Hey there! I decided I want to do a Masterlist since I have quite a lot of work already published and wanted a place where it's organised and everyone can see clearly if there is something they'd like to read^^ I'll try to keep it updated as much as possible but I'm sure I'll fall behind at some point. Anyways. At the beginning you can see a alphabetical order of the characters I already wrote. So if you look for a specific character be sure to look into it to see if it's there. If you notice there isn't one you like you can always sent a request or ask a question^^ I'd be happy to fulfil and answer all of them if I can. Anyways I hope you like my work!
Last Updated: 23.09 25
Updated: DC Masterlist
Character List (Alphabetical)
⧠Arthur Fleck (Joker)
⧠Astarion (Baldur's Gate 3)
⧠Benedict Bridgerton (Bridgerton)
⧠Bobble (Tinkerbell)
⧠Bruno Madrigal (Encanto)
⧠Cal Kestis (Jedi: Fallen Order/Survivor)
⧠Cedric the Sorcerer (Sofia the First)
⧠Chop Top Sawyer (The Texas Chainsaw Massacre)
⧠Clawd Wolf (Monster High)
⧠Clawdeen Wolf (Monster High)
⧠Clopin Trouillefou (The Hunchback of Notre Dame)
⧠Cole Mikaelson (Vampire Diaries)
⧠Drayton Sawyer (The Texas Chainsaw Massacre)
⧠Dottore (Genshin Impact)
⧠Edward Nygma (Arkham Games/Gotham Series)
⧠Enjiro Kirishima (My Hero Academia)
⧠Felix Fickelgruber (Wonka)
⧠Fred Weasley (Harry Potter)
⧠Gaston (Beauty and the Beast)
⧠Genichi Sojo (Kagurabachi)
⧠Heath Ledger's Joker (Batman: The Dark Knight)
Hey guys, I just uploaded a new Star Wars series on ao3. Be sure to check it out, its called "A Place in the Galaxy" and follows Obi-Wan as he has to adapt to a new Padawan.
Hey guys, I know I've been away for quite some time, but I'm happy to announce that I have somewhat returned. I just posted my very first AO3 post, and I'm going to write a long series about Jervisx Female Oc. I hope you´ll check it out. <3
My Account is also called Knoepfl there, and the Story is called: A New Place To Belong
https://archiveofourown.org/works/81904336
Chapters: 1/? Fandom: Gotham (TV), DCU (Comics) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death Relationships: Jervis Tetch/Reader, Jervis Tetch/Original Character(s), Jervis Tetch & Original Female Character(s), Jervis Tetch/Original Female Character(s), Female Protagonist - Relationship Characters: Jervis Tetch, Jim Gordon (DCU), Reader, Original Female Character(s), Original Female Human Character(s), Mad Hatter, Protagonist - Female Additional Tags: Character Death, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Reincarnation, Suicide Attempt, Self-Harm, Depression, Mental Health Issues, Bullying, Childhood Trauma, Self-Esteem Issues, Stress, Primary School, Slow Burn, How Do I Tag, Tags May Change, Tags Are Hard, failure - Freeform, Angst, Heavy Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Internal Conflict, Coming of Age, Loss of Innocence, Isolation, hopelessness, Trans 514A (Gotham TV), Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Soft Jervis Tetch, Creepy Jervis Tetch, Protective Jervis Tetch, Warning: Jervis Tetch, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, My First AO3 Post Summary:
Flora Pine, a young girl suffocated by expectations and pressure, decides to end it all. Yet she doesn't end up in hell or heaven, but in a TV series she watched years ago in a body that's deeply in trouble and now belongs to her. Will she be able to fight the problems this new life brings? Will she die yet again, or will she finally be happy?
⢠Jervis Tetch (Mad Hatter): A poetic, delusional villain shaped by obsession and loss. In the chaos of Arkham City, he finds purpose in caring for a broken child. Though mad, he shows surprising gentleness and protectiveness.
⢠Evelyn (Child!Reader): A mute, traumatized young girl found freezing and alone. Severely abused and mentally underdeveloped, she clings to the only warmth sheâs given Jervisâs hat, his voice, and his presence.
Trigger Warnings:
⢠Child neglect and abuse: The child has suffered long-term trauma, including physical abuse, starvation, burns, and dislocation injuries.
⢠Severe malnourishment and illness: The Reader is found in near-fatal condition freezing, bruised, and close to collapse.
⢠Nonverbal behavior / Developmental trauma: The Reader does not speak and is mentally underdeveloped due to prolonged isolation and suffering.
