with a destination of abandonment until he meets pike…..snw sam telling pike that jim’s the finest captain although he bends and breaks the rules, jim and sam hugging…he’s not heavy he’s my brother..

[kuteshirt]

Love of my life Jim Reeves signature shirt

 The report is not going to carry any prejudice other than the Met Police are in capable of investigating report criminal activity. Or is it just a case of. It amazes me how many people criticise run down insult and show total lack of respect for the police. Yet as soon as they need them they call and expect immediate service. These officers put their lives on the line every day. Without hesitation and more often than not no thanks what so ever. All the do gooders in this country need to take a long hard look at themselves Think before you speak people. 

Buy it here: Love of my life Jim Reeves signature shirt

[creatiview]

[ad_1] Toni Collette is set to star alongside Odessa Young in The Prima Donna from writer/director Nathan Silver (Thirst Street, Uncertain Terms), a feature that is billed as a “delightfully twisted and darkly funny revenge thriller about dysfunctional family dynamics, the dangers of ambition, and the lengths we will go to make our mark on the world.” The film will reunite Collette and Young who previously worked together on the HBO series The Staircase. Cornerstone is handling international sales and distribution and will commence sales at the European Film Market. CAA Media Finance and Anonymous Content are repping North America. The Prima Donna sees Collette playing legendary opera diva Livia Angelli as she prepares to step into the role of a lifetime, just as her estranged daughter Mimi (Young) shows up at her doorstep, right out of rehab. An aspiring opera singer herself, Mimi summons the courage to ask Livia if she can be more than her daughter — she wants to be her understudy. When she’s met by her mother’s derisive laughter and callous dismissal, Mimi snaps, looking to exact the ultimate revenge on the woman who barely raised her. But Livia Angelli doesn’t go down without a fight, igniting a cut-throat battle of wills that sends their lives, relationship, and opera production into a fever pitch. The film is a Dark Castle Entertainment and Rough House Pictures production and is produced by Oscar nominee David Lancaster (Whiplash, Nightcrawler), Julian Lawitschka (Halloween Ends) and Wolfgang Hammer (Inside Llewyn Davis, House of Cards), alongside Dark Castle’s Hal Sadoff (Hotel Rwanda), Ethan Erwin (The Nice Guys) and Alex Mace (Orphan: First Kill). David Gordon Green is executive producer, along with Danny McBride, Jody Hill, and Brandon James from Rough House Pictures; Collette through Vocab Films; and Nick Shumaker from Anonymous Content. It is written by Silver together with C. Mason Wells (Thirst Street) and will start shooting this summer in Rome. Dark Castle Entertainment is financing as well. “We’re delighted to be collaborating once again with Toni Collette on this highly entertaining adult thriller,” said Cornerstone’s Alison Thompson and Mark Gooder. Collette is represented by CAA, Finley Management, United Management and Kimberly Jaime at Jackoway Austen. Young is represented by CAA, Echo Lake Entertainment and Jim Gilio at Sloane, Offer, Weber & Dern and Silver is represented by Anonymous Content and Sloss Law.  !function(f, b, e, v, n, t, s) if (f.fbq) return; n = f.fbq = function() n.callMethod ? n.callMethod.apply(n, arguments) : n.queue.push(arguments);; if (!f._fbq) f._fbq = n; n.push = n; n.loaded = !0; n.version = '2.0'; n.queue = []; t = b.createElement(e); t.async = !0; t.src = v; s = b.getElementsByTagName(e)[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(t, s); (window, document, 'script', 'https://connect.facebook.net/en_US/fbevents.js'); fbq('init', '352999048212581'); fbq('track', 'PageView'); [ad_2] Source link

[byneddiedingo]

Paul Muni in the final scene of I Am a Fugitive From a Chain Gang (Mervyn LeRoy, 1932) Cast: Paul Muni, Glenda Farrell, Helen Vinson, Preston Foster, Allen Jenkins, Berton Churchill, Edward Ellis, David Landau, Hale Hamilton, Louise Carter, Noel Francis. Screenplay: Howard J. Green, Brown Holmes, based on a book by Robert Elliott Burns. Cinematography: Sol Polito. Art direction: Jack Okey. Film editing: William Holmes. Music: Bernhard Kaun. With the exception of the rather stilted early scene in which World War I veteran James Allen (Paul Muni) returns home to his stereotypical sweet, gray-haired mother and his oleaginous preacher brother, who urge him to give up his dreams and go back to his old job in the factory, I Am a Fugitive From a Chain Gang mostly feels fresh and urgent. Its final scene gives up nothing in the way of a happy ending, as Allen backs away from his girlfriend into the darkness and chokes out the words "I steal," in response to her question about how he lives. It's above all a critique of American justice, particularly the concept of "states' rights," a shibboleth that was used for a long time as a defense of slavery and then of segregation and Jim Crow. The book on which the film was based was titled I Am a Fugitive From a Georgia Chain Gang, pointing the finger at the state at fault, and while Warner Bros. gave in to the government of Georgia, partly in deference to the Southern box office, and trimmed the title, everyone knew that this particular exploitation of convicts was primarily Southern in nature. And even the use of maps in the montages that show the course of Allen's travels makes it pretty clear where the chain gang is located. If American movies had remained as candid as this one is about social problems, they might have had a real impact. But two forces exerted pressure to tame the movies: the box office and the censors. I Am a Fugitive was made just before the Production Code went into effect, after which some of the brutal realism of the film would be forbidden -- along with the sexual frankness surrounding the character of Marie Woods (Glenda Farrell). This was also Paul Muni's finest hour on film, along with his performance in Howard Hawks's Scarface the same year, before his energies as an actor were tamed by do-gooder roles in William Dieterle's biopics The Story of Louis Pasteur (1936) and The Life of Emile Zola (1937) or hidden behind yellowface makeup in The Good Earth (Sidney Franklin, 1937).

[bonbonswirl-blog]

Safe (a little sequel to "impressive"?)

NONE OF THE CHARACTERS BELONG TO ME THEY ALL BELONG TO @BRUEKLYNN ONLY I OWN NOTHING.

U dont really have to read "impressive", but you may get really confused about what are the characters talking about here and wat happend bc the idea is like lil sequel to that fanfic. Something before we get to some action fanfic guys! also sorry bc one of the characters is a little OOC here (or maybe even both!) enjoy if you can lol.

Its been two hours since rob was searching for jim to ask him for his opinion about the new script he wrote for the new jokey episode. The proplem is, he cant find the stuttery storyboarder anywhere in sight! He looked in many rooms, He asked a lot of people if they saw him, with only samuel replying to him that jim was running away strangely like he was in a hurry, before telling rob to leave his office. Rob didnt really understand why would jim run that quickly like this in the studio, he was always so cautious about every little action he takes, espicially with the 'dangerous' things to him, running in the studio is an example, he knows that jim would tell him that doing this have many bad outlooks. like, he may fall and break his bones! Or have a few scars on his face! Or maybe fall hardly to the point that the ground break down under him and fall to the second floor beneath! Thinking like that was a little funny to rob, he never met someone before with the same thinking method. But presently he was tring to give jim some excuses for running like he did, what if he maybe had a meeting that he was late for? or he forgot to do something important in his job? or he was alerted about something and wanted to tell everyone? Rob wont know the exact reason, but he hopes that jim had done whatever he needed to do and right know, Rob needs to find him to finish this script review before the night come, he was already too tired of searching for jim. It may be weird to think that someone would hide all day in one of the studio room until the night, but everyone told rob that jim was noticed to be absent from the view since hours. With no sign that he went out of the place, the only option left is that jim locked himself in one of the studio rooms, which is the last option Rob wanted to consider since the studio is reeaally big and have many many rooms there....

Rob was already exusted greetly, his legs in pain, He looked in every studio room out there, expect for five ones, and good thing for him those are the last five. Whats even better? they are all in the same hall. Finally! Jim must be in one of those five, and all what he have to do is open and close the doors. those rooms seem to be some kind of store rooms in the studio, with each one having random things stored inside it.

Rob walked to the first room in the right and opened it, wishing jim is already there. But he saw nothing but some music instruments, he closed the door and went to the second room in the left, opening the door, finding just a bunch of papers everywhere, closing the door in dissapointment again, this is really boring and he is tired and want to end this work now. He went to the third room in the right, he was about to open it but....suddenly before he do...he heard a voice...a very low and odd voice.....but the hall he is in was so quiet that the odd voice was the only thing that could be heard, other than rob own footsteps. It was a very unclear and inditinct sound...it looked like it was coming from behind him, which was the forth door in the left, that is right behind him. It must be for jim right? Who else could it be for? Jim is the only one who must have locked himself in that room. When rob moved softly near to where the audio is coming from, the voice started to become a little more clear, but when rob drew his head near that door he tried to figure about what this voice is saying or who is he talking with. but he couldnt understand a word, perhaps those are not words and this is..........is this sobbing?....no.....he hoped that this is not what he is thinking about right now........he was really very worried about what is happening inside.........he even forgot about his whole purpose when he was searching for jim and just wanted to check if he is alright there.....he slowly moved the door handle and moved it down to open that door only to be greeted by..........

