#and they all continue to deny it

[faeriekit]

The Foster Mother

Now on ao3 and VHS release

There was, supposedly, someone waiting for him in the green sitting room.

“…Why?” Tim asked. Most of the usual suspects had already come by to give their “condolences”—former Drakes Industries investors, curious about the newly orphaned heir; fellow socialites, once again flocking in to give and receive sympathies for their “close friends, the Drakes”; gawkers come to see what they could scavenge off of a dead family’s home, never mind that their child was alive.

“She claims to know you, Master Tim,” Alfred offered, kettle in his hand. He spent a moment deciding between different two canisters of tea; a sign of possibly difficult future conversation. “Her interest in your father's estate seemed quite…minimal.”

…Alright.

Tim was still in his formalwear. Dissolving Drake Industries would take at least another year, and plenty of future hours cementing the future home of certain resources in their dissolution, but the outfit probably was more appropriate for whatever oncoming conversation that was about to ensue than his planned change into Dick’s old hoodie and board shorts.

Okay. Tim steeled himself. The self-determination…mostly worked. Whatever. He trudged up into the green sitting room from the kitchen with his usual introduction ready on his tongue.

And then Tim walked into the room.

And then Jazzy was there.

*

Tim had been three, and Miss Jasmine had been his had been his third nanny. He’d outgrown the wetnurse early on, and his second nanny had been dismissed, so although Miss Jasmine was the third nanny, she was first nanny Tim could consciously remember.

She’d had red hair. She’d been very gentle with him.

She got him up in the morning and put him to bed at night; for the first time, there had been someone who sat with him until he was asleep, reading all sorts of books his parents had left to engage him with as an early genius. Then, when those were over and done as promised to his parents, they got unauthorized books from the library: silly books with made-up words, dinosaur books, books about teddy bears and adventures around the world.

Tim hadn’t been allowed to travel the world. Tim hadn’t been allowed a teddy bear. His parents had thought it would encourage undue attachment.

(It had been the same reason he’d never been given a pacifier.)

Miss Jazz had given him a knitted bunny. She’d said her dad had made it especially for him.

The toy’s name was Bunny and Tim remembered him being very soft.

She didn’t smile all the time, but smiles were rewards that were easy to earn. He finished his meal and she smiled. He finished an educational puzzle and she smiled. He was quiet all through her phone call and she smiled, and answered all his questions once she was done.

Jazzy had been the first person in his life who was there all the time. She’d kissed his forehead after the bath and kissed his scraped knees; she’d carried him in his arms when he was tired and sometimes even when he wasn’t. His parents had wanted him to be independent, proactive, and not clingy, but Jazzy had been someone who he could run to from his bed when he’d had nightmares and someone he could cuddle on her lap with when he’d cried.

She was gone when he was seven. He didn’t remember why. His parents had probably never told him, but still; he'd assumed he'd have found out why eventually.

Jazzy looked the same right now as she looked in Tim’s memories, although she was likely no longer a college student at a nannying gig. Her red hair was pulled into a high bun, her dress modest and conservative from her neck to her ankles. There was a backpack beside her foot. She was sitting, one leg crossed over the other, on the high-backed loveseat in the green sitting room.

She looked up when he came in.

Tim. Stopped in his tracks.

It didn’t matter. Jazzy—Miss Jasmine stood up as soon as she saw him, eyes alight with worry. Foggy memories were swimming to the forefront of Tim’s brain. He couldn’t move.

“Tim?” Ja—Miss Jasmine asked, teal eyes raking over his frame. Tim froze where he was. He didn’t move, wide-eyed and terrified for no reason at all when Miss Jasmine got closer to him, at a distance that was more appropriate for a conversation.

She stood there. Watching him. It felt like his mother had just come home from her trips with Dad, and a ghost of old terror wafted through him as he waited for her to decide he’d done something wrong. Her voice got softer. Her eyes got softer. Why was Tim feeling so wrong-footed?? It was only a former staff person!