⢠Psychological horror / Arkham setting: The story takes place in the bleak, lawless world of Arkham City, where violence and madness are constant.
⢠Implied past torture / captivity: The child's condition and reactions imply a history of extreme cruelty and imprisonment.
⢠Found family in dark settings: While the relationship is purely platonic and protective, it explores intense emotional trauma and vulnerability.
⢠Emotional dependency / coping through delusion: Jervis's attachment to the child blends fantasy, grief, and protective obsession.
Masterlist
~Part 1~
Words: 2666
---
The wind howled outside the tunnel like a starving animal.
Inside, Evelyn lay curled on the nest of old blankets, Jervisâs oversized hat still pulled low over her face. She hadnât moved since he placed her down, not even to shift. The only signs of life were the shivers wracking her body less now than before, but still there. Her skin was a horrible patchwork of bruises, scrapes, and ghost-pale frostbite. Her feet had stopped bleeding, but her toes looked stiff, and her skin was dry and cracked, nearly gray.
Jervis knelt a short distance away, watching her. The light from a mismatched string of old bulbs flickered across the hideout broken furniture, stacked books, hand-drawn paintings of teacups and clocks. A child might have once found it magical. But for Evelyn, who hadnât spoken, blinked, or breathed fully since he found her, it was just⌠not the street.
She was still alive.
That was something.
Jervis reached over to the little teapot warming on a salvaged heater coil. It hissed faintly as he poured water into a chipped, dainty teacup. No tea just warmth. He added a thin strip of cloth to steep like a mock leaf. He knew better than to feed her solid food right away. Her body wouldnât handle it. But warm water? That, he could offer.
âDrink, little clockhand,â he whispered, not truly expecting her to respond.
She didnât.
But her head twitched under the hat barely at the sound of his voice.
Jervis smiled.
Progress.
He reached her slowly, then crouched beside her, resting on the balls of his feet. She tensed as he neared. Even under layers of cloth and the large hat, he saw her tiny body recoil slightly, like a bird expecting a storm.
âItâs warm,â he said gently, holding the teacup in front of her. âNo tricks, no poison, no shrinking potions. Just something to chase the frost away.â
She didnât move.
He set the cup down beside her hands and waited.
After a long moment, she leaned forward maybe to see, maybe to hide and the hat shifted up slightly. Her eyes were dull. Glazed. But still⌠watching. She didnât touch the cup.
Jervis slowly pulled a medical kit from one of the nearby trunks. It was old and weathered but stocked with what mattered: gauze, disinfectant, tweezers, gloves, pain powder. He slipped his gloves on and returned to her, kneeling again.
âNow, little Evelyn⌠this may sting. But Iâll be careful. I promise on the Queenâs own chessboard.â
He moved like a performer precise, smooth as he slid the blankets back slightly from her limbs.
Her arms⌠so thin. So bruised. He had to bite back the tremor in his throat as he saw them clearly. Old belt marks, cigarette burns, scars made by something sharper than glass. Her left shoulder was visibly out of place dislocated long ago and never fixed. She hadn't cried about it, hadnât mentioned it. Just bore it like it was normal.
No child should bear pain in silence like that.
Jervis hummed softly under his breath as he worked, the melody calm, almost melodic. He cleaned her cuts carefully, wrapping them in clean gauze. When he reset her shoulder with a small, quiet click, she didnât scream. She only jerked, violently then went very, very still.
He hated that.
How she didnât cry.
Didnât dare to.
He sighed, brushing a bit of her matted hair away from her cheek. Her skin was too cold, too pale. He made a note to fetch her clothes better ones from the supply rooms below later.
âSoon, youâll feel better. Yes, yes, better than ever. Weâll have a tea party with sugar and songs and storybooks⌠once the monsters stop screaming outside.â
Still no answer. But her breathing steadied, just a little.
And when he placed a patched wool blanket over her shoulders, her hands didnât push it off.
That night, Evelyn thrashed in her sleep.
It came suddenly no warning. One moment, she was curled beneath the old quilt near the heater pipe. The next, her body jerked violently, limbs flailing like she was drowning.
A whimper escaped her lips not a word. Just sound.
Pain.
Fear.
Then her mouth opened, but no scream came out. Just a faint, broken gasp like the wind had been ripped from her lungs.
Jervis was beside her in seconds.
âNo, no, sweetling- shhh,â he whispered, kneeling down as she writhed. âYouâre safe. Youâre safe with the Hatter now. No wolves. No knives. Just hats and heat and hearthâŚâ
Her hands clawed at the air, trying to grab something unseen.
Jervis hesitated⌠then reached into the corner and retrieved something.