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH"

"AHHHHHH!!!!!"

Jim screamed in fear and jumped so high when rob opened the door, breathing so heavily and hardly! on the other hand, rob screamed when jim did out of that sudden move, he just jumped a few steps to the back, he did it! he found jim! But before he utter any word he saw jim and..........he was highly startled by what he saw........jim face........all of it was......so ruddy......even his freckles were very hard to be noted under all of this redness..... his eyes...so puffy....so dark.... so swollen.....so dry......dry because all of the tears inside were used....the traits of the endless river of those salty drops that streamed down his tight face were etched on it as if he had been crying since forever....even some drops were still falling from his chin....his face was wet, on every inch of it......his shirt and hands even drenched....

".........Jim!............." " r-r-rob!.....I-I-I!..........I-I.....I....." jim whole body was trembling....he couldnt bring himself to say something.....how can he explain now? he looked like if he is trying to hold himself up strong...but he just..... gave up....collapsing on his knees, looking at the ground woefully. Rob was dolorous to the scene in front of him...he never thought that one day he will see something like that happen to one of the dearest people to him...... he tried with tender steps to approach his quivering friend, when he did.....he sat on his knees too, very placidly putting his hands on jim fallen face to make him look at him....but looking at jim crying face only made his heart sink....sink deep to places he never knew where there...it seemes that rob had a spot for his friend. That was a horrid thing that rob didnt want to witness again, Or jim...That cordial gloss that favoured jim eyes was no longer there... The look in them were so lonesome. The glint they had that revealed a world of darkness, his eyes revealed it all. The dark, colourless eyes that mourned his despair....rob gloomily moved his hand gently up and down his soulmate wet cheek, as if telling him that he will be ok, everything is alright now, he gave him one last sad look before starting to talk.

" ...What happend?..... " jim eyes went to the ground, the muscles of his chin tremble like a small child, despite the consolation feelings from his friend warm soft hands on his tensed face, he couldnt bring himself to speak of what happened, what if this ilwas a stupid reason to cry or to be afraid of? Rob waited for an answer, but it never came, he could sense that jim still have some doubt and terror inside him. Rob closed his eyes with a sigh, pressing his hands on jim face to make him focus on his once more "....jim....you are a very dear friend to me....my best friend...my soulmate....I really feel so worried about you...know that whatever happend...im here with you...I will always support and be next to you in whatever goes....I cant be fine when I see you like this...you can tell me anything you want to..I promise that I wont tell anyone...and will help you in whatever you need...please let me be a shoulder to you..and let me understand whatever bother you...." jim was....moved by what he just heard...that reminded him of how much lucky he is to have someone in his life like Rob, oh how much he loved being with him. He forced his desperate neck to look in the eyes of his understanding soulmate, he wanted so bad to be able to start narrating the story.

" R-Rob...can I tell you s-something?...." " ofcourse! You can tell me anything! " ".....I....sometimes rob....I....really w-wish that...I had a...n-normal childhood like all t-the other people...." he paused for a few seconds because that was something he wasnt certain he should talk about, rob looked at him with a confused face. " you s-see.....I-I just wished t-to run around in an o-o-open feild after butterflies like everyone...p-play in those small playgrounds in the b-backyards...d-draw with those colorful watercolor p-paints without being s-so scared to touch them...I-I-I just w-wish I was given t-the opportunity to try new things l-like all the others, without my freedom b-being held back by 'them'....if I j-just had a better people that could h-help me grow u-up...Insted Of Having A M-M-Man That Always Make Me Scream In Fright E-Every Moment He Comes home! A-And Cry Myself To S-Sleep!..." jim didnt know if he felt better or not after admitting everything...rob listened to him with every detail...he understands it all now... ".......jim.....I....Im sorry.....I-I understand you had a troubled family...but its alright...you are away from them now...you are here with us...that 'man' was all just a bad memory from the past..." ".......no.......worse......he wasnt j-just a memory... h-he was here.....h-here in the studio....h-he was trying to get me....a-again...pull me back to h-his drakness...He a-almost catched me...but t-thanks the gods samuel w-was there to save me..." rob got confused again, he thought jim was talking about his bad childhood, but it was more. He stopped. He gets what really happened now. Linking together what jim and samuel told him, he connected all the puzzle pieces together now. Jim father was here in the studio hours ago, jim saw him and fled away quickly, with samuel saving him in the last moment before being captured. Jim looked at rob, looking broken " r-r-rob!....I-I-I cant let him s-see me again...I-If he had me in his hands one more time....h-he.....h-h-h-h-h-h-h-he......" that last part was choppy as if jim tongue got tangled, his body shivering again, looking down in sorrow

" Jim "

The shy storyboarder, shakingly looked up hearing his name being called, his eyes started having a tenuous layer of water over them. Rob didnt speak a word. Insted, He opened his arms, as if telling his friend to come over here, rest his head on his shoulders, lay on him, and let it all out....jim understood it, he was taken aback by rob sudden genial offer, but he accepted it, crawling to him, then wrapping his shuddered lanky arms around his friend, resting his lumbering head on his best friend strong chest, feeling his mild heartbeats. Hearing it reminded jim of the nice and tenderness waves he feels when he is with rob. Who just closed his eyes and toke him in a sympathetic embrace.

Without hisetance, The tears burst forth like water from a dam, spilling down his face, unceasingly, hands clutching at his holder back, who held him in silence. Perhaps these tears will help wash the blood out. He pressed his head against his friend chest, hoping that those heartbeats will soothe him down just like the patting in his back do. There is a static in his head once more, the side effect of this constant fear, constant stress he lives with. He hears his own sounds, like a distressed child, raw from the inside. It takes something out of him he didnt know he had left to give. That's the way it is when people are hard. It's like a theft of the spirit, an injury no other person can see. Rob held him in silence, rocking him slowly as the tears soaked his chest, a tiny lapse let jim pull away, blinking lashes heavy with tears, before he collapse again, his howls of misery worsening. The pain must have come in waves, minutes of sobbing broken apart by short pauses for recovering breaths, before hurling him back into the outstretched arms of his grief.

" Shhhhhhhh.....Shhhhhh.....its alright jim.....you are here with me....in my arms you will be safe.....you are safe now.....you are safe...."

Just a few more minutes and jim was done, he now really feels better, he feela.....safe....a feeling he didnt encounter for such a long time ago, in Rob arms all his troubles have been washed away, how much can he be thankful to have him here with him? He lift his head after that break down to look at the script writer in gratitude, trying to find the right words to say, But before he do rob placed his hands on jim shoulders, making jim back stright, rob stared for momebt into his eyes.

" Now I want you to take a breathe and, inhale.....exhale....inhale....exhale" jim was taking deep breathes after rob. feeling the remaining weigh of stress go away.

" Now I want you to repeat after me..... My name is jim gooder. " " M-My name is j-jim gooder....." " I am a talented storyboarder. " "I-I am a t-talented storyboarder......" " and I have many friends who are by my side." " a-and I have m-many friends who are by m-my side....." jim stopped for a moment, he felt that he was a new person now, like he was reborn again. While rob gave him a friendly smile, feeling so happy for his dear soulmate recovery.

[joeydrewcrew]

@toonytou I’m sorry these are so late! I hope I didn’t forget anyone... Jim was kind of a late addition as I’d drawn him earlier for an art trade but never really felt it was good enough to upload. I apologize for all of the mistakes, too. Aaaa but I’m rambling! Anyways, have a fabulously fantabulous day you lovable dork!!! Eat some delicious and healthy food and enjoy some fresh air!! Just take life at your own pace and continue being amazing!

[cherryzombiezz-art]

I WOULDN’T BE CAUGHT DEAD NOT CELEBRATING WORLDWIDE JIM DAY

@brueklynn

[gatheringbones]

[“The Becca Bill included mandatory reporting requirements for social workers, teachers, and healthcare providers to turn in a young person under age eighteen who was known or suspected to be homeless and a runaway. As Jim Theofelis puts it, “It really has driven kids underground. I often say that we have just empowered the pimp to be a better social worker than we are. Because we, the first thing the do-gooder says or the service provider is, ‘We have to call the police, DSHS [Department of Social and Health Services], or your parents within eight hours.’ Where the pimp is going to say, ‘You look hungry. You look cold.’ ”]

josephine ensign, from skid row: on the frontier of health and homelessness in an american city

[scuttling]

Lavender

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairings: Aaron Hotchner/Female Reader Word Count: 9,244 Tags: 18+, NSFW, Dad's Best Friend Friend From Work Hotch, Me turning a naughty, smutty story into something way more aka my specialty, Fingering, Unprotected sex, Oral sex, Semi-public sex, Office sex Summary: You absolutely dread going home for vacation, to your sickeningly cheery childhood bedroom and opinionated parents, but meeting your dad's friend from work at a stuffy cocktail party has the potential to make this a vacation you'll never forget.*Requested by anon, severely altered by me 😅 Link to A03 or read below! Most people would jump at the chance for an unexpected two week vacation, but you are not most people. When your boss emailed you to inform you that there had been some kind of glitch in HR’s system and you actually had two weeks of paid vacation that were set to expire, your anxiety had kicked into high gear. There isn’t enough time to coordinate travel with any of your friends, too short notice, and you’re kind of afraid to travel alone, though you’d never admit it, so that’s out.

