#like several months late

[clarisse-doodles]

they're going to see the greatest cinematic masterpiece of 2023

[atroquinine-my-love]

Someone called my pride post for dgs last year the Miku Binder Thomas Jefferson of the Ace Attorney Universe and it haunted me

[thatcatbasil]

some guy and his strange and offputting kitty cat

[tabooiart]

death is temporary. i'll love you forever

[rae-gar-targaryen]

Why yes, your Honour, I would like to lick Jake Seresin’s abs. Each and every one of them. Trace them with my tongue. If that’s a crime throw me in jail.

Well, congratulations, lovely anon. You've inspired something that no one ever thought possible -- Rae writing for a BLONDE MAN, of all people. Pls enjoy this little blurb. Even though it's probably not the greatest thing I've ever written --

--

your name (on that coffee cup)

warnings: none, just bad flirting.

pairing: jake jortles "hangman" seresin x fem!civilian reader

word count: 2.3k (you've gotta be fucking kidding me) of sweet, if not stilted, flirtation and whatever the fuck this is...

Reblogs make the world go 'round! 🌿💜

--

The coffee shop was more crowded than usual today. You supposed it might have something to do with the fact that today, the weather gods had decided that it would be the one, annual rainy day, forcing commuters to seek shelter indoors from the "deluge" (but what you considered to be, at most, a decent sprinkle). Southern Californians were decidedly not built for the rain.

You casually observed the casuals and regulars alike filtering in and out from your chosen table adjacent to the pickup counter. Your usual table, from where you'd set up shop, plinking away at your novel with your playlist and the welcome, muffled bustle of customers as backdrop busy-noise that filtered through your headphones for company. 

People-watching was uniquely inspirational whenever you were facing a bit of writer's block, so you had opted for leaving the relative coziness of your nearby apartment – content to perch on at this table and allow the quirks of strangers to serve as fodder for your novel.

Except that today, it was more overstuffed than your favorite blue-velvet chair in your apartment. The queue of bodies waiting for their cups of caffeine and their matcha lattes causing the already-warm interior of the shop to fog the windows. 

You'd just finished a particularly troublesome paragraph – How your two stubborn protagonists were ever going to set aside their differences as they made their way through the enchanted wood, you weren't one hundred percent clear on. But sometimes it was best to skip the mental obfuscation and jump straight into a part you were excited to write … their eventual love scene was beckoning you.

You worried your drink's straw between your teeth, eyes unfocused, pondering how to get Ser Marcus out of his shirt and beneath Lady Lucy, when he walked in. 

Him.

The tall drink of water with broad shoulders and dirty-blonde hair. With a million-watt smile he graced to whichever barista happened to be handing him his coffee that day.

He looked like a Ken-doll, if you were honest. But not in a bad (junkless) way. More of an All-American, conventionally attractive way, if he'd asked you. Not that he had. You had certainly seen him here before. But you weren't sure the same could be said of him. 

You watched idly as he breezed past you to place his order in a damp shirt that was veritably plastered to his torso, and running shoes that squeaked with rainwater, the noise making its way over the dull din of the shop. 

Perhaps he'd been out for a run when the rain had started.

He spoke to Monica the barista at the counter, out of earshot, though the easy way he leaned against the counter and smiled at her made it clear he didn't mind his own state of dress. The sort of easy handsome of an Eastwood.

You had turned back to the blinking cursor of your doc, thoughts buzzing with handsomely tanned skin and wet clothes, when the unmistakable shadow of a person loomed over you.

You glanced up, only to be simultaneously thankful for your screen protector and greeted with –

"Hi there," he breezed. 

It was Ken. In the perfect plastic flesh.

And, really, it was the fact that his torso was directly in your seated eyeline (and no other reason, you swear) that allowed you to notice (appreciate) that his already-rainwet and plastered shirt hugged his torso in such a way that allowed you to observe (appreciate) that you could see the outline of every. single. one. of his abdominal muscles, as though his shirt was made of flimsy tissue paper that might tear away beneath your touch.

No, this was fine.

"Uhhh." You were articulate, you swear. "Hi."

"Would it be alright if I sat with you while I wait?" He gestured over his shoulder with a pointed thumb vaguely in the direction of the pickup counter. "It's a little crowded in here today, and this is the only open seat."

Ah. An arrangement of convenience, and not that he wanted to sit with you.

You bit down your disappointment long enough to ease your lips into what you hoped resembled a smile, gesturing openly to the seat.