A doll.
Crude, hand-sewn, its button eyes mismatched. Heâd made it long ago meant to resemble Alice, though it had grown frayed and shapeless over the years. He placed it gently in Evelynâs trembling hands.
She gripped it instantly so hard her fingers turned white.
ThenâŚ
Stillness.
Not peace. Not sleep.
But stillness.
Her mouth closed. Her chest heaved a few more times, and tears leaked silently down her cheeks. But she held the doll tight to her chest, like it was a shield.
Jervis stroked her hair once, slow and careful.
Then, he began to hum.
"Hush-a-bye, donât you cry, go to sleepy little girl...
When you wake, you shall find, sugar tea and hats in twirl..."
It was a lullaby no one else would remember.
He stayed with her through the night, sitting cross-legged beside her pallet of blankets. The doll remained cradled in her arms. His hat still covered her face. She never spoke. Never looked directly at him.
But she didnât let go of the doll.
And she didnât run.
That was enough.
Morning never truly came in Arkham.
Just a paler kind of gray than the night before.
The day began with silence.
Jervis didnât expect conversation Evelyn had not spoken once since he found her. But the quiet she carried was suffocating. Not peaceful. Not childlike. It was the kind of quiet that settled in after screams had long since gone ignored.
She sat bundled in his patchwork coat, still lost in the depths of his oversized top hat, arms wrapped around the cloth doll heâd gifted her. Her eyes barely visible beneath the brim tracked his movements like prey unsure if the hunter still meant harm.
But Jervis Tetch, madman though he was, had never wished to be the villain in this particular tale.
He moved softly. Humming. Preparing things.
She did not react when he started gathering warm water from the pipe-fed kettle heâd jury-rigged to serve as a heater. Didnât blink when he laid out cloths, soap carved from old hotel supplies, and a change of clothes: a sweater worn but clean, woolen socks, a cotton nightdress.
The bruises he'd glimpsed on her frail limbs last night had haunted him.
And this morning he swore she looked even colder.
He approached her with the bundle carefully folded in his arms, voice gentle and sing-song.
âMy dearest Evelyn⌠might I offer you something truly marvelous? A bath. Warm water, soft suds, and something sweet-smelling. A chance to wash away the cityâs grime and chill. Wonât that be lovely?â
She froze.
Every muscle in her small frame tensed. She didnât look at him not directly but her tiny hands clenched the doll tighter, and her knees curled in closer to her chest.
He saw the fear. Ancient and immediate.
Not a childâs reluctance.
No.
It was terror.
She remembered something.
Not a bath.
Not water.
Someone.
Jervis stopped, the smile fading from his lips. Not in frustration, but sorrow.
He crouched, still holding the bundle, and waited. She was watching. Not obviously. But he knew. He could feel it in the way her body braced like she was about to be struck.
âI wonât touch you,â he said softly. âNot unless you want me to, precious girl. No tricks. No games. Just kindness, if youâll have it.â
No answer.
He moved slowly to a corner of the room and pulled down an old velvet curtain, tacking it up to hang like a wall. A small space, walled off just enough for privacy.
âIâll be just beyond,â he promised. âYou may step behind this, and I will not look. Iâll set down the basin, the cloth, the towel and then Iâll count to sixty.
Still nothing.
He stepped back. Just a few paces.
She didnât move.
He knelt again, closer now to where she sat, and this time carefully set the folded clothes beside her. Her eyes flicked down, then back to his face.
Tension.
Fear.
And then⌠something small.
Her hand twitched.
She reached out slowly, shakily toward the cloth he was still holding in his hand.
But she didnât take it.
She touched his fingers instead.
Just barely.
So lightly he mightâve imagined it if not for the warmth of her cold little hand trembling against his glove.
Jervis went still.
Then he gently turned his hand, offering her his palm.
And she⌠took it.
Just two fingers curled into his.
It was not trust.
It was desperation.
But to Jervis Tetch, it was sacred.
He bowed his head as if in prayer.
âOh, EvelynâŚâ he murmured, voice breaking into the barest hush. âWould you like me to help you get clean, my dove? Would it be easier⌠if I helped?â
She did not answer.
But she did not pull away.
That was enough.
He waited a full minute longer, holding her hand, letting her decide. When she gave the slightest shift the smallest lean forward he nodded once and rose.
âIâll warm the basin again,â he said gently. âAnd Iâll be as careful as a watchmakerâs thumb.â
It took time.
He set the space behind the curtain with folded towels on the ground to soften the concrete. A little cushion. A small lantern. Steam slowly unfurled from the basin. When all was ready, he turned back and offered her his hand again.