“Tim?” her voice was so gentle. “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m—“

“M’s Jazz,” Tim croaked. Which. Wasn’t the level of formality he’d been going for, but better than Jazzy. He wasn’t a toddler anymore.

Miss Jasmine was so tall—honestly, was she taller than Bruce? She’d seemed insurmountable as a child; he hadn’t expected her height to truly be so statuesque as an adult.

(Or. Well. Almost an adult.)

She didn’t quite kneel down, but she did stoop lower, as if Tim was small and he needed to be on equal footing in order to have a serious conversation.

He could see all her freckles. Tim swallowed. It was too familiar. Everything about her was too familiar.

“You’re so big now,” Jazzy whispered, looking at his hair, his suit, his polished shoes. He didn’t feel it. “Oh, you’ve grown up so well.”

Thanks, Tim almost said. Something stopped him—something thick in his throat, to impassable to break through.

“I—“ he tried. He coughed. “Why…you… You’re here?”

Jazzy threw him an incredulous look, and then an incredibly wry one. “Well,” she drawled a little too primly, in the way that Alfred occasionally made obvious statements, “I’d think it obvious that when one’s parents have passed away, that those who care about you might come to check and see if you’re alright.”

Which. That didn’t make sense. Jazzy hadn’t come back for any other reason; she hadn’t come back for his mother’s funeral, nor when his father was injured publicly by a villain. Why start now?

“And,” Jazz added, seeing his visual confusion and distrust, “Your parents can’t exactly threaten me with a kidnapping charge for visiting you when they’re dead.” Pause. “Which I am sorry about. My condolences.”

Which. Whiplash. What a statement.

“Uh,” said Tim, who was rapidly losing control over the situation.

Jazzy stood again, and went back to her seat; she didn’t set herself down, though, as she only stooped to grab her backpack. “I am sorry for being unable to visit, although I really wanted to; you were at a very vulnerable age and had already moved into a class a year above you, and your parents should have been less hasty about replacing your main caretaker. The assassination attempts were unwarranted, but they did drive the point home that attempting contact was perhaps discouraged.”

“What,” said Tim. “Assassin what.”

“They were ninjas,” Jazzy offered, as if that was an answer. “Except the last one, which was a former marine. The point is that I do care about you, and wanted to ask if you had any idea where you’re going now that your parents are no longer…available guardians.”

Tim’s mouth opened. It closed.

Jazzy waited patiently.

“…How have you been?” Tim tried, resorting to a part of the script they hadn’t gone through yet.

Jazzy’s laugh was tired, but no less real. It was nothing like listening to his parents titter politely; he didn’t think Jazzy would even know how to fake a laugh. “Well, my brother told me that my former bosses had died, which was somewhat stressful. Otherwise, I’m pretty happy: I live with my brother and worked with him for the last few years. I was going to pursue medicine, but…well. The assassination attempts made it hard to interview for scholarships. I suppose that I could return to that now,” Jazzy mused, attention now elsewhere. She pulled the backpack off the floor and up into her grip. She opened it, and flipped through its contents. “How are you doing? I know that Wayne Manor fosters, but your parents were always rather…hands off. I thought the difference in levels of attention might be overwhelming.”

It was. Tim should be surprised how clearly she sees through him—

—But Jazzy used to watch him stim for almost a full hour after school, twisting Bunny’s arms back and forth until he could calm down. Seeing other people all day had been too much for him. Coming home from his parents’ parties had been similarly stressful.

She’d never been mad at him for it. She held him while he talked and stimmed and talked and talked and talked, and brushed his hair sometimes, or if it was very late and he was very young, helped him brush his teeth through all the medieval execution facts he could name.

“It is a lot to get used to,” Tim agreed quietly. He didn’t want to be ungrateful. He didn’t want to let on anyone about his plan to leave.

He had an out. The papers had already been filed; there was an actor waiting to play his uncle for a custody battle, ready for the fight.

Tim was ready to up and go. It was no hardship to leave all the good things here; anything beat making Bruce stick his fingers into Tim any deeper than they already were, compromising the dynamic they’d already established.

It was for the best.

“I can imagine,” Jazzy sympathized easily. “And I wanted to offer—well. I know there’s probably a lot of choices available to you, but my brother and I recently moved back to Gotham proper for the time being. He’s teaching astronomy courses at the university and I’m filing paperwork for Arkham patients. It’s not so privileged a home, but it’s quieter, and more central in town.”

…Tim’s heart skipped.

He. He couldn’t stop staring. Jazzy stared back at him, quiet and sure. Sure of what, Tim had no idea, but…

Why? Why would she want Tim? There was no way she would be able to get to his trust fund without his help, and he for sure knew better than to enable her ability to leech from him. The last time she’d known him, Tim had been a snot-nosed kid who cried all the time and couldn’t be normal for twenty consecutive minutes. His parents couldn’t even stand to be on the same hemisphere as him as a child. What appeal did this have for her?? What could having a teenager with severe baggage living in her house do for her?

And it’s not like there was any chance she knew he was Robin!

“Oh,” Jazzy suddenly interrupted. “I brought these for you, by the way. Your parents had tossed them out at various points; I’ve washed them since, of course.”

She handed him the backpack by the handle.

…Tim peeked inside.

On top was Bunny, still a washed-out faded sort of pink. He looked as fresh as he had the day when Tim’s parents had ”cleaned out” Tim’s nursery—in other words, a faded, a little gray, and slightly discolored from an old spaghetti stain. His button eyes were big and blue.

And beneath him were books that hadn’t passed his father’s muster as appropriately masculine reading material: The Velveteen Rabbit, with the cover a little scarred from a fierce attack of wet wipes. There’s A Monster at the End of This Book, with a goofy-looking Muppet on the cover, gold spine beat up beyond belief. Art Tim’s teacher at the time must have laminated and sent home; Tim’s dorky, crayon cat proved he would never make it as an artist, but attached to it was a photograph of a grinning boy with a bowl cut and a missing tooth.

Tim stared. There’d been purple marker on his hands and face. His grin looked…really bad, actually, like as if he was baring his teeth because he didn’t know how to smile. There was no formal grace there. Nothing to show the neighbors, nothing worth framing to put into the line of sight of the investors in the office.

Jazzy had kept it and brought it home with her. Jazzy had fished it out of the trash, and brought it with her to give back to him in Gotham.

It was crinkled like it’d been folded, over and over again. Further down in the bag was a crumpled certificate dedicated to “Timmy Drake, for: knowing a lot about octopi”, and a baby blanket Tim didn’t even remember. It had rocket ships on it. It looked as if someone had cut into it with scissors, although it had been obviously and brightly mended with red embroidery floss later on.

Jazzy had only been his nanny until Tim was seven. She had simply been gone one night, and Mom and Dad had been home for ten nights after without help before giving in and hiring Mrs. McIlvane and Mrs. Edith. Ms. Edith had never been so…permissive…with Tim as Jazzy had been.

Tim swallowed. He carefully put everything back into the backpack, unsure if he even wanted to keep it or not. It wasn’t like he could leave it here; he’d be gone, ideally, before the week was out. There was no point in taking it with him if he only planned to live with a stranger until he was eighteen.

“J…” Tim tried. He cut himself off before he could get too informal without prompting. “Miss Jasmine—“

“Just Jazz,” Jazzy corrected politely.

“—Why are you here?” Tim asked, ignoring how she’d technically already answered. He didn’t believe her. “What made my parents fire you?”

Jazzy’s expression turned…soft. Tim couldn’t look at her. Something horrible was welling with it, and he didn’t know how to cope.

“I’m here because I care about you,” Jazz repeated, and knelt beside him. She looked up into his face, and took his hand. Tim didn’t know why. He was practically an adult—he didn’t need this!

“And I was fired because your Mother overheard you calling me ‘Mommy’ on accident when you were tired. I suppose she was insulted, although I’d never know why; it’s not like she was ever home to bond with you in the first place.”

Tim’s throat closed. He missed his mom. He missed waiting up for his parents’ flight home, seeing their headlights outside the window, and knowing they’d bring home gifts from overseas. He missed using Mom’s perfume, and knowing he’d used more of the bottle sitting on her dressed than she ever had, but that it still smelled like her. He missed hearing his Dad telling all sorts of adventure stories and promises through the phone to be home for the holidays, even if Tim knew there was every chance he’d find some other way to spend the time back in Gotham.

And there was some small child in him who missed Jazzy, who hugged him and walked him to the library and made him soup from a can instead of fancy dinners and, who’d never needed to be waited for in the first place.

Tim looked at Jazzy’s round, freckled face.

He swallowed.

Tim moved out before the end of the week, as expected.

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

a merry Between Week to everyone! rest well!

extra layers:

[nerdy-talks]

~ A Call With Solomon ~

It starts out innocent enough, Solomon asking MC what's for dinner and MC responding to his inquiry by letting him know what they've prepared.

If Nightbringer has taught us anything it's that, even though humans technically don't get drunk from Demonus, Solomon clearly likes to drink xD

But what a nice offer! Solomon is eager to eat our cooking and wants to share a relaxing evening with us.

That should be the end of the phone call, right?

Wrong.

Our devious teacher actually called us and intentionally spoke to us as if we were married in order to deliberately make Lucifer jealous... and it worked! xD

Solomon the Sneaky Sorcerer ¬‿¬

My reaction :

I'm not sure if Solomon was lowkey threatening Lucifer since Lucifer insulted him, or maybe Solomon was simply prepared and willing to show off his abilities.... but either way, talk about an intense phone call to receive (no doubt the tension could be felt through the phone ^^")

Gotta admit, I do think it's funny that Lucifer indirectly called Solomon foolish, especially since Barbatos calls him an imbecile and shows no restraint when it comes to insulting his intelligence ... Poor Solomon lol

Then to rub it in even further :

Solomon just HAS to reiterate that he's the one who is coming home to us.

If there's a war between demons and humans, Solomon will be the cause....

The battle of the old men lol

[rolandkaros]

forever hilarious to me that tennis is promoted as this prestigious highbrow big-brain sport when most tennis fans these days are like. yeah this is my favorite player. yeah i don't know why they're like that. yes they are stupid. no i will not choose somebody else.

[stsgbrainrot]

jjk 214 thoughts

Finally had some time to gather my thoughts about the latest chapter and my head is full of Megumi

Megumi who is at his absolute lowest point, who Sukuna described as his soul breaking. Megumi who for a brief moment believed his sister had come back to him only to have his hope extinguished in such a cruel manner. And now his last interaction with her might forever be one of pain, betrayal, and disbelief that he didn't recognize the imposter earlier. Megumi who’s mentor and guardian is still trapped in the prison realm and the only hope to release him is now dead, slaughtered right in front of him. Megumi who had to watch Hana, the girl he once saved die by his own hand even if he was an unwilling participant and powerless to prevent it. Megumi who watches his friends brutalized and dismissed in such a careless manner. Megumi who is forced to fight his closest friend, faced with the devastating reality that Yuuji might die for a second time.Yuuji, the boy he promised to save from their first meeting, his life a living hell which would bring anyone to their knees.

And yet... Megumi who finds a way to fight back against the King of Curses, no matter how low the odds bc it’s Yuuji’s life on the line, and Yuuji has always been that important to him. Megumi who is so fundamentally kind at his core and needs to prevent Sukuna from spilling more innocent blood, regardless of what it costs him. Megumi who even with his soul almost completely shattered refuses to give up because he is so full of love and determination.

And finally Megumi who learned that it’s possible to fight Sukuna bc of Yuuji and who knows that no matter what Yuuji will always be on his side. They are still in this together.  

[hannahsnz]

I just love an allergy denial.

Especially one punctuated with sniffles and sneezes.

A: “I think you have allergies…”

B: “N-no - atscheww!! - it’s just a tickle in my… ATSHEWW! …scuse me…my nose…”

🫠🫠

[batboopp]

i like batman and harleys dynamic not in the “hahah older brother and younger sister” way or in the “would probably be besties in another life” way but in the “they both relate to each other deeply without even realizing it in the way they run back to people who manipulate and hurt them. they click together like magnets simply because they see the best in all people, even in monsters like the joker, and can live in the relief that they won’t be automatically victim blamed and shamed even when no one was there for them at their worst or took the proper time to understand them” way

[palms-upturned]

PSA

Hello friends, I’m sorry for being mostly offline for a little while, I’ve been struggling a bit. Please rest assured that I’m going to try to get everything running again ASAP, but here’s a short version of what’s going on.

At the moment, I’m unemployed due to my disability and trying to get a lot of things sorted out in the bursts of time when I feel well enough. I am fairly certain that my pain and fatigue is being caused by sciatic endometriosis that was made worse by a covid infection, but it’s going to take me a while to get diagnosed and (hopefully) treated. In the meantime, my pain flareups are unfortunately getting worse and more frequent. What this means is that unfortunately I have stretches of time where I have a hard time talking to people or even thinking straight. Some of the medicines I take for my pain also make me drowsy which makes things even harder on top of it all.

I’m going to continue promoting fundraisers, but I feel very bad that these periods of time are becoming longer and more frequent because every day of fundraising is critically important. So what I’d like to ask is whether any of my friends/mutuals here would be interested in helping me run @vetted-gaza-funds so that even when I’m not well, at least that blog can stay up to date. There are currently over 100 fundraisers posted there, and as more get added, the more time it takes me to update the master list, update urls for users who were forced to remake their blogs, and work through the inbox for new campaigns. Trying to push through on days when I don’t feel well has already resulted in some really stupid mistakes like accidentally deleting the original master list post, and I really don’t want to do something like that again.

One friend of mine has already volunteered to help, which I’m very thankful for, but if I could find maybe five more people, then that would mean one mod for every day of the week, which would hopefully mean that it wouldn’t be too large a commitment for anyone. The more the merrier, basically.

So to break things down, here’s what I would be doing:

Creating a discord server for the blog mods

Looking through the inbox each day for new campaigns to add

Cross referencing those campaigns on master lists/spreadsheets to see which ones are already verified and can be shared

Adding the campaign links, usernames, and other relevant information to a cryptpad document for people to plug into a post/add to the master list

Here’s what I would need help doing:

Making the actual posts on the blog (there is a template in the drafts that I use to make them)

Updating the fund amounts/progress in the master list, ideally every day

If comfortable, briefly answering direct messages to let people know when their campaigns have been added to the blog

Also, so far the blog has just been full of fundraisers for people who have contacted me directly, but if anyone helping with the blog has verified fundraisers that they themselves would like to add, of course that would be great as well!

If you’re interested in helping me out, please dm me or reply to this post! (I’d prefer not to talk via asks because when I answer asks privately I don’t have any record of our conversation and I can be forgetful 😅)

Thank you all 🙏 today I’m unfortunately still not feeling well so I may be slow to respond but I will try to answer messages and get everything set up asap!

[ghostdrinkssoup]

idk how controversial this is but I’m actually such a big fan of s3a. it’s the exact kind of phantasmagorical bullshit that makes me kick my feet and grin like a fool. the whole show goes haywire and completely abandons the generic structure of the police procedural, and it totally gets away with it because at this point the narrative has unravelled so much that the show can safely let go of whatever conformity it was barely hanging onto in s2b. and on a metafictional level the shift in external genre strangely parallels the progression of the two main characters: just as will and hannibal have changed each other, the show too has revealed its true nature

[melancholyfleurs]

hey cuties in my phone. i just want you to know i love you very much and life is so fucking hard but so worth living and if it’s dark for you rn just know i am rooting for you and i hope things get easier <3.

[merakiui]

cannot stop thinking about enemies to lovers with rollo, but you’re each other’s secret santa.

Your plan is to get Rollo something he’ll never need or use (a really petty revenge on your part, but you don’t like him and in the midst of your hatred it sounds reasonable), while Rollo genuinely wants to get you something meaningful. Putting differences aside, he realizes he doesn’t know much about your preferences, so he tries to ask around without seeming too suspicious. As troublesome of a disruption as you are, everyone deserves a lovely gift for the holidays. You’ve given Rollo nothing but headaches and irritation, but since it’s the festive season he can be softer and forgive past disagreements. Anything after the holiday break is fair game, though, so it’s best to cause mischief while the holidays are in full swing because he’s prone to be only slightly less overbearing (depending on his mood as the festivities become more apparent).

Somehow, with all of his asking around, rumor spreads throughout Noble Bell that President Rollo is planning to ask you out on the eve of the holidays at exactly midnight under the bell tower. How such an absurd rumor started is beyond him, and Rollo is fully ready to refute every gossiping comment that’s boldly thrown his way, both in passing conversations and from his fellow Vice President and student aide. He cannot believe the school assumes he would even think of asking you—Noble Bell’s most notorious troublemaker—out! And during the holidays, too! He’d much rather burn to death than do something like that. He can’t stand you. How anyone thinks he’d like you enough to want to pursue romance with you is absolutely ridiculous. 

But then the idea suddenly becomes less ridiculous and more advantageous when his Vice President suggests he go on an actual date (or friendly outing; Rollo’s expression is sharp enough to kill when he hears the word ‘date’) in order to learn about what it is you like. Word of mouth isn’t as reliable as hearing it from the source. Rollo, after much consideration, supposes it isn’t terrible, but (once again) he’d rather do anything else than punish himself with a date with you, of all students. He’s so stubborn when he claims he’ll find another way, and his Vice President can only utter a soft sigh. 

As the deadline for Secret Santa approaches and Rollo overhears how the others around him have all found perfect presents, he begins to fear that he won’t ever find a gift that’s good enough for you. But why is he even trying so hard? It’s not as if he looks forward to seeing your bright smile when you unwrap it. It’s not as if he’s doing this to make you happy. This is just common courtesy. An act of goodwill from student to student, if you will. Or, in less sweet terms, an obligation he must fulfill due to the misfortune of a lottery draw. 

So he thinks nothing of it when his Vice President and student aide invite him to a café off campus as a final outing before everyone goes home for the holidays. When he walks through the door, the bell welcoming him with a cheery jingle, and he sees you sitting there he promptly turns and is ready to walk out. But you call out to him, wave with that pretty hand of yours, and he can’t stop himself from sighing. His peers lied to him; this is not an outing to celebrate the end of the semester. It’s the date he was dreading. He only stays because it’s the polite thing to do—because you’re whining about how he lacks manners and has the gall to leave a dear friend all alone after he had invited them out. 

Rollo really can’t stand you, but he must for the time being. So he slides into the chair across from you, where you’ve already ordered his favorites (he’s certain his troublesome Vice President arranged this, too). If he has to stomach an entire afternoon with you, he might as well get something out of it, so he uses the time he spends with you to learn about your preferences in hopes of getting inspiration for a gift.

Things are awkward in the beginning. Both of you are so accustomed to bickering over rules and Noble Bell’s student code of conduct that civil conversation is actually much harder to fall into. You broach the subject of that rumor that’s been going around and that’s what gets him talking. Rollo scoffs around a bite of croissant, muttering about how it’s nonsensical rubbish and that people will believe anything nowadays so long as it’s interesting. When you laugh out of relief and tell him you’re glad he doesn’t like you because that would’ve made things awkward, he feels an odd sting. Your feelings have never mattered to him, so why does he hate those words?

And why, while he talks of holiday plans with you, does he find himself smiling? Thankfully he’s brought his handkerchief along to hide his pleased expression. He’s not sure what he’d say if you were to make note of his obvious enjoyment, for even he wouldn’t be able to explain it. 

By the end of it, Rollo feels as though he’s gleaned a better understanding of you. When you aren’t actively causing a ruckus, you’re actually quite pleasant to be around. Who would have thought? Despite this, he’s still ready to head back to campus with you after a draining afternoon. But you point to a sweets shop on the way and ask if he’s ever had their winter-themed treats before. He narrows his eyes at you, as if to say, “What are you playing at?” You’re seizing his wrist and dragging him in the direction of the confectionery before he can say anything.