There’s always the prospect of hanging out at home, catching up on all the shows you started but never had time to finish, doing things you’re always too busy for, like cooking and cleaning out your closet and going to the animal shelter to pet the dogs and cats.

Unfortunately, those dreams are crushed when you accidentally let slip during a call to your parents that you have the time off, and they literally insist you come home, will not let you get off the phone without confirming your plans.

You only live about an hour away from them, but for one reason or another, you rarely visit.

The minute you step into your childhood home, you’re reminded of why you rarely visit.

“There’s my little do-gooder!” Your dad is all but waiting at the door when you arrive, pulls you into a hug despite the fact that your hands are full of luggage. “Let me look at you.” He pulls back, hands on your shoulders, acting like it's possible something has changed about you since you had lunch together a month ago in DC. “Oh, you’ve got that serious lawyer hairstyle now,” he remarks with a chuckle, even though your hair is styled the same way it was at that lunch. He might not mean it to come out this way, but it sounds condescending.

“That would be appropriate, considering I am a lawyer,” you remark, trying to keep the snark out of your tone. You know he always means well. “You look good.” He takes his hands off of you and puts them on his stomach.

“Your mom has me on some kind of greens and beans diet, says it will help me live longer.” You smile, a little awkward, not sure what to say about that—your dad is typically the meat and potatoes type, so you figure some variety can’t hurt, but if you say that you’ll never hear the end of it, and you’ve already got a headache.

“Where is mom, anyway?” You shift your bag on your shoulder, and your dad clues in, takes it from you and starts walking up the staircase.

“Oh, she’s at the gym, then taking care of some last minute things for the party.” You pause at the base of the stairs, sigh softly.

“Party?” You weren’t told about any party. Your dad keeps walking, and you’re forced to follow.

“Yeah, nothing major, just some people from the office and their spouses coming over for drinks tonight. Maybe some of their kids,” he adds innocently, and you can’t help rolling your eyes.

By kids, he means sons: eligible sons to try to set you up with. You wouldn’t mind being in a room full of hot, single men vying for your attention any other time—in fact, it’s been a little while, and your most recent hookup was lackluster, so you’re a bit more tightly wound than usual—but the kinds of men your parents bring around aren’t your type at all. You’re career driven yourself, but all they want to talk about is how they plan to be the youngest partner at their firm, or the clubs they can get into, or worst of all, money. Your potentially somewhat relaxing vacation just went to shit in no time at all.

“I didn’t bring anything to wear to a cocktail party.”

“I think mom got you a dress, honey. Check your closet after you get unpacked.” He pushes the door to your former bedroom open, and you’re assaulted by the color lavender; somehow you’d actually forgotten how purple it is. “You’ll look beautiful no matter what you wear.” He sets your bag on the bed—oh god, the frilly purple comforter, you may have actually repressed that memory—and you drop your other luggage there too. “I’ll give you some time to get settled in, maybe order some lunch for us? Vesuvios?”

As irritated as you are about the party, it’s sweet that he remembers your favorite restaurant. You went there for dinner after you graduated from high school, college, and law school, so there are lots of great memories associated with the place.

“Do they adhere to the greens and beans diet?” you ask with a grin, and he puts his finger up to his lips to silence you.

“What mom doesn’t know won’t hurt her, right?” You shake your head fondly, and he slips out of your room and leaves you to it.

You start unloading your clothes into the empty dresser, hanging them in the closet that holds things like your prom dresses, graduation gowns, old cheerleading and volleyball uniforms. Every touch of silky fabric is a memory, and at this point in your life most of them are good, even if they weren’t at the time. It’s kind of nice to remember where you came from, when where you are now can be so hectic, so fast-paced you don’t see the forest for the trees.

Feeling nostalgic, you walk over to your desk, where you spent so much time with your face crammed into textbooks it’s not even funny, and flip through your old stationary set—what teenager had her own stationery? You were a total nerd—and photos you’d taken off the mirror but left sitting in a pile to be packed away eventually.

You snap out of the past after that, finish putting your toiletries away, setting up your laptop and chargers where you want them, then shove your empty suitcases in the closet and grab your phone to head downstairs.

You meet up with your dad in the kitchen, where he is opening steaming takeout containers full of Italian food. You grab some plates from the overhead cabinet and lean against the counter, look over the offerings to decide what you’ll have.

“So how are things at the ACLU?” he asks with a bit of a teasing tone. You’re well aware of the fact that he thinks you could be doing more—translation: making more—in private practice, or working for the government like he does, but neither of those things interest you and he is well aware of that.

“They’re really good, actually. We’re working on a disability rights case now that will probably make national news if we win.” It’s been forever since you had penne arrabbiata, since it’s not very easy to eat at your desk without running the risk of staining your blouse with spicy red sauce, so you load up your plate with it, add wilted spinach for color, a piece of garlic bread because it’s garlic bread. You lick your thumb, and your dad points a finger in your direction in that way that means he’s about to give you life advice.

“When you win; if you’re not confident about your capabilities, no one else will be.” You roll your eyes good-naturedly, nod, because that’s a pro tip you’ve heard time and time again. “If you came to work at the bureau, you’d win more of your cases; Constitutional law isn’t easy.” He says that like you don’t already know, like you haven’t been working in your current department for more than a year. You sigh.

“I’m not really the bureau type, dad.” You take your plate over to the breakfast table, sit down and start to pick at your food. Arguing about your chosen career path is enough to make you lose your appetite, even for your favorite dish. Your dad follows, sits across from you.

“You’re so smart, honey, you could be if you wanted to.” He takes a bite of fettuccine alfredo, points his fork at you. “Hey, maybe you could talk to Jim from the Office of General Counsel tonight—or maybe Aaron. You’d be really interested in the work his team does.”

“Who’s Aaron again?” You don’t recognize the name, so he’s probably not one of the attorneys on your dad’s team, but he works closely with so many departments you might have heard it before and missed it.

“Friend from work. He’s the unit chief at the Behavioral Analysis Unit. They’re criminal psychologists or something. Profilers,” he says, snapping his fingers. “That’s what they call them. They get into criminals’ heads, analyze them and interrogate them. I know you minored in psychology, I bet he could get you an internship.” You laugh at that, because he always gives you advice about furthering your career, but that’s a step backward for you and he can't be so dense not to realize it.

“An internship? I’m a little old for that, don't you think? Not to mention I have a job that I love.” You stab at your food, more than a little agitated by the current conversation.

“Never too late to get your foot in the door, sweetie. It’d be great to see you more, that’s all I’m saying,” he adds, ending on a gentler note, and you sigh. Your mom does it too, but your dad is an expert into guilting you into doing what he thinks is best. Unfortunately, you’ve never handled guilt very well.

“Okay. I’ll talk to him, if it means that much to you,” you promise, and you both smile and make easy small talk for the rest of the meal. The dress your mom bought for you for the party is a black, sleeveless, designer cocktail dress, something more form fitting than you would normally wear—she is evidently trying very hard to find you an eligible bachelor tonight. You pair it with your favorite jewelry, simple heels, and when you head downstairs your mom acts like it’s prom night all over again.

“Oh sweetie, you look so beautiful!” She puts her hands on your arms, spins you around. “You’re looking too thin—must be eating a lot of salads on that paralegal salary,” she throws over her shoulder to your dad, and they both laugh. You wish life were a documentary so there was a camera you could look into with an unimpressed expression.

“I’m a staff attorney actually. Fully accredited,” you add, but it’s no use. If you don’t follow in your dad’s footsteps, you will always be seen as living beneath your potential, and therefore always the butt of these types of jokes.

You love them, really, and you know they love you, but they are not the most supportive pair by a long shot. They made sure you got into a great college, let you follow your law school dreams—and you’re grateful, won’t deny their money is a privilege so many other people in your position do not possess—but that was only because those were their dreams as well. As soon as you told them about taking the position at the ACLU, it was like the tables were turned, and instead of your accomplishments, all they saw was wasted potential.

It’s enough to keep you away most of the time, which sucks, but it is what it is. It’s easier to love them from afar, so that’s what you do.

At the party, you shake hands, talk about the weather, introduce yourself to so many middle aged white guys and their sons that their faces all start to blur together. After half an hour you excuse yourself, head to the bar for a drink, and come to stand next to a middle aged white guy you have not introduced yourself to—this one, you’d have remembered, because he is tall, broad, serious looking, and very handsome.

If you were a dog, he’d have your ears perking up, no doubt about that. Instead, your heart just races a little.

“I have to say, these FBI parties are even less fun than I thought they’d be,” you comment as you wait for your drink. The man lifts the corner of his mouth in a slight smile.

“Get a bunch of men who are past their prime in one room, and all you hear about are the glory days. Can’t get a word in edgewise.” The bartender hands you your glass, and you turn to fully face the stranger.

“Why aren’t you talking about your glory days?” You immediately kind of want to slap yourself. Your social skills have been exhausted tonight, apparently. “I’m sorry, that was rude; I didn’t mean to insinuate that you’re… past your prime.” You give him a brief once over, because he deserves it, is even more gorgeous up close than you’d initially assessed; he chuckles softly, sips on his own drink.