She took it.
She let him guide her behind the curtain, where she stood small and fragile, arms wrapped around herself, lips trembling and didnât move.
His heart broke all over again when he saw her clearly.
Her ribs were too visible. Her stomach, bruised. Her backâŚ
He swallowed hard.
She flinched at the waterâs sound, but made no attempt to flee.
He knelt beside her and looked up into her shadowed face.
âMay I?â he asked. âIâll be careful. Like a poetâs breath. Iâll start with your arms.â
No reply.
But her arm slowly, painfully lifted.
He nodded.
No sudden movements.
No pressure.
He took a cloth and dipped it gently in the warm water, then softly began to clean her forearm caked in dirt, smeared with dried blood and soot. The cloth moved in slow circles, barely brushing her skin.
She flinched with every touch.
But she didnât pull away.
He washed up to her shoulder, then moved to the next arm, then carefully behind her neck.
Each bruise told its own story. Each cut demanded a moment of reverence.
He didnât ask questions.
Not now.
The city had already done enough harm.
As he gently wiped her bruised back, her body went rigid utterly frozen. He paused.
âNo more,â he whispered. âNo more pain. Just warmth now. Just clean.â
His fingers brushed gently down her spine with the cloth, never skin to skin. He didnât rush.
She was shaking.
But not crying.
She hadnât cried once.
He moved to her legs next, careful to keep her modesty guarded by the towel across her lap.
âOh, my poor poppet⌠your feetâŚâ he murmured. âWeâll get thick boots on those soon. And perhaps little bells to chime when you walk.â
The tiniest twitch of her mouth not quite a smile. But almost.
Then he brought over the kettle again and gently poured a bit of warmer water into the basin to keep it soothing.
âAlmost done, little lamb. Youâve done splendidly. The bravest child in all of Wonderland.â
When he reached for her hand again the final rinse she leaned forward. Her forehead pressed lightly against his sleeve. A tiny gesture.
But one that meant the world.
He stayed like that for a moment, not moving, allowing her the silence.
When the bath was done, he helped her into the clean nightdress, sweater, and socks. All oversized, but warm.
He wrapped a towel around her hair and gently helped her out from behind the curtain.
And, as if drawn by instinct, she stepped forwardâŚ
âŚand placed herself beside him.
Not touching.
But beside.
As if she no longer feared what he might do.
And when she finally sat down on the patchwork rug, curled in the warmth, he removed his hat and placed it gently on her head once more.
It tumbled down over her eyes far too big, far too tall.
But she didnât remove it.
She reached out and tugged the brim a little lower⌠like a shield.
And this time, when Jervis sat beside her with his tea and poetry book, she didnât flinch when he turned the page aloud.
She leaned her shoulder gently so gently against his arm.
And finally, she let her eyes close.
A small fire burned low in the rusty stove, casting a trembling warmth that mingled with the faint scent of damp stone and old books.
Evelyn sat on the threadbare rug, curled into herself like a broken doll, her thin body trembling beneath an oversized sweater that did little to shield her from the cold.
Her eyes, dull and wary, avoided the steaming bowl resting nearby. It was filled with thick stew a humble meal of slow-cooked meat, softened roots, and fragrant herbs. The aroma was rich and inviting, but to Evelyn, it might as well have been poison.
Jervis watched her carefully, his heart twisting at the sight of such fragile life clinging to the edges of existence.
He moved closer and sat beside her, careful to make no sudden moves.
âMy dear Evelyn,â he said softly, voice gentle as the falling snow outside, âthis stew⌠itâs warm and full of care. Made slowly, with patience just like you need.â
She blinked once, a slight flicker of curiosity in her dark eyes, but remained silent, hugging her knees tightly.
Jervis lifted the spoon, blew softly on the hot surface, then tasted the stew himself. The flavor was rich tender meat that fell apart with ease, the subtle sweetness of carrots and parsnips, the comforting warmth of thyme and rosemary.
He smiled faintly, then nudged the spoon toward her.
Evelynâs small, trembling fingers reached out. The spoon was heavy in her hand, unfamiliar and frightening. Suddenly, it slipped and clattered against her lap, streaking stew down her sleeve.
Her whole body stiffened. Wide, terrified eyes stared at the stain, breath caught sharply in her throat.
Jervisâs voice was a soft lullaby, soothing the storm.
âItâs alright, my precious Evelyn. The stain is nothing but a mark on cloth. It can be cleaned, and it does not hurt you.â
He pulled a damp cloth from his coat and gently dabbed at her sleeve, careful not to rush.