"By all means."

He shot a grateful–if not cheeky– wink your way as he pulled the seat out, angling himself to maintain eye contact with you, while still keeping one ear open for his name.

"Thank you, ma'am," he conceded politely, voice still warm and easy, as though no one had ever refused him a paltry request in his life. (And maybe they hadn't.) "I didn't exactly want to stand there in my wet clothes."

"No," you agreed. "Sitting in wet clothes is much more pleasant. Especially in those tight, Baby Gap-sized t-shirts. Everyone knows that."

"Everyone," he agreed, eyes twinkling and allowing you to appreciate just how green they were, glimmering, verdant and mossy, like the forest bedecked with fresh rainfall. How fortuitous, then, that he'd choose to sit with you on San Diego's one rainy day per year. "Teacher? Grading?" He nodded at your laptop, gem eyes flitting over the fading, curled stickers slapped onto the back.

You couldn't help yourself. You giggled.

"No," you shook your head. "Novelist."

"Ah," he conceded. "So whatcha writing?" 

And as you made to open your mouth to tell him that he shouldn't really ask a writer those types of question, he perked, and held up a finger as if to say "hold that thought," as he shot up to retrieve his beverage from the counter.

He must've heard his name. Ah well, it was nice while it lasted. You tried not to feel disappointed that your one encounter with hot coffee shop guy had come and gone in the blink of an eye. And tried not to beat yourself up that you hadn't caught the name when it had been called…

To your surprise, he turned back and plopped himself back into the seat opposite you, expectant eyes awaiting your answer as he blew into the small hole at the lid of his coffee cup.

"Ehm," you continued. "It's… a … novel," you finished, lamely. Flushed with the prospect of having to admit to this guy that you wrote high-fantasy erotica for a living, your self-preservation instincts kicking in before you admitted something you wouldn't necessarily have the chance to come back from if he decided to make fun of you for.

And he was ridiculously handsome. The sort of guy who looked like he belonged on the cover of the type of book you were writing, billowing unbuttoned shirt, and all... Maybe he'd pose if you asked?

If he was annoyed or put off by your evasiveness, Ken-doll didn't show it, that million-watt grin easing its way back onto his very pleasing face, prominent jaw and white teeth on full display as he played along.

"I might've guessed," he said. "I'm Jake, by the way." 

He held out his hand for you to shake. You responded in kind, allowing his hand to envelop yours with both size and warmth as you pumped your arm in a firm, decided handshake.

"I might've guessed," you parroted. 

He shot you a quizzical look; brows furrowed.

"It's on your cup," you nodded in the direction of the cup clutched in his other hand, the corner of your mouth titling into a smile. 

"A dead giveaway," he agreed, pleased that you had thought to make the observation. Maybe you were this way with everyone, he thought. All sweet smiles and starry, foxlike eyes, discerning but decidedly available. Selfishly, perhaps — he hoped that wasn't the case.

"Unless of course they had gotten the wrong name, and it's really, like, Jack, or James, or something," the fizzling pleasure of his hand on yours and the swelter of this coffee shop was really doing a number on your head, because now you were rambling. "Then if I had called you Jake based on the cup, I would've been both presumptuous and stupid. Like a 'Mark-with-a-C situation… Cark," you finished, unhelpfully.

"Now that's just unlikely, sweetheart," he disagreed. "You're clearly too sharp for that… Bridget." He squinted at your cup, greeting you with a name that was not your own.

"Oh, no…" you laughed, the pleased sound meeting his ears despite the relative staticky-din of the late-morning rush around him, "My name isn't Bridget," you explained, sheepish about the relative silliness of the game of being friends with one of the workers. "Uh, Monica likes to give me a new name every day I come in. Sort of to mock me for how often I come, I guess? We've known each other awhile. So, she's allowed."

If Jake thought it was childish or silly, he didn't let on, instead nodding and smiling at your explanation, still incomprehensibly interested in what you had to say…

"So that's why I see you in here so often," he conceded. "A novelist who writes in a coffee shop, where she knows everyone. Cute."

Out of any other mouth, it might have sounded condescending. But there was no hint of condescension in his honey-smooth voice. Only the facile twang of Southern charm and genuine earnestness. 

But all you heard was that he'd seen you before. He had seen you.

And you must've asked this out loud, because the next thing you knew, he was all smooth laughter and glimmering teeth,

"Yeah, I've seen you," he agreed. "You always look so concentrated, I never want to interrupt. My mama raised me better than that. But today I actually had the chance to say hello. So, uh, thank the rain, I guess…" he eased.

And you'd really hoped that the pleased warmth of flirtatious embarrassment wasn't inclined to show itself in any way, across your face or the exposed skin of your shoulders. Because you were certain those sparkling eyes of his were shrewd enough to tell. And how could a guy like this not be aware of his effect on women? So, you pressed on, closing your laptop lid, the better to focus on him with.

"And what do you do, Jake? If you're out for a run in the rain, you're clearly committed. Let me guess," you tapped your chin in mock-consternation, voice trailing in thought. "Model? Please say no because that would be a lot for me."

Jake barked a laugh at this. And perhaps you'd incidentally, dangerously boosted what was already a high ego. But he continued in good humor –

"No, sweetheart. Not a model. Naval aviator," and he'd actually shrugged at that, like it was no big deal. "I'm at the base down the way. So, yeah, I guess you can say I'm dedicated."

You groaned, teasingly, fucking your head into your arms, "Oh fuck, no. So just a civil servant who looks like a model. You can get the fuck outta here with that." You leaned across the table to teasingly shove one of his (ridiculously sculpted) shoulders, pleased at the feel of him beneath your fingertips.

"It's my honor to serve you, ma'am," he straightened in his seat, taking on his best "official" voice. (Oh, god, this was doing a number on you.) He continued,

"In fact, I think you should let me take you to dinner…?" He trailed off, perhaps in realization that he still didn't know your name.

You twisted in your seat to pluck a pen from the messenger bag hanging from the back of your chair, turning back to pluck his cup from his very hands in a move so cheeky you would swear you were having some kind of out-of-body experience. You were never this bold.

But the attentions of this, okay, let's be real… this veritable Adonis before you was likely doing something dangerous to your own ego, never mind his. Your head was somewhere in the clouds (a place he was clearly comfortable, being a "naval aviator, ma'am," and all)..

You tugged the pen cap off with your teeth, your attention fixed on the label.

Huh. Vanilla soy latte. 

You didn't comment on his drink of choice, choosing instead to strike through his name with the pen, and ink your own, your phone number printed clearly and neatly beneath it. Handing the cup back to him when you'd finished, recapping the pen as he twirled the cup in his hands to read what you'd put on the label.

He parroted your name back to you, the way his mouth worked out the letters an image you'd likely think about for a little too long, ya know, later... and the sound of it from his throat ringing in your ears.

"I'll text you," he assured, winking at you as he made to stand, rapping his knuckles on the corner of your table before mock-saluting you with two fingers to his forehead and an easy, charming grin on his lips. "I look forward to hearing about that novel over dinner, ma'am." 

With that, he walked out of the shop, taking with him the air in your lungs and your certainty that that had actually just happened, and leaving you with the faintly buzzing feeling of lofty flirtation and the blooming promise of a fucking date!

Eager to capitalize on the fizzy feelings, you opened your laptop lid and turned back to your unfinished section now, wan smile borne of fresh flirtation affixed to your lips, your thoughts swimming in a seafoam green ocean of emerald eyes, breezy flirtation, and, yeah, tight t-shirts...

"It was then that Lady Lucy swung her leg astride Ser Marcus, devilish fingers peeling his tunic from his toned stomach. With a smirk painted across her features, she dipped her head, allowing herself to trace her tongue along the ridges and planes of her lover's stomach, reveling in the feel of each prominent abdominal muscle beneath her tongue. Greeted with the delightful sound of her beloved's surprised gasps, manifestations of pleasure at her attentions…"

And no, you reasoned with yourself as you typed. You totally weren't thinking of green-eyed, handsome Jake as you wrote. These desires were your character's, not yours – you swear.

And no, your thoughts also were definitely not on his promised text message, either, that lit up your phone as you glanced at it. Greeted with the proposition of "Dinner Thursday?" No, you totally weren't thinking of him…

It's life that imitates art, after all... (Or was it the other way around?) And you hadn't had the chance to taste those abs for yourself. (But hope springs eternal...)

--

Tagging:  @withahappyrefrain @thegirlwhowritesfics @xbamboowishesx @friendly-neighborhood-blondie @abibliophobiaa @clints-lucky-arrow @inklore @phoenixhalliwell @ohmagawd-life @thematthewmurdock @mrshipsmcgee @p3mybeloved @decadentpaperduck @letmeplaytheliontoo @vestrangel @moonlight-prose @aphrogeneias @levylovegood @thatredheadwriter @2clones-1kamino @zombieaurora @shadeds-library @writercole @ijustwantedplums @gretagerwigsmuse @fanboysfangirl @shakira-sasha @siriusfahey @joaquinwhorres @jakexfmc @the-navistar-carol  @jadore-andor @fanboygarcia @lavenderluna10 @fluffyprettykitty @mickeyluvs @mothdruid  @maxmayfield @drew-garfi @eagerforthesky

[wispscribbles]

When I finish my ghoap Christmas oneshot that I started way back in start December, and have been struggling with since, then it’s over for you fools 🎅

[codacheetah]

Anyone ever heard of Deltarune? That shit's pretty crazy.

[muninnhuginn]

Thinking about how Bodies (2023) uses "representation" in such an intentional way. Every one of the four protagonists has an aspect about them which heavily affects how they relate to the era they live in. And how all four of them are police despite or even because of that.

Hillinghead. Gay in the Victorian era. He's defensive enough about it that he actively tries to arrest Henry when he finds incriminating photographs that display Henry's own sexuality. Hillinghead can't afford to let anything like that slip because what if it reflects back on him? Reflects back on his family, who he does care for dearly. He joined the police to hide and he plays the part for years until he realises what he may have missed out on.

Karl. Jewish in the 1940s. Changes the name he goes by to a name that sounds more stereotypically English, not because it's something he wants to be called, but so that he blends in. He hasn't been to the synagogue in years but he still knows where it is and he still returns there when he's not sure where else he can go. He's personable, but ultimately, not particularly trusting. And yet, he bonds with Esther almost immediately - a shared background goes a long way.

Shahara. Muslim in the 2020s. Is heavily aware of how race and perceived religion make a situation more dangerous when the police are involved. Is strong-armed by superiors into trying to approach Muslim witnesses because "only she is in the position to" and they know that she ultimately wants to help. She can't afford to refuse when she knows the consequences if she doesn't.

Iris. Disabled in the 2050s. This is a time where it's implied the world has largely left aside conflict relating to sexuality or religion. But despite mobility aids being available in her time, they're only available to those who "contribute". She has internalised the idea that she must sacrifice her autonomy to the state in order to live a life similar to an abled person, and that she must be thankful for this opportunity. Her brother had the same choice as her though, and he chose differently.

[feluka]

😔

[catkin-morgs-kookaburralover]

questioning sexuality is so exhausting

[bitegore]

ok this isnt meant to be a dig or anything but it's always really funny to me when people like just cracking 30 are like "omg you're in your early twenties, you're a babyyyyyy"

babe you're like barely 30, you're a baby too. You're a blink and a half older than me. I spend too much time around people over 50, the difference between 23 and 33 is a few years at a job and a little more distance from living in your parents' house but it's like, nothing. the gap closes every time you breathe and every time i move. the difference between you and me is like one-fifteenth the difference between you and my dad's friend Joe or whatever. don't worry you'll get to live more life too, but don't kid yourself.

and this is doubled when it's coming from a 25-year-old currently experiencing a crisis of age because they're soooo old, they're 25, the horror! You are twenty-five. We have an age difference of three years. Your concern over this is embarrassing for you and highly entertaining for me. But like don't kid yourself here. You are 25. You are a like a fucking baby to me.

[the-valiant-valkyrie]

a really undervalued line from one of prism's robots that we get from not a drill is the canonical explanation that kinesisium is the secret ingredient behind all of the robots' sapience.

kinesisium. the thing that prism didn't have until she left the agency. the resource that she allied with zoraxis for.

imagine being zor, very loosely keeping tabs on prism in case there's any other information or research you can squeeze out of her now that you have her on your team. you turn around for five seconds to take care of something, and when you look back at her again she's a proud mother of fifty

[autistme]

geoff what happened may 13th 2001. geoff did you piss your pants at this show. i literally dont see a single person in the crowd with a beverage. geoff i need to know what happened. this is a safe space im just curious. geoff i just need answers

[roseatedramon]

that feeling when you get bit by a squirrel

[newvegascowboy]

in yalls opinion, where does the line between "im being a good friend and helping them out no matter what" vs "this person is using me and i don't notice" occur?

[karokawwo]

very suggestive but have you guys considered that aside from cuffed to the headboard leander also wants to be the charcuterie board. or the cheese platter. maybe he even wants to be the wine glass. do you understand or am i stupid