“It wasn’t rude, it was… shrewd.” His own gaze lingers on your face, maybe the neckline of your dress, just a little. “Your father’s really happy you’re here, wouldn’t stop talking about it.”

“Yeah, he's one of the most ambitious people I know; he gets an idea in his head and won’t rest until he’s seen it through.” It’s a quality that sounds good on paper, but when it’s constantly being applied to your life, it’s more tiring than anything. “Right now he’s trying to get me to bully one of these poor guys into giving me an internship, as if I’m not twenty-nine years old with a career of my own.” He wets his lips, laughs again.

“I think I’m the poor guy—Aaron Hotchner. I’m the unit chief overseeing the BAU.” Wow, 0 for 2. This guy’s got to think you’re a complete idiot. He extends a hand and you shake it firmly, melt a little because his palm is so broad, his fingers so thick.

“Right, I’m so sorry. Feel free to tell me right now that I’m not the right fit, and I’ll slink off and hide in a corner somewhere for the rest of the night.”

“No need for that. You strike me as someone who would be a great fit for my team, if that was something you actually wanted.”

You aren’t looking for a career change in the slightest, but you can’t deny it would be tempting to report to this man every day.

“It’s not that I’m not curious about what you do; my dad told me a little, and it sounds really intriguing. I just have a lot on my plate right now. If the offer had come up before I started my current job, I would be all over it.” You smile, shrug. “Unless you could have me intern for the next two weeks I’ll be on vacation, I’ll have to politely decline the offer you haven't actually made me.” You smile, and so does he.

“Now who’s ambitious?” he asks with a raised eyebrow; the way he says it, like he finds it charming, makes your face heat a little. You’ve never connected like this at one of your dad’s FBI events, and even though there’s no way it ends well—if anything even starts—you feel the need to see how far you can go. Even if it’s just a little flirting. Even if it’s just tonight.

“Have you ever been here before tonight?” you ask after a beat. You take a sip of your drink, and he mirrors you. You lean in a little closer.

“Once, briefly. I didn’t get a grand tour, or anything.” You smile—bingo—and reach out to place a hand on his arm.

“Oh, I’d be happy to give you one, if you like. Usually my dad is all about it, but he looks occupied.” You both glance across the room at where he is in the middle of a group of men—still discussing their glory days, no doubt—and Aaron looks at you again, nods.

“Sure, I’d love one.” You show him around downstairs, the backyard, the garage—he doesn’t seem to care about the cars at all—and then go upstairs, show him guest rooms, the master bath your mother recently remodeled; he gets a little closer as you go, and you smile more, flirt a bit. You stop outside the door to your room, block it with your body while you talk about the art hanging in the hall; he’s very good at reading your body language, apparently, because he leans closer to you, puts his hand on the doorknob next to your hip.

“What’s this room?” he asks, feigning innocence, and you put your arm over his.

“Oh, no, we’re not going in there. That’s my old bedroom.” He smiles, and you grimace.

“You mean the room I most want to see now? Come on.” He turns the knob, hears it click, and you cover your face with your hand, sigh.

“This is going to be really embarrassing. It’s exactly the way it looked when I went to college, and that was over ten years ago.” You push the door open with your hand, walk in and flick on the light. Aaron follows, chuckles.

“It’s... purple. Cute.” He makes toward the bed, touches one of the frills on the comforter with his big, broad hand. The juxtaposition of your innocent lavender bedding being stroked by the fingers you can’t stop staring at is a very interesting one.

“No, it’s not cute, it’s horrifying,” you say, and when he walks toward the open closet, you begin to regret this little tour. He pulls out your prom dress, your cheerleading uniform.

“Cheerleader, huh? You don’t seem the type.” He looks over at you, and you push it back into the closet, lead him away from it with your hands on his arms.

“I’m not. It was important to my mom.” The two of you are by your dresser now, and he leans in to look in the mirror, at you standing behind him and not his own reflection.

“I see. Do you always put other people's needs before your own?” You sidle up next to him, and he turns to face you.

“This is what you do, right? You… deduce for a living? Like Sherlock?” That makes him laugh, which in turn makes you smile.

“It’s called profiling, but that’s accurate enough.” You feel a challenge brewing inside you, take a step closer to him.

“Okay… What can you tell me about myself by looking around the room? Remember, this stuff is from ten years ago; a lot could have changed.” He crosses his arms, nods.

“You’re right, but your core values wouldn’t have.”

Slowly, he walks around the room, taking things in, touching things, looking back at you briefly and then rifling through parts of your past. It’s a few minutes before he speaks again.

“I think your father wants you to work at the bureau, and you don’t want to because you’ve always felt like you’d live in his shadow if you followed the same career path. You want to blaze your own trail, do what fulfills you, not let his last name be what moves you up the ladder.”

That’s all scarily true, so you nod, cross your arms, lean your butt against your desk.

“I think you’re afraid of commitment because you don’t think any relationship you’re in will ever measure up to what your parents have.” That stings a little, but he’s not wrong. He points to a flyer stuck to a cork board, something about a charity project you’d worked on that revolved around recycling. “Environmentally conscious: I bet you drive a hybrid, and if your dad bought it for you, it’s a... BMW.”

He glances back, and you encourage him to go on. He points to a copy of your Georgetown diploma hanging on the wall, then picks up a cheerleading trophy on your dresser.

“You were a cheerleader to please your mom, went to Georgetown to please your dad, excelled at both; you’re an only child, so you felt you couldn’t let them down. My question is,” he says, looking up at you curiously, “what pleases you?” The words make your heart beat fast; you lick your lips, tilt your head.

“Not much.” He comes closer, arms crossed again.

“Why?” God, that’s a loaded question for a Friday night, for the first day of your vacation. You absently wonder if he’s going to bill you for this impromptu therapy session.

“I find it difficult to ask for what I want,” you ultimately say, and he moves even closer. His stare is probing, and you speculate that he may have been a lawyer before the FBI. The look on his face is the same one you’ve seen in many courtrooms over your short career.

“Of course you do. You’ve never done it before. You've spent your whole life asking other people what they want from you.”

You feel very seen, and you kind of hate it, but you also kind of like it—that he’s able to dissect you like this is a huge turn on. What that says about you, you’re not entirely sure; maybe that you enjoy being seen for who you are—for all that you are—instead of who you know, or who you could have been, for a change.

“I think you didn’t lose your virginity until college—your second year.” It feels like bringing that up is a bold move for him; he doesn’t meet your eyes when he says it. “I would guess you got drunk for the first time around then, too. Your first year you were trying to navigate the feeling of not being under anyone’s thumb anymore; your second year, you finally felt like your own woman, you wanted to try new things, but it made you feel out of control and you don’t like that. Even now you only drink socially, never to get drunk.” He is directly in front of you now, and he reaches out a hand, brushes it over your cheek. “I also think you gravitate toward men you find inappropriate and unattainable so you don’t have to worry about being the reason your relationships fail.”

He looks into your eyes with a questioning gaze. It’s a painfully accurate take, but he softens the blow with the gentle touch.

“Wow, you’re kind of an asshole,” you breathe, but you smile, and he laughs low.

“Maybe. But am I wrong?” You nod your head, and his face falls a little, so you narrow your eyes to mess with him a bit.

“Only about one thing: I actually drive a Kia hybrid. And I bought it myself, for your information.” He smiles, and you press your hands against his chest; it’s crazy how quickly he drops back into the serious expression you first saw him wearing by the bar. “Are you unattainable and inappropriate?”

“I work with your father; we’re the same age. We play golf together sometimes.” He doesn’t seem uncomfortable, doesn’t back away or remove your hands. You slide them down his body, over his stomach, stop at his belt, and he looks the way you feel: tightly wound, aroused, a little breathless.

“That doesn’t really answer my question, Aaron. May I do some profiling of my own?” You look up at him, curious, and he nods.

“Be my guest,” he murmurs, and you lean back. You rake your eyes over his body slowly—there’s no mistaking your appraisal for what it is. “No ring on your finger, but there’s no way you haven’t been married before. My guess is you’re divorced, and it wasn’t your idea.” You look up at his face, smile softly. “Sorry. You weren’t exactly pulling punches either.” He huffs a laugh.

“You’re right: I wasn’t pulling punches. You’re right about the divorce, too. Go on.” You nod, hum.

“Okay. You have a strong moral compass; you always do what’s right, even when it’s difficult. It’s what makes you such a great leader for your team. You like to go by the book, you’re a Fed through and through—but when it comes down to the bureau or the people you care about, you’ll fight the establishment with all you have. You aren’t a blind believer in the government; you have your criticisms, and you aren’t shy about voicing them.”

“Unlike your father,” he says, and you sigh. “You don’t have an appreciation for his work.”

“No, I really don’t.” Your dad specializes in Freedom of Information Act litigation—he does his best to keep the FBI from actually living up to its commitment to be transparent with the American people, and it doesn’t sit right with you, never has. You may both be attorneys, but you could not be more different if you tried. “But I’m profiling you, remember?”

“Right. Please continue.”