When the stain lightened, he held out the spoon again.
He lifted it slowly, guiding it to her lips.
She parted her mouth cautiously.
The warm stew touched her tongue.
Her eyes widened.
The warmth, the flavors it was unlike anything sheâd known before.
Another bite, then another.
With each taste, her body relaxed a little more, the tension easing from her small shoulders.
Her dark eyes lifted to meet Jervisâs, shining faintly with a new light wonder, relief, and maybe even a whisper of joy.
Jervis smiled softly, feeding her bite after bite, careful and patient, his hands steady as if cradling something precious and fragile.
Her lips parted in a quiet, fragile smile, the faintest sign that healing could begin even in the darkest places.
A Syndrome(Buddy) x reader where they are together or there's serious romantic tension between the two. The reader is secretly a super and Buddy doesn't find out until he finds them/they come home seriously injured because Syndrome almost killed them.(If you could work the reader having wings as their power somehow I'd love that but if not anything is fine!)
⢠Buddy Pine / Syndrome â Charismatic, cocky, and dangerously intelligent. A villain hiding behind a civilian mask, torn between obsession, guilt, and a need for control when it comes to the Reader.
⢠Reader (You) â A super with hidden wings, carrying both trauma and resilience. Secretive about your powers, you fight to protect civilians while hiding your identity, torn between trust and fear.
Trigger Warnings
⢠Violence & Injury: Graphic descriptions of physical wounds (burned flesh, blood, broken wings, pain, medical care).
⢠Near-Death Experience: Falling, severe injury, struggling to survive after an attack.
⢠Blood & Gore (Mild to Moderate): Bleeding injuries, feathers scattered with blood, references to internal pain.
⢠Emotional Manipulation / Deception: Buddy hiding his identity as Syndrome, lying to Reader while caring for them.
⢠Obsession & Possessiveness: Strong themes of attachment, control, and inner conflict within Buddyâs care for the Reader.
⢠Guilt & Psychological Distress: Buddy grappling with nearly killing Reader while secretly being the villain responsible.
⢠Drug Mentions (Painkillers): Use of medication, possible over/underdosing implied.
⢠Themes of Betrayal & Trust Issues: Reader unknowingly trusts the man who nearly destroyed them.
Masterlist
Words: 1410
---
Buddy was always waiting up for you. No matter how late you came home, the TV humming low in the background, heâd be there, sprawled across the couch with that cocky smile like you were the only thing heâd been waiting for all night.
And you wanted to believe him.
You wanted to believe he saw you the way your laughter cracked at the edges, the way your hands sometimes shook when you were caught in memories you couldnât explain. You wanted to believe he saw the softness you hid from everyone else.
What he didnât see what you never let him see were the wings.
They were your secret, folding neatly against your back, heavy with everything you couldnât say out loud. Being a super meant danger. Exposure. Death. So you kept them tucked away, and you never told him where you slipped away to at night.
That night, the city burned.
Syndromeâs machines tore through the skyline, smoke choking the streets. You couldnât stand by. With your wings outstretched, you dove through the chaos, pulling civilians from collapsed stairwells, shielding them as drones swarmed overhead. You fought as best you could feathers singed, arms bruised until the voice cut through the smoke like a blade.
âWell, well, birdie,â Syndromeâs voice mocked from above. âLetâs see how high you can fly with your wings broken.â
You froze mid-flight, breath catching. His hand twitched, and a blast lit the sky. It seared across your wing, tearing flesh and feathers. Pain wracked your body as you plummeted through shattered glass, crashing hard into an abandoned building. You dragged yourself into the shadows, chest heaving, wings mangled and bloodied. Somehow, you stumbled away, half-dead, until you reached the one place you thought was safe.
Home.
You barely got through the door before your knees buckled. Feathers scattered across the floor like a trail of broken secrets.
And Buddy was there.
âHey-hey, what the hell-â His voice cracked, panic surging as he caught you before you collapsed. His eyes widened at the sight of your blood, your bent wings trembling against your back.
âYou-â His voice faltered, the mask slipping for just a second. The recognition hit him like a blow. The super I almost killedâŚ
But you didnât know. You couldnât know.
âI-Iâm sorry,â you gasped, words breaking with pain. âI didnât want you to⌠to see me like this.â
Buddy swallowed hard, forcing his face into something softer, gentler than the hurricane inside him. He cradled you against him, holding you too tightly.
âDonât talk,â he murmured, trying to steady his voice. âJust⌠donât talk. Iâve got you.â
Your head fell against his chest, unaware of the storm behind his eyes. He rocked you gently, though his heart was hammering.