It feels like he’s in a cheesy holiday film, what with how you energetically peer into the jars of candies and sweets, all arranged neatly on the shelves, and the soundtrack in the shop plays festive tunes on repeat. Rollo tries to hurry you along; if anyone from school sees him with you, they’ll think the rumors are true and it’ll cause even more trouble. You yank on his scarf to keep him close, and he’s so tempted to yank you in return. But he finds that you don’t have a scarf for him to tug, and so he has to fester in his displeasure with a scowl. 

The two of you walk out with snowflake-shaped marshmallows, bell-shaped cookies, and candy canes of all flavors and colors. Rollo supposes he’s earned a sweet after dealing with your spontaneity, but then you insist on getting hot chocolate to go along with the marshmallows and now he’s being dragged to a little shop nearby. On the way there, the two of you pass a craft store and something catches his eye. He tells you to go ahead while he steps inside. You raise your brow at him but continue along, and when the two of you meet up he’s holding a bag. You question it, and he tells you to stop being so nosy. Your curiosity is quickly snuffed when you spy another storefront with windows decorated so adorably. 

At some point, in the midst of popping in and out of stores—where he continues to remind you that the both of you ought to be getting back—it begins to snow. Tiny flakes flutter to the ground, and you stick your tongue out to catch a few. They melt immediately upon contact. Rollo doesn’t realize he’s not hiding his expression until you’re gaping at him.

“What?” he asks slowly, dubiously, his eyes narrowing once more. 

“You’re smiling,” you say in awe. “I’ve never seen you smile before...”

“This smile is not for you,” he assures you with a scoff. “Stop ogling. It’s rude.”

“But you look so nice and approachable when you smile like that.”

He glares at you and the smile vanishes behind an irritated countenance and that trademark handkerchief of his. 

“I suppose,” he admits after a moment of awkward silence, “you aren’t so terrible to be around when you aren’t acting like a menace to the entirety of the student body.”

“Why, thank you, President Flamm! That’s high praise coming from you.” You lower into a dramatic bow. He rolls his eyes, but his heart skips a beat. “And you aren’t so bad either. To be honest, I thought I was done for when your VP told me you wanted to meet at the café. I thought you’d chew me out or hex me or...something.”

The mere notion that he’d do such things to you is irksome. He isn’t entirely bad or frightening. You just seem to bring those sides out when you run through the halls, pick fights, and cause disorder amongst the students. 

“Is that right?” He lowers the handkerchief, smirking. His fingers find your chin and he tilts your head to meet his stare. “Maybe you should try being less of a pain. I might show you some mercy the next time we cross paths.”

He pulls away, leaving you stunned, and turns on his heel. “Now then, we should return to campus. It’s getting late and cold, and I’d rather not get stuck in the snow.” 

Rollo doesn’t realize what he did until hours later, when he’s sitting at his desk knitting snowflake patterns into a scarf from the yarn he purchased at the craft shop. The memory has his face gradually heating up, so red and hot you could mistake it for a wavering flame. 

He can’t stand you, or so he once thought.

The gift bag sits innocently in front of your dorm door. There’s a card attached, but the sender’s true name isn’t written. Rather, a lovely message has been penned in curling script: Happy holidays. Do take care to bundle up. It gets rather cold around this time of year. I would hate to see you frostbitten and ill the next time we meet. Sincerely, your Secret Santa. Inside the bag are a scarf, a bag of assorted candies from a confectionery in the city, hot chocolate mix, and a mug with moon and star patterns. It’s a very comfortable gift, and you can’t help but admire the handmade scarf’s quality. 

You have your suspicions, but there’s no way such a kind gift could come from Rollo. He’s made it quite clear that he dislikes you, and you feel the same way. It’s probably from his VP, right? He did ask you a few questions about gift preferences, so it’s quite plausible that he’s your Secret Santa.

Rollo is in the middle of penning his thoughts in his diary when there’s a sharp knock at his door. And then frantic footsteps echo down the hall. He opens the door in hopes of catching the culprit, but he finds emptiness instead. His gaze travels down to the gift box that rests at his feet. It’s been wrapped in blue and white paper and has been taped rather sloppily. With raised brows, he gathers the gift in his arms and shuts the door, curiosity mounting. 

The card taped to it is the first thing he opens. It reads: I really don’t know you that well and I have no idea what you like or what you do in your free time, so if you ever learn my identity please don’t give me another detention for this gift. I tried my best! In any case, happy holidays, Rollo. You deserve a break. See you next year! From, your super cool and super secretive secret santa!!! When he unwraps the gift and peels the lid back, an amused smile pulls at his lips. Inside the box is a croissant plush with beady, little eyes and a cute smile. There’s also a sugar cookie-scented candle and an astronomy-themed stationery kit.  

Rollo sets the gifts on his desk, lowers into his chair, and flips to a new page in his diary. His heart feels oddly light as he scribbles a fresh entry.

I think I’m falling in love, are the first words that stain the page. And it isn’t a terrible feeling.

[throwawayasoiafaccount]

hotd never fails to disappoint

[the-everqueen]

re: WIPs, i have several sandman fics i'm working on and i'd like to finish. these are informed as much by (my opinions on) the spinoff comix and the actors' choices in the tv series as the original comix. also the neilman doesn't get any money from me having better opinions about the Corinthian and Rose Walker than he did back in the 90s (or now tbh). regarding the allegations - i believe the victims, i'm disinterested in any discourse that dismisses them or other women as liars in order to preserve this one man's fragile ego, and i don't want to materially support him via books or events or streaming. but i understand that some of my mutuals need to totally disengage from anything related to him. i'm fairly religious about my tags, so moots feel free to blacklist as needed and/or request specialized tags to avoid potential triggers. (this also extends to other things: if you need accommodations for specific tws, please ask.)

[youre-where-i-wanna-go]

This whole "people shouldn't come for jamie lee curtis, she deserves an oscar too and she's a great person" shtick is soo tired to me bc I have no interest in attacking her as a person for the simple reason that I don't even know her like that.

But based on this awards season alone, here's what pisses me tf off and what people are absolutely allowed to be annoyed over. The whole "It's not her fault she's a nepo baby" doesn't cut it when you have the epitome of white privilege going on stage to accept an award (SAG in this case) for an Asian American movie and cry about how she's 64 and a nepo baby (because she was butthurt over internet jokes pointing out her privilege) RIGHT IN FRONT OF a 64-year-old Black woman who was raised in the projects by a single mother, hell who was part of school integration because segregation was still a thing when she was little, with absolutely no shame. Boasting about your privilege in front of a woman who is the same age as you and has definitely been set back by that age way way more than you and had to work miles harder to even get her career started is not cute. It's disrespectful.

But who is getting attacked for not being humble enough? Of course, the Black woman who dared to look sad as she watched her life-long dream get crushed right in front of her. Whose hard work was ignored yet again.

Did you see Jamie's face when Angela accepted her Golden Globe, by the way?

So yes, I absolutely am annoyed by Jamie right now and not for things outside of her control. White women get to turn their privilege into a joke because they got butthurt by it being pointed out once while Black women aren't even allowed to express their emotions without facing vile misogynoir.

If you, and I absolutely hold white people to a higher standard here, but if you want to acknowledge the hurdles women and specifically older women have in the industry on the platform that stage gives you, you do not get to leave out the woman in that same category who is affected by this even more than you. Especially while you're holding an award that an Asian American movie enabled you to win.

[chiropteracupola]

@dotsayers correctly guessed the source of my recent nonsense posting, so here is An Attempt At A Biggles as a reward.

[cyanbeetle]

My Canadian followers please never forget that even the “truth” part of truth and reconciliation is a sham because all levels of government still refuse to acknowledge that there were way more than 139 residential schools as they intentionally left those that were provincially or privately funded out of the TRC settlement agreement