“This might be going out on a limb, but I think you went to law school. The way you speak, and the way you looked at me earlier? It was a little like cross-examination. Am I right about that?” His answering smile actually looks pleased.

“You are. I was a prosecutor for a number of years before joining the FBI. I think it’s something you don’t ever really lose.”

“For better or worse,” you say with a smile of your own. Happy with your assessment, you move a little closer again. “One more thing. I don’t think you’re the kind of man who would normally let a woman take you into her bedroom after less than an hour of knowing her. Childhood or otherwise.” You smooth your hands down either side of his tie, over his firm chest and solid midsection. “Maybe you saw something in me you liked?”

“I was... dreading coming here tonight.” He brings his hands up to cover yours, but doesn’t pull them away, just holds them. “If you’ve been to one of these parties, you’ve been to them all—no offense to your father—and I was contemplating a good excuse to leave early, if I’m being honest. Then you showed up at my side—my friend’s mysterious daughter that I’ve heard so much about—and you’re funny, and charming. Insightful. Vulnerable.” He squeezes your hands, presses them closer to his chest. “Beautiful. It’s been a long time since I’ve looked at someone and felt an instant connection. Do you feel it?” His voice is just above a whisper, and you nod lightly.

You aren’t the type of woman to take a man into her bedroom after less than an hour of knowing him, childhood or otherwise, but he makes you want so badly you’re almost ravenous—you’ve felt this way before, maybe twice in your life, but neither of those experiences ended with you getting what you wanted. You really hope this time might be different.

“Kiss me?” He takes a breath and then presses his lips together.

“I shouldn’t.”

“I know. But will you?” After a beat, he does, leaning in and pressing his lips to yours, moving his hands to your face as he deepens it.

It’s not a hard kiss, but rough around the edges, your noses pressed together, mouths seeking contact even as you pull apart for breath. He kisses like he needs it, tastes like bourbon, feels like heaven; it’s steamy, wet, makes your chest heave and your pussy throb. When he walks you backward, gently presses your body against your desk, you hop up onto it easily and pull him closer, between your spread knees.

“Aaron,” you sigh over his lips, and his hands move to your thighs, pushing up your dress so he can get closer to you. You glide your fingers through his hair, plant a hand on the desk, then feel something tip over, hear the soft sound of paper sliding over the edge.

Aaron looks down, picks up a lavender envelope; he holds it up with a question in his eye and an enamored look on his face.

“‘From the desk of…’ You had personalized stationery at eighteen?” His mouth is a little red from the kiss still, and he’s teasing you, perfect; you smile, can’t believe this is happening.

“I liked to write to my congressman… and Ruth Bader Ginsburg,” you pant. He chuckles, kisses you a little softer than before, then moves down your throat, sweeps his tongue over your pulse. “Mmm. Right there.”

He pauses to look up at you, hair mussed from your fingers, and you push his jacket off his shoulders; he shifts to full height, helps you take it off, and you drape it over your desk chair, work the knot of his tie loose.

“Are you sure you want this?” he asks as your fingers slip down the front of his shirt, freeing his buttons. You unclasp his belt, open his pants, and stretch up for a kiss, touching his face; you nod when you pull back.

“Absolutely. Are you?” He nods too, all serious eyebrows you want to kiss, mouth you want back on yours, on your throat, anywhere.

“Absolutely.” You step down off the desk, run your hands over his arms, then kick off your shoes and walk over to the door, close and lock it; when you pass him again, you guide him to the bed and sit in his lap, clutch at his shoulders and kiss him with as much desperation as he showed you before. There’s a lot of heavy breathing, sighing, moans from you both, and if just kissing is this good, you can’t imagine what he’ll be like inside of you.

When you can find it in yourself to stop kissing him, you pull back and climb out of his lap, present the back of your dress so he can ease down the zipper. He pushes it off, large, warm hands gliding over your body until it hits the floor in a heap unbecoming of the designer label. Your mother would lose her mind.

“You are incredibly beautiful,” Aaron says as he moves his hands to your hips, sliding your panties down and leaning in to press his lips to your stomach. You sigh, press a hand to the back of his head while his mouth explores you where you’re soft and sensitive. You’d like it lower, but there may not be time for that tonight. “What do you want with an old man like me?”

“None of that.” You sweep your hands over his shoulders, sink down onto his lap again, and his hands fall to your bare hips, squeezing you softly; you close your eyes for a moment, so overwhelmed by just the simplest touch. “Like you said: I feel a connection.” Your fingers move to push his shirt open, to lift his undershirt so you can get your hands on bare skin and soft body and hair. He groans, and you kiss him, deep and slow, hands moving to take off both shirts and add them to his jacket on your chair. You take a deep breath, reach out to touch his cheek. “Connect with me.”

He takes your hand, brings your palm to his mouth and kisses it, then drags it down so your fingers slide over his lips; you swallow hard, can feel wetness pooling between your legs, so you slide off of him and onto the bed—however sexy it may be to leave your mark on him, you do both have to return to the party at some point.

Sitting up beside him, you touch his body, ease his pants and boxers down; he takes them off along with his shoes, and you pull the comforter out from under you, push it to the side, let yourself lay back and bask in the look and feel of him as he settles between your knees, leans in for a kiss.

It’s even more intense than before, somehow, his thighs against yours, strong arms supporting him, and you drag your nails lightly up his body, tip your head back and sigh when his lips trail from the base of your throat to your jaw.

He moves a hand low, rubs his fingers between your lips and presses one finger inside you, slowly glides it in and out so you’re moaning, sighing his name.

“That feels so good,” you breathe, and he moves his mouth to yours again, soft and wet, the slide of his tongue sinfully delicious. He adds a second finger, earns more gasping moans, then a third; with the help of a capable thumb stroking over your clit, you come, and he kisses the praise right out of your mouth and then pushes inside you.

His mouth doesn’t leave yours, keeps you close as he thrusts inside, gradually lowering his weight onto you until you feel him everywhere: chest soft against yours, stomachs pressing together as you both work your hips, as your hands grasp his back to keep him close, heavy. Connected.

“You’re perfect. You feel incredible, baby,” he speaks against your lips in a rare moment apart, and you hitch your knees up higher, press the heels of your feet against his ass.

You thought he looked turned on before, but now he looks like he’s being consumed by it, like he wants to thrust deeper into you, make a home in your body and never leave; you would be more than okay with that, to spend the next two weeks beneath him, holding him close, sharing breath and sweat and pleasure so complete it changes you profoundly.

He moves a hand behind your head, cradles it, and sucks wet kisses against your throat—nothing so deep as to leave a mark, but that doesn’t mean you’re not panting, whimpering, begging for more.

“Aaron. Hmm, oh. You’re so gorgeous, I—everything about you.” He pulls away from your neck, peers down at you, and you’re sure you’re a sight to behold in your desperation; your palms smooth down his back, to his sides, and you hug him close, squeeze him hard when he comes, panting your name against your throat and pumping roughly inside.

You meet his every thrust, dig your nails into his hips, and he leans forward, covers your mouth with his and grinds against you until your second blissful orgasm shudders through your limbs. You clench tight around him, moan, then slowly sag back against the mattress, more thoroughly satisfied than you’ve ever been in your life.

He shifts, half on top of you and half off, his kisses gradually slowing, his hands sweeping over your shoulders, your face, your arms. When you’re calm, content, you sigh, kiss his hands and cheeks and lips; you’re warm, and you curl around him, overheated skin on skin, and never want to leave.

“Mmm,” he rumbles against your shoulder, mouthing at it, and you sigh, scrape your nails through his hair.

“Mm hmm. Think I can die happy now,” you murmur, and he shifts up to look at you, a smile curving softly from the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t die on me, now.” You smile too, scoot closer for slow kisses. You’re both happy to lay there, quietly kissing, but eventually it’s clear you need to return to the party in order to avoid suspicion—not that you think anyone would ever guess what just occurred.

You dress side by side, turning to have him fix your zipper, reaching up to help him with his tie. When you’re both technically decent enough to head downstairs, you plan to give him a head start, but the two of you get caught up in one more deeply sensual kiss that almost makes you want to just say screw it and take his clothes off again. He can tell, has the barest hint of a smirk on his face when the kiss breaks, and he punctuates it with a soft press of lips before walking out the door.

With your spare few minutes, you look around the room—and at your rumpled, frilly, lavender bed, on which you just had super hot sex with one of your dad’s friends, it’s still kind of sinking in—and wonder what the rest of your vacation could possibly bring that could top this night. At breakfast the next morning, you find out.

You and your parents are discussing the party, who got too drunk to function, who left with the wrong wife, which of your dad’s friend’s sons you got along with most, and then he drops the bomb on you.

“And see, honey, I told you talking to Aaron would be beneficial.” You choke on a bite of scrambled eggs, try to wash it down with a sip of juice; your mom pats you on the back until the moment passes.

“What?” you ask, voice barely a squeak. You clear your throat and try again. “What about Aaron, dad?” He flips the newspaper he’s holding to the next page and peers over it at you.

“I told you talking to Aaron would be beneficial. Before he left last night, he told me all about the internship—it’s nice of him to set it up for the two weeks you’re here, so you can get some experience under your belt.” You briefly think about your experience under Aaron’s belt, but it’s really not the time.

He really set you up with an internship—one he knows you aren’t interested in—based on the offhand comment you’d made about squeezing it into your two week vacation. You’d be kind of irritated at him for making the plans on your behalf, but if it means the next two weeks are anything like last night, he’s going to make it well worth your while.

The internship excites both of your parents, and your mom declares it a girls day, takes you out for some new clothes, since you didn’t bring any workwear, for a manicure and pedicure and then drinks. She talks about what a great opportunity this will be for you, and you don’t have the heart—or maybe you just don’t care anymore—to argue about what great opportunities you’ve already made possible for yourself.

Sunday is for relaxing, and not internally panicking about seeing Aaron again. Friday night was incredible, but you didn’t think it would turn into anything, considering he is your dad’s friend, and you’re only here for a couple weeks.

You have to hand it to him, though: if he enjoyed himself as much as you did, and this internship is his way of getting to spend more time with you, he has managed to do what you haven’t been able for twenty-nine years—find a way to please your parents while finally pleasing yourself. Monday morning, you show up at the BAU office to receive a photo ID badge and fill out some paperwork. You don’t actually get to meet anyone from the BAU until after lunch, and when you do, Aaron is nowhere to be seen.

“Hi, I’m looking for Unit Chief Hotchner?” you say to a fair-skinned woman with long blonde hair and a kind smile. “I’m interning for the next couple weeks.” There is a man with her, Black, tall, bald, with very expressive eyebrows; the eyebrows don’t look like they think very highly of you.

“You’re an intern? A little old, aren’t you?” After a beat, his face breaks into a smile, and you roll your eyes, huff a laugh.

“Charmer. Yes, I’m definitely too old to be an intern; do you have overbearing parents by chance?” He raises his hands, palms up, and takes a step back.

“No, but enough said.” The blonde woman laughs, and he nods in your direction. “I’m Derek Morgan, this is JJ Jareau. Come with me, I’ll take you to Hotch.”

You thank him, follow as he leads you across the room and up some stairs.

“So what’s he like, Agent Hotchner?” you ask, wanting someone else’s opinion of Aaron as a boss, a coworker—anything other than the one night stand that wasn’t. You really know so little about him.

“He’s a good guy; smart, fair, great at what he does. A little tightly wound; could stand to live a little.” He looks back at you with a grin. “He’ll probably remind you a little of your dad.”

God. It almost makes you throw up in your mouth a little.

“You know, I doubt it, but thanks for the warning.” He knocks on a closed door at the end of the hall, and a moment later, Aaron answers it. His expression doesn’t change as Derek introduces you, and when he walks away with a friendly pat on your shoulder, Aaron gestures you in. He closes the door behind you and looks carefully over your face.

“Hi,” he says, and you see that hint of a smirk on his face again. You take a moment to appraise the room—there’s a window with blinds that are closed, a desk and chairs, bookcases, a printer, more windows on the far side, a loveseat. You look back at Aaron with a raised brow.

“Hi. What am I doing here?” His expression gets serious, like he can’t tell if you’re pleased or upset with him for the surprise. You sit down on the loveseat, set your bag down, and he sits down next to you.

“I know you wanted to get your father off your back, and you did say if I could squeeze an internship into two weeks that you’d be interested.” You smile a little, because you did say that. “I thought it might be nice to see you a little more, too. You’re under no obligation to stay,” he assures you, briefly looking down, and then he takes your hand. “But surely there are worse ways to spend your vacation?”

You give him an uncertain look, like you’re really trying to decide what you’d like to do, and then you push up your skirt and swiftly straddle his thighs, press your hands against his shoulders. His mouth falls open a little, and you lean in to catch it with yours.

“I have been thinking about you all weekend,” he mutters into the kiss, wraps his arms around your back. “Have you thought about me?”

“Only every night.” He groans at your words, lets his head fall back a little, and you press your lips to the column of his throat, nip softly with your teeth. “Every morning. Every minute.” You bite at the shell of his ear, kiss it, card your fingers through his hair. “Do I have an actual job to do here?” You pull back, and he raises his eyebrows; you can’t help the grin that takes over your expression. “Because if not, I’m going to focus on making this the best two weeks of your life.”

He pulls you in for another kiss, a little rougher than before, deeper, and you tug on his hair, pant against his cheek when you separate.

“In that case, no. You don’t have a job to do here.” You tilt your head, and he smiles a little. “I'm the boss, I make the rules.” That kind of thing has never done it for you before, but you have to admit it’s making you feel some type of way right now. You sweep your hands inside his jacket, squeeze his sides.

“Mmm, yes you do. Hey, do you think there’s enough room for me to fit under your desk?” He wets his lips, and you climb off of him, walk around to check it out for yourself, bending over his desk in your tight black skirt to peek beneath it. You look up to see Aaron is not shy about taking in the view, and you grin. “Spacious.”

He walks toward you, and when he’s closer, his eyes look dark with need; his hands look like they ache to reach out and touch. You step forward, let yourself be caged in against the desk by his arms, and you arch your back a little, open his belt slowly.

“I didn’t set this up so you would feel obligated to do this.” You sigh, lean up to catch his lips in a soft kiss.

“I know you didn’t. But if I want to?” You tug down his zipper, slip your hand inside his underwear, feel him hot and stiff in your palm. “And you want to?” He nods tightly and you kiss him again, squeeze him softly, sweep your tongue between his lips. “Then let’s.”

You take a step back, push his chair far enough out of the way that you can crawl under the desk, come up on your knees; he exhales deeply, then sinks down into his chair, stretches his long legs so they rest on either side of your body, holds his pants open for you. You look up at him, hope he sees how ridiculously eager you are to do this, and you take his dick out, stroke it a couple times, and cover it with your mouth.

“My god,” he sighs, head resting back against his seat. You hold him with both hands, suck deep and wet, moan a little when he spreads his legs further apart. “Your mouth feels so good, baby. Does this make you wet?” You pull off, move one hand to slide up his stomach, clutch his shirt there.

“Very, but I’m patient. Want to make you come.” He wets his lips, sighs, and you dip your head, lick up the length of him before sucking him back down.

He is all perfect, desperate noises, soft grunts and moans, gently palming your head as he gets closer, and you’re pretty sure he’s about to get off when there’s a knock at the door. He mutters a curse, and you squeeze his stomach, determined to make him come in the next five seconds. He looks like he’s going to lose his mind.

“Just a minute,” he manages, his voice strained, and he puts his hands on your arms, but you stroke and suck him quickly, actually sigh in relief when he spills in your mouth; your only regret is that he couldn’t be louder.

As soon as he’s through coming, you duck under the desk to wipe your mouth, and he hurries to fix his fly, to close his belt. There’s another knock, and he exhales, calls for whoever is on the other side to come in.

He accidentally bangs his knee off the desk, winces, and you lean back against it, panting, your heart racing.

“Aaron!”

Your eyes snap closed. What are the actual chances of this? You don’t know enough about karma to have an opinion on it, but you come to the sudden realization that you must have done something wrong in a past life.

“Hey, what are you doing in our neck of the woods?” Aaron asks, managing to sound like he is in fact not talking to the father of the woman who just swallowed his come.

“Looking for my little girl, of course. Had to see what she was getting up to on her first day at the FBI.”

“She’s actually… downstairs. In the mailroom. Interns start at the bottom and work their way up.” You stifle a laugh, because despite your compromising position, that’s kind of funny.

“Oh, okay. Agent Morgan thought she was up here, but I guess she must have snuck by him. Would you tell her I stopped by?”

“Absolutely. She’ll be happy to hear it,” he says, and you think you might be out of the woods, but you hear your dad’s voice again.

“Hey I almost forgot to mention: Monday Night Football tonight, got a bunch of guys coming over to watch the game. You interested?”

“You know, that would be great. You can text me the details. Thanks for the invitation.”

“Sure, of course. I really appreciate you taking care of my girl.” You have to bite your lip this time, and Aaron taps his foot against your hip.

“It’s my pleasure. She’s really wonderful. You should be proud.”

“I am. I’ll text you the details,” he says, and then the door closes and Aaron pulls back, looks down at you beneath the desk. You kind of just stare at each other for a minute.

“Close call?” you say with a shrug, and he helps you to your feet, then lifts you up and sets your ass on the edge of his desk. He grabs your face for a messy kiss, and you cling to him, breathless when he pulls back.

“What does it say about me that I’m turned on again?” he asks, and you shake your head, pull him close for another kiss.

“I don’t know, but I’m really turned on, too. Can you—” That’s as far as you get before he strides over to the door, flips the lock, and comes back to push your skirt up, tug your panties down to your knees so quickly it makes you gasp. He gets on his knees slowly, looks up at your face, and puts his hands on your hips, takes a few deep, thorough licks of your pussy. “Oh, my god.” You put your hand on the back of his head, drop your ass harder against the desk and press your other palm against it for support.

He is as enthusiastic as you were for him, slipping his tongue between your lips, gliding rhythmically over your opening but not pressing in, the tease. It feels insanely good, so much but not quite enough.

“Aaron. Oh, mmm—please. Please.” You sigh, dig your fingers into his hair, and he puts his hands under your ass and tilts you back on the desk, dives lower to start thrusting inside you with his tongue. “Yes, yeah, right there,” you murmur, and you rock your hips a little; your hand slips, sending you further back on the desk so that you’re almost laying back on it, and it makes you feel so deliciously dirty that you groan, grab at the collar of his jacket at the back of his neck.

“You okay?” he asks, pulling back to look up at you, and you nod, frantic; he licks his lips, lifts your legs and puts them over his shoulders, then dips down to stroke his tongue inside you, to press a finger inside alongside it.

“Holy—oh, yes.” You toss your head back, whine, and come around his finger while his tongue flicks in and out until you’re left breathless, spent.

You press yourself up to sitting, and Aaron stands, kisses you deeply, hands on your face while you’re still slick on his tongue. After a couple of minutes, he helps you get cleaned and straightened up, his kisses soft presses of lips this time.

“I should try to get some work done,” he says, but he doesn’t sound like he wants to; after that, you can’t really blame him.

“That’s okay; I brought my laptop, so I can work on some stuff too, if you don’t mind.” He doesn’t of course, and you get set up at the other end of his desk. You’re both plugging away at your work when you’re reminded of something from earlier; you close the lid of your computer and look over at Aaron, head tilted. “I didn’t take you for someone who likes football.” He smiles, taps his pen against his chin.

“I don’t. But I figured you’ll be there.” You smile back.

“Yeah, I’ll be there. Maybe I’ll see if my old cheerleading uniform still fits—you know, just to go with the theme.” You open your computer back up, but the look on Aaron’s face out of the corner of your eye is very, very promising. “Mmh, that feels good,” you murmur, one hand on Aaron’s shoulder and the other on his thigh; he is propped up against your pillows, massaging your bare breast and your clit while you roll your hips in his lap. Your cheerleading skirt fits, mostly, but you couldn’t zip it all the way; still, it’s the only thing you’re wearing, and you can’t deny the whole situation is so hot it hurts.

“You feel so incredible. Taking me so well.” He can’t kiss you in this position, and you can tell he wants to—you really want him to—so you feel a little like a tease as you work your ass and thighs atop him. “You know you’re beautiful, but I can’t stop saying it. You’re perfect, baby—in this little skirt?” He moves the hand from your breast to your hip under the skirt, squeezes you there. “So sexy. Do you remember any cheers for me?”

You groan, roll your eyes.

“Not worth the orgasm to embarrass myself,” you say, and he lifts his hips, slams up into you hard. “Mmh. Okay, almost worth the orgasm, but not going to do it.” He lifts an eyebrow, pumps his hips up again.

“Really? Not even if I…” He lunges forward, lifting you out of his lap and making you laugh, then maneuvers you onto your stomach, gets on his knees behind you, flips up the skirt.

“God, Aaron,” you sigh, and he presses his thighs right up against your ass, slides inside, pumps slow and steady while squeezing your cheeks, pulling you back toward him. Your fingers dig into the stupid, frilly bedspread, which will probably turn you on for the rest of your life, now, and you move back against his thrusts, moan.

“Worth it now?” he asks, filling you so completely, and you pant, hum.

“Wouldn’t you rather I just moan your name?” He leans forward at that, hands planted up under your arms, and leans in to speak into your ear; the way he’s pressed against you, the angle is perfect, and you’re right on the edge when his lips brush your throat.

“Yeah, why don’t you do that instead.” It takes about two seconds for you to come, and you aren’t shy about it, let his name fall from your lips in an endless string of praise. He hammers against your ass, the roughest he’s been—and god, does it feel good—then comes inside you murmuring your name.

He pulls out, rolls you over, and you finally kiss, make it count; it’s like the first night, how you can’t get enough of each other, messy, desperate, curling tongues and soft, eager lips, but you know you can’t keep it up forever, because his presence downstairs will be missed much sooner than Friday’s party.

You help him get dressed—in jeans and a blue polo, maybe the only time in your life a polo has made you wet—and then throw on a t-shirt and jeans of your own, head downstairs. You detour for the kitchen to grab a couple beers while he heads into the living room, and then you plop down next to him on the couch and hand him one like you weren’t just defiling your childhood bedroom yet again.

“There you are,” your dad says when he registers your presence—it’s impossible to get him to look away from the tv when a good game is on. “So how was your first day at the office? Think you’re going to like it there?”

“Yeah, I don’t know why I was resistant for so long.” You shift, put your leg under your butt, and take a sip of your beer. “It’s not going to be a career for me, but I have a really good feeling about the next two weeks.”

Taglist ❤️: @thaddeusly @arsonhotchner @mrsh0tchner @ssahotchie @sleepyreaderreads @mintphoenix @meghannnnnn @disgruntledchowchow @azenpal @g-l-pierce @my-rosegold-soul @ssamorganhotchner @heliotropehotch @angelhotchner @qtip-blog @gspenc @wishuhadstayed @averyhotchner @hotforhotchner11 @itsmytimetoodream

[jimhenson-themuppetmaster]

" I know it's easier to portray a world filled with cynicism and anger, where problems are solved with violence...It's an easy out. What's a whole lot tougher is to offer alternatives, to present other ways conflicts can be resolved, and to show you can have a positive impact on your world. To do that, you have to put yourself out on a limb, take chances, and run the risk of being called a do-gooder." Jim Henson

[maxwell-grant]

You've already mentioned how much you like Wesley Dodds Sandman, but who are your other favourite members of the Justice Society?

I don't really have much thoughts on the Justice Society. I've barely read anything that features the concept and I don't care for most of it's characters. I said as much that my liking of Wesley is entirely based on growing up reading Sandman Mystery Theatre and I don't really know or care as to what’s been done with the character in the DCU. I have very little love for shared superhero universes and particularly stories that exist mainly in service of upholding the conceit and most of what I’ve read with the Justice Society is all about that.

A lot of the appearences these characters have that I've read just kinda treat them as these "elder statesmen" figures that the superhero community looks up to, and that bores the shit out of me. With some exceptions, I don't like it one bit when that treatment's applied to pulp characters when writers don't have anything else interesting to try and say with them, and I don't like it in a superhero context either. And even the characters within the Justice Society that I like, I don’t like any of them as members of the Justice Society, if that makes sense. Actually, I think another problem I may have is less that I dislike shared superhero universes, and more that I dislike or am indifferent to superhero teams in general. 

(Art by memed and Dan Schkade)

Within it’s members, two of the ones I actually like would definitely be The Spectre and Dr Fate. I’ve read bits of Spectre stories across his history and the Ostrander run’s my favorite so far. The existence of The Spectre within a superhero universe is at times funny and also kind of a headache if you poke at it too hard, but on his own, The Spectre’s interesting as a character who is remarkably challenging to tackle, being that his central conceit is that he’s both an invincible superhero using his horrible reality warping powers against spooky supervillains and street criminals alike, as well as a cosmic force of karmic murder with the literal power of God supporting him, a character who’s an artist’s dream and a writer’s nightmare in equal measure. 

Spectre’s changed over the years from a gothic-themed superpowered masked avenger (not that much more powerful than the likes of Zatara, and certainly not nearly as disturbing as Stardust), to a light-hearted magic superhero, to the host of a horror anthology, and then the center of a horror show based around his killing prowess, long before the slasher phenomenon took off in film. He’s been depicted as everything from a saintly do-gooder, to a murderous sadist with only the flimsiest pretenses of being a hero, to a detached cosmic force of power both friend and foe in equal measure, at times even the DCU’s equivalent to Galactus. There’s been a lot of alterations or evolutions as well to the dynamic between Jim Corrigan and The Spectre, as well as other characters who’ve taken the mantle, although usually not for long and usually for the worse. Spectre’s not really among my favorite comic characters but I definitely like him.

I’ve talked about Dr.Fate and Doc Fate from Multiversity before, and in particular how I liked the Golden Age iteration of Dr Fate and it’s focus on horror before they settled on a more standard secret identity and superheroics for the protagonist. Keith Giffen’s Fate mini in particular really pushed the horror angle inherent to Fate’s existence in ways even I found genuinely disturbing (and some I could frankly do without, mainly those concerning Linda and Eric’s relationship). And while he’s not a Justice Society member, what got me into Doctor Fate as a character was actually Jared Stevens. I stumbled upon the character a while ago by reading @about-faces ’s livejournal chronicling Two-Face’s appearence in one of The Book of Fate’s issues and then read the rest of the series and then the previous Fate mini-series. I guess some people would consider that funny considering Jared’s a super unpopular character, which is bull because Jared’s great and most people who actually bother to read the stories he’s in (instead of dismissing him purely as a 90s fashion disaster, which he is, mind you) end up liking the guy. 

I think alongside these two that I like more as concepts than characters, my favorite Justice Society character would definitely be Alan Scott, a character I definitely need to read more throughly on but already like a lot. I don’t have strong feelings for the other Green Lanterns, and I definitely don’t care much for the corps or the “space cop” archetype. I first discovered Alan by going through some of Solomon Grundy’s appearences and in particular Grundy’s incredible debut, and I found myself really liking Alan’s dynamic with Doiby, who’s got a typically annoying voice as most Golden Age sidekicks tend to have, but I liked how close the two were and that, when Alan was down for the count and Grundy was raining terror on the city, Doiby’s immediate response was to roll up his sleeves and go out there, saying “One of us has got to try! I got to fight for da both of us...”, that pretty much instantly endeared me to the two. 

When I learned that Grundy was created by Alfred Bester, who also created Vandal Savage and wrote some of the best episodes of The Shadow radio show, I ended up reading more of Alan’s Golden Age appearences and some of his others. I really love his costume, I like his origin, I like that in some appearences he’s depicted as being freakishly big and strong even by superhero standards, and even though most of what I could find on him spoke of him as a beacon of hope and this great, powerful, inspirational superhero, which is part of what he is, I also picked up some odd appearences he’s made here and there that gradually made more fascinated on the character's troubled psychology, like him being chosen as the champion of chaos in The Book of Fate #2 and going all-in on becoming a drooling maniac trying to murder the protagonist, or All-Star Squadron #20 where, under an illusion by Brainwave, Alan assumes the Japanese Army’s killed the rest of the JSA and is going to kill him, so he responds by completely obliterating a Japanese town with sheer power alone and then having a guilt crisis where he tries to kill himself before he’s pulled out of the illusion, and even after he’s pretty much saved the day here, he’s tormented by the horror of what he’s proven himself capable of perpetrating and the story ends on a very somber note.

Or Showcase #55 where he’s dunked into the Slaughter Swamp and transformed into a Grundy (an image I’d definitely like to see repurposed again) and, where as Solomon's first response out of the swamp was to go after the nearest source of light and try and understand the world around him, Alan, even not knowing who he is or who Fate is, immediately bellows “I KILL” and tries to crush Doctor Fate on sight. Doctor Fate even remarks that Alan’s brain is “possessed with the desire to destroy”, except the swamp doesn’t possess anyone like that, Grundy casually chats with his old gang in the very same story, and what I thought was just a funny little story at first took on some darker ramifications when contextualized with other Alan Scott appearences where he’s very clearly got something wrong with him.

And then recently this year I discovered @ufonaut ‘s blog and all of her wonderfully informative and interesting essays on Alan Scott (as well as Jared Stevens and The Spectre and others), and I definitely have this one saved up to look at more extensively one day. Pretty much any desire I have to eventually catch-up to other appearences of the JSA is entirely because of her blog and it was reading these posts and some of the comics mentioned that made me go from considering Alan Scott my favorite Green Lantern purely by order of elimination, to considering him possibly one of my favorite DC characters. I find him deeply fascinating and I definitely want to catch up to more of his appearences.

Definitely didn’t think I’d have this much to say about any of the JSA characters in the first place when I started writing this post so who knows, maybe someday I’ll get around to the others and take more of a liking to them.

[signor-signor]

Trending 27th - June 2021

What would be the role of Star Force Enforcement Force in S3?

Let’s do some research.

“In WOY S3 we had a team of space cops called Star Force Enforcement Force whose name I repurposed for Earth Force Enforcement Force [in Kid Cosmic].” -Craig McCracken / @crackmccraigen

“…they were going to be called Star Force Enforcement Force and were an entirely different set of characters all together. Only the name was similar.” -Craig McCracken, on the difference between SFEF and EFEF.

“S3 was less about a new villain and more about an old ‘villain.’” -Also Craig McCracken

When asked if SFEF were going to play a big part in WOY S3, he replied, “Yes.”

>>The following has been taken from @suspendersofdisbelief’s responses<<

“Nope.” (in response to “Is the S3 villain someone we have seen before?”)

“The main arc of season 3 was centered around the arrival of a new danger that was even more of a threat than Dominator, meant to challenge Wander in every possible way. Season 2 was all about a bully showing up. Season 3 was about something worse than a bully.”

“I said threat. I never said villain.”

“Three new mains were to be introduced.”

“Season two was a lot about testing Hater; three would have been about testing Wander in a really cool way.”

“The S3 villain knew how to exploit everyone’s strengths.”

I used to think the threat would be a trio of attribute-enhancing beings or a trio of time manipulators, but taking all this information into account, I came to the conclusion that SFEF are indeed the new threat. This makes sense because most criminals and rule-breakers fear cops. Mind you, they’re not to be confused with the cops we saw in The Prisoner and The Boy Wander.

If I had to guess what they’d be doing in WOY’s third season, they would show up looking for Dominator, only to find that her ship has completely disappeared. They would also accuse those living in the galaxy of harboring Dominator because she’s nowhere in sight (she probably discovered the door to the void where she has tons of fun thinking up countless ways to quench her thirst for destruction). Furthermore, as long as they’re in the galaxy waiting for her to reappear, they’d apprehend every villain they can find and insist that everything they do is for the greater good. Unlike Wander, they don’t look for the good in the bad guys - they would be what you might call ‘Anti-Wander.’

This is some high-quality story material, you guys. It’s a bit tricky to figure out where the space ape might fit in, though. Assuming the leader of SFEF was also a space ape and Hater’s previous best friend, I predict the space ape stuck in the present might have an effect on Hater, the leader, or both.

If Wander is the likable do-gooder, Hater is the likable evil-doer, and Dominator is the corrupted evil-doer, then SFEF must be corrupted do-gooders. In other words, they’re probably bad good guys. One might say they make Brad Starlight look less like a simpleton. Let’s not forget that they might be the “dark-er” side that tempts Commander Peepers by talking him into leaving the Hater empire and joining the team. Whatever their sole purpose in the show is supposed to be, SFEF are a team real Wander fans deserve to know more about. Their appearance (maybe similar to that of the Blue Meanies from Yellow Submarine). Their personalities. The voices. The whole kit and caboodle. Speaking of voices, I’m thinking the leader might be voiced by either Rob Paulsen, Billy West, Jim Ward, Patrick Warburton, or anyone who can do a big buffoonish man voice, but I digress.

Now, to commemorate the 5th anniversary of the second season finale, I have a compilation of my creations... a portfolio of my pictures... a stash of my sketches... everything that says, “Do you think I’m a fool? I’ve seen shows get wrapped up in a satisfying way, and I know for a fact that Wander Over Yonder did NOT get wrapped up in a satisfying way because one more season was planned out. There’s a cliffhanger, for cryin’ out loud!” All the stuff I made/did within the past 5 years - it wouldn’t exist if Disney hadn’t canceled the show early. I still have the one big question mark in my trilogy illustration and three big question marks in my First 5 Years illustration reserved for SFEF.

I know what some of you cynical crushers of hopes and dreams are thinking. “Give it up already! Stop living in the past! Everyone has moved on! The show’s never gonna come back!” Phooey! I know Craig and the WOY crew are working on other things, but that space pod cliffhanger with ominous music is one of those things I can never get off my mind no matter what I do. If they wanted to stop after two seasons, they would never have thrown it in there. Besides, being determined to find out more about the plans for S3 doesn’t count as living in the past if it hasn’t been fully revealed to the public.

I don’t want to see any hopeless, pessimistic comments. I get it, we’re all bummed WOY didn’t get a third season, but just because the higher up bosses of bosses of bosses called the shots doesn’t mean we can’t do anything about it! Why do you think @peepsqueak started the campaign? If you want to know more about Star Force Enforcement Force and all that was planned for S3, for the love of Grop, keep sending letters and emails to Disney and keep watching the show on Hulu and Disney+. And yes, we can watch more Kid Cosmic while we’re at it - I’m curious about what’s going to happen now that *SPOILER ALERT* the café is out in space.

Here’s to another 5 years of keeping the campaign going! Sure, we might have to find replacements for voice actors who might not live longer, but believe me when I say all our efforts will amount to something.

Don’t forget to check out my fan fiction!

@disneyanimation

@disneyxd​

[masqe]

*   starter call with @knowseverythingaboutyou​ !

He’s had run ins with SHIELD before. Usually as they come in at the last moment to save the day or rock up just in time to slap handcuffs on the bad guys. Perks of New York where there’s some sort of superpowered do-gooder living around the corner. 

Toro imagines the response time would be much greater elsewhere around the world. He’s been in a few tight spots over the past couple of months on his travels simply by being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or the right place at the right time, really, because he doesn’t want to think about what might have happened if he hadn’t been there to buy the locals some time.

This particular New York incident had escalated somewhat drastically. Jim Hammond, technically SHIELD right there, and the Fantastic Four had joined the fight and the android-alien hybrid army had eventually been clobbered, force-fielded and burnt to a crisp. 

Toro frees a stray bot arm from a tree and lands on his feet to drop it into a collection dumpster rolling past. As it passes, it reveals one Assistant Director of SHIELD standing on the curb, and the spring in Toro’s step falters. He hasn’t put a face to the name before, but he doesn’t need to --- he can tell by poise alone. 

Even though he runs around with Reed Richards, and occasionally Jim Hammond, he technically isn’t under any oversight of any kind and he’s not naïve enough to think an intelligence agency would be thrilled about that. He also has had run ins with Namor, though he doesn’t know whether that would work for or against his credibility. ‘ Ma’am, ’ he says in hesitant way of greeting, not knowing whether he was going to be get booked or congratulated.