Because now he knew.
You were the one. The bird who had slipped through his grasp tonight. The one he had nearly destroyed with his own hands.
And you still didnât know who he was.
When your breathing slowed, Buddy pressed his lips against your hair, whispering words he didnât mean to say out loud:
ââŚGod, what am I supposed to do with you?â
The bathroom was a mess of feathers and blood. Buddyâs hands shook as he pressed a damp towel to your side, trying to ignore the way his stomach twisted at every flinch that escaped you.
âSorry, sorry,â he muttered, more to himself than to you. His usual confidence that smug certainty he wore like armor was gone. Now there was only a frantic edge, like he was one wrong move away from breaking.
You blinked at him through the haze of pain, trying to offer a weak smile. âYouâre⌠not very good at this, you know.â
Buddyâs head snapped up. For a second, his expression cracked wide open guilt, fear, relief tangled together before he forced it back into a crooked smirk.
âYeah, well, forgive me for not having a degree in wing repair,â he shot back, but his voice wavered.
You tried to laugh, but it came out as a cough. Blood stained the corner of your mouth, and his smirk vanished instantly. He reached for you again, gentler this time, dabbing at the wound with trembling fingers.
âWho did this to you?â he asked, voice low. Too low.
You hesitated. Your wings twitched, feathers brushing against his arm. ââŚOne of those machines. That villain, Syndrome. I donât think he saw me clearly, but⌠he almost did.â
Buddy froze. His whole body went still, like a wire pulled taut.
Almost saw you.
He had seen you. He had aimed for you. He had wanted to tear your wings apart and laugh while you fell.
And now here you were, in his arms, trusting him with your life.
âBuddy?â you asked softly, pulling him out of his silence. âYouâre pale. Are you okay?â
He swallowed hard, forcing himself to move again. He pressed gauze against the wound, pretending the pressure in his chest was just adrenaline. âIâm fine. Just-â His voice cracked, and he had to clear his throat. âJust worried about you, birdie.â
The nickname slipped out before he could stop it. His heart dropped, but you only gave a faint, tired smile.
âBirdie, huh? Guess that fits now.â
He chuckled weakly, hiding behind it, but inside he was screaming. If you knew⌠if you realized he was Syndrome, youâd never smile at him again. Youâd hate him. Fear him.
And he couldnât stand that.
So he wrapped your injuries, bandaged the broken wing as best as he could, and when you finally slumped against him, exhausted, he held you close.
The mask was suffocating. Every word he spoke was a lie.
But he couldnât let you go. Not now. Not ever.
ââŚIâll protect you,â he whispered into your hair, though the words tasted like ash. âFrom him. From Syndrome. I promise.â
The irony nearly killed him.
The days blurred together after that night.
Your injuries kept you grounded. The wings you once trusted to carry you above everything now felt heavy, bound in bandages Buddy had clumsily but carefully wrapped himself. Every time you tried to stretch them, white-hot pain shot through your body, forcing you back into bed.
Buddy rarely left your side.
He brought you water, food, painkillers sometimes too much, sometimes not enough, always hovering like he didnât know what to do with his own hands if they werenât busy with you. His usual swagger was still there, but it came out wrong, cracked around the edges.
One night, while he was changing your bandages, you studied him.
âYouâre different,â you murmured.
His head jerked up, eyes narrowing just slightly. âDifferent how?â
âI donât know.â You tilted your head, wincing as you shifted your wings. âSofter, maybe. Less⌠sharp. Youâve always had this bite to you, Buddy, but since that night youâveâŚâ You trailed off, searching for the word. âItâs like youâre afraid. Of something.â
For a second, his hands stilled. His gaze dropped to the bloodied gauze in his hands, and his jaw tightened.
âIâm not afraid,â he said finally, voice low, deliberate. âI just donât want to lose you.â
Your breath caught. Heat spread across your chest, and not from the pain. You swallowed, your heart betraying you with how fast it raced.
âYou wonât,â you whispered back.
He looked up then, and the intensity in his eyes made your stomach twist. Like he was staring straight through you, memorizing every detail, burning it into his mind because he was terrified it could be gone tomorrow.
He leaned closer. Too close. For a moment, you thought he might kiss you. Instead, his hand brushed your hair back from your face, lingering just a little too long.
âGood,â he murmured.
But later, when you finally fell asleep, Buddy stayed awake.
He sat in the dark, watching the rise and fall of your breathing, guilt clawing at his throat until it nearly choked him. His fingers curled into fists, nails digging into his palms.
You trust me.
You shouldnât.
The memory of you plummeting from the sky replayed in his mind, over and over, until his stomach lurched. He had aimed to kill. He had wanted to hear your scream. And now you were here, safe, broken, whispering that you trusted him.
He pressed a hand against his face, trembling.
âIâll protect you,â he whispered again into the empty room, trying to convince himself it was true. âEven if itâs from me.â
This was so much fun to write! Thank you for the request, and I hope you like it. Syndrome is just amazing, and I am always happy to get new ideas for him through you guys^^
⢠Jervis Tetch (Mad Hatter): A delusional, obsessive villain from Gotham, known for his fixation on Lewis Carrollâs Alice in Wonderland. Charismatic, poetic, and dangerously unstable. In this story, he plays the captor both tender and terrifying, believing his twisted love is salvation.
⢠Reader (You): A silent, emotionally shattered young woman held under Jervisâs control. Traumatized, mute, and forced into obedience. Though outwardly docile, sheâs constantly calculating surviving under the weight of fear, manipulation, and shattered identity.
Trigger Warnings:
⢠Kidnapping / captivity: The Reader is being held against her will in an isolated location.
⢠Psychological manipulation / gaslighting: Jervis uses emotional coercion, delusions of love, and threats to control her behavior.
⢠Suicidal threats / emotional blackmail: Jervis threatens to kill himself if the Reader disobeys or tries to escape.
⢠Weapon threat / gun use: A revolver is used to intimidate and manipulate.
⢠Obsessive behavior / delusional thinking: Jervis believes the Reader is his âAliceâ and that they are meant to be together, regardless of her will.
⢠Power imbalance / coercive control: The Reader is denied autonomy, speech, and safety.
⢠Implied past trauma / emotional abuse: The Readerâs silence and behavior suggest long-term psychological damage.
⢠Stockholm Syndrome undertones: The story explores unhealthy attachment and survival within abuse.
Masterlist
Words: 716
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She didnât understand. Not yet.
But she would.
Jervis Tetch watched her from across the room, fingers twitching against the teacup heâd carefully poured for her one sugar, no cream, just the way she used to like it before she stopped speaking to him. Her eyes, wide and glassy, flicked toward the far corner of the room. Again. He followed her gaze, his expression blank.
The corner where he used to keep the gun.
Of course she noticed it was gone. Of course she thought heâd left it unattended. She thought she was clever sly little Alice, always peeking behind curtains and crawling through the garden gates of her own thoughts.
But Jervis saw everything.
Her heartbeat had changed the second she spotted it. Heâd heard it, felt it, known. She mightâve fooled the rest of the world into thinking she was docile, broken, meek. But not him. Never him.
He rose from the table slowly, deliberately, brushing the sleeve of his coat as if clearing dust that wasnât there. âMy dear,â he said with a smile that didnât quite reach his eyes, âwhy must you always look so dreadfully miserable?â
She didnât answer. Her fingers trembled in her lap.
âThis is a wonderland,â he continued as he crossed the room. âA perfect little world, carved out just for you and me. And yetâŚâ He opened the cabinet drawer and retrieved the revolver she thought sheâd hidden.
Her face paled.
He turned to face her, twirling the gun lightly in his hand. âOh, Alice,â he whispered, his voice almost a croon. âDid you really think I wouldnât notice? That you could take it, stash it away, and perhaps shoot your way to freedom?â
He raised the gun to his own temple.
She gasped a raw, involuntary sound and froze.
âReach for the gun again,â he said softly, a tremor in his voice now, eyes wide and wet with mania, âand Iâll blow my brains out all over your pretty little dress.â
Her breath caught in her throat.
âYou donât want that, do you?â he asked, eyes searching her face like a madman reading tea leaves. âYou love me. You just donât understand it yet. But you will. Iâll teach you. Iâve been nothing but honest. Kind. Patient.â
Slowly, he lowered the gun and dropped to his knees in front of her. He pressed his head against her legs, nuzzling her like a pet seeking warmth.
She sat still, her muscles stiff beneath his touch.
Progress, he told himself. She hadnât pulled away.
âYou were no one before me,â he murmured, stroking her thigh as if to soothe her. âJust a little girl in a world that never cared. But I saw you. I saved you. And this⌠all of thisâŚâ He spread his arms wide. âItâs for you. I made it all for you.â
Still, she didnât speak. She never spoke unless he allowed it.
He liked her better that way quiet and pliant, not like the others who had mocked him, left him. Betrayed him.
âBut,â Jervis said gently, as if explaining the rules of a simple game to a child, âif you ever try to leave again...if you lie, or scheme, or steal from me then I wonât kill myself next time.â
He looked up at her, smiling sweetly.
âIâll kill you. And then Iâll walk straight into the river and drown with you in my arms like a proper tragic poem.â
His voice was calm, almost singsong. It terrified her more than if heâd screamed.
He tucked the gun back into his coat and stood, brushing his knees clean as if nothing had happened. Then, with a gentleness so sharp it cut deeper than any cruelty, he draped a blanket over her shoulders and patted her head.
âThere, there,â he whispered. âDonât cry, my dear. Donât fret. Everythingâs going to be just fine⌠as long as you behave.â
She didnât move. Didnât speak.
He returned to the table and began pouring another cup of tea. Two cups. One for her, one for him. Hers would go untouched as always. He didnât mind.
He drank both.
The air hung still. The only sound was the ticking of a golden pocket watch on the mantel. Tick, tick, tick.
Hey guys im so sorry I've been gone for so long. Im currently on vacation and am therefore not on my phone alot. Still I dont want to keep you waiting for too long either. So I'll let you decide what post will come next! Ill try my best to resume writing!
⢠Tuffnut Thorston: A loud, reckless Viking teen from How to Train Your Dragon. Known for his chaos and absurd humor, Tuffnut hides deeper insecurities behind jokes and bravado. As he unexpectedly falls for Freya, he's forced to confront emotions heâs never taken seriously like love, jealousy, and fear of loss.
⢠Freya (You): Sharp-tongued, independent, and emotionally guarded. Raised on Berk after losing her parents to a dragon raid, she prefers solitude and distrusts romantic vulnerability. Tuffnutâs chaotic charm annoys her until it doesnât, and that scares her more than any dragon.
Trigger Warnings:
⢠Emotional repression / Avoidant behavior: Both characters struggle with vulnerability and connection.
⢠Grief / Parental death: Freya lost her parents to a past dragon attack (mentioned).
⢠Mild violence / Dragon battles: Includes scenes of training injuries, chaos, and dragon-related danger.
⢠Emotional tension / Angst: Moments of intense inner conflict, jealousy, and identity confusion.
⢠Toxic coping / Escapism: Characters sometimes use humor, chaos, or isolation to mask pain.
⢠Slow-burn romantic tension: May include unhealthy emotional push-pull at times.
Masterlist
Words: 3836
Tuffnut Thorston was used to danger.
Heâd ridden dragons, eaten expired yak cheese, and once got launched off a catapult because he thought he could âfly a little.â But none of those things not one made his heart stop like Freya did.
It wasnât fair. Sheâd grown up right next to him same village, same snow, same rotten fish stew every winter. She wasnât new. She wasnât mysterious. She wasnât even that nice.
But every time she looked at him? Odin save him, he forgot how to breathe.
Freya was sharp like her axe and just as quick. Not the kind of girl who laughed at jokes unless they were someone falling on their face or getting singed by a dragon. Which was fine, really, because Tuffnut fell on his face a lot, and if it meant making her laugh, heâd do it again.
Gobberâs voice echoed through the arena. âAlright, ya worthless lot! Weâre doinâ the Nadder drill today. Partners, now!â
Tuffnutâs head snapped up. Before he could even blink, Snotlout was halfway toward Freya, smirking like he owned the village.
Nope.
Tuffnut didnât even think. He sprinted across the training grounds and somehow shoulder-checked Snotlout into a barrel of water. It was instinct, really.
âOh no,â Tuffnut said, loud and fake-dramatic. âSnotloutâs drowned!â
âIâm fine!â came the muffled reply from inside the barrel.
âLooks like Iâll have to step in,â Tuffnut said, already turning to Freya with his most charming grin.
She blinked at him. âYou just tackled him.â
âGently,â he offered.
Freya gave a small huff, amused. âYouâre insane.â
âBut available,â he said quickly, walking beside her as they approached the arena. âAnd very good at distracting dragons. And ladies.â
âYou distracted Snotlout into a concussion,â she said, pulling her helmet down.
âExactly,â he whispered with a wink. âTactical genius.â
The Nadder emerged with a shriek, spines rattling, tail like a whip ready to lash.
Freya took point, crouching low behind her shield. Her braid bounced behind her as she ran, and Tuffnut was almost too busy staring to remember this was life-threatening.
Almost.
âThorston! Cover my right!â she barked.
âAnything for you,â he mumbled, dashing after her.
The Nadder hissed, circling. Freya didnât hesitate she moved like she belonged in battle. No fear. Just instincