Blamore Just Casually Being The Most Extroverted Rogue Is One Of My Favorite Things Now LMAO Like I Am Kind Of Convinced It Could Make- - Tumblr Posts

there was a more homey quality to the greenhouse that day, it seemed, as the lights hanging from the tall ceiling were turned on due to the cloudiness outside. and not to mention, the faint sound of music could be heard in one of the various nooks that were located throughout the massive building. particularly the one that housed the herbal medicines blamore had become somewhat known for making. for, there was always going to be one thing that it was known for above everything else: its 'seeds.' though, lately, less and less people seemed to be dying as a result of mysterious circumstances related to their meta-gene being forced to activate. which was a problem blamore was trying to solve at the moment but it was a slow process.

if only he knew where dorian, the creator of them, was. a light sigh left his lips as he finally finished grinding the chamomile below him to a pulp. all people seemed to be interested in lately was remedies for sleep, which was all fine and dandy until it realized that that was arguably the cheapest solutions it sold as an herbalist; and so it'd been delving more into dealing with some very undesirable people to be able to live. but hey, at least his expansive knowledge of plants was being put to good use by selling poisons, right? blamore was just about to check on its cat when it heard the telltale chime of its alarm that someone was in here.

luckily, as blamore made his way to jervis, he wasn't immediately set to attack whomever his guest was. because he realized he would be awfully sorry if he had seeing as it was the mad hatter. blamore couldn't help but let its head cock in curiosity then, as it wasn't quite sure what he'd be here for. all he heard from jervis's part was what sounded like a faint growl of his stomach so he just silently watched while the other pulled out a rum cake. a pleasantly surprised hum left its mouth then, its ever-present sense of hunger making an appearance again. that cake looked delicious. but there was something off about jervis, blamore thought, looking at him now.

his eyes went wide at jervis saying it didn't have to accept in both a sense of astonishment and surprise. subsequently, blamore rose a hand up to grasp its chest for dramatic effect, a bit of an incredulous laugh leaving it, ❝ oh my — now, how could i refuse such a kind gift? especially one to express gratitude. i mean, it has been a while since anyone has been grateful towards me, ❞ it took a few steps closer towards jervis to get a closer look at the cake before he noticed it. what was different about jervis. blamore spread both of his arms out, before gesturing towards the other, ❝ ahh... what happened, mon ami? you look thinner. i will tell you what, you and i can share the cake, because you look starved! come on. ❞

26. offering their snack (for jervis!! you're getting two for the price of one today / j LOL, nah, i kid i kid)

The greenhouse's humidity always leaves Jervis' hair curlier than usual, his glasses fogged, and his clothes damp with sweat. Privately, he likes to think his early childhood in Bermuda gave him some tolerance for the heat, even though nearly 39 years have passed since he last saw the island. Despite the swelter, he's not entirely bothered. Blamore's abode is a rare, unsung haven in Gotham, a verdant sanctuary compared to the chaos and grime of the concrete jungle outside.

Jervis' tattoos are rarely exposed outside of showering or swimming, but today is an exception; standing out against the ribbed, pale green fabric of his undershirt. Sweet peas and garden roses, vivid and intricate, bloom on his right bicep. Marigolds, bold and fiery, adorn his left shoulder blade. His pale, ink-smudged fingers scratch away at his journal beneath the shade of a silver oak, with his neatly folded jacket, shirt, gloves, and tie nearby.

Mismatched eyes drift upward as blooming hyacinths signal his host's approach. Jervis' stomach growls faintly. No surprise—he'd skipped supper again last night, and breakfast was a spartan affair, as was his wont: just a few apple slices, plantains with peanut butter, and green tea. He reaches for his bag, removes a small Tupperware container, and a packet of plastic silverware. Inside is a slice of rum cake, buttery and delicious, topped with walnuts.

"Normally, this would be unusual. Where I'm from, rum cake is typically a Christmas staple. But sometimes, longing for the old country can raise its head. You don't have to accept if you don't want it, but it's the least I could do to show my gratitude for your hospitality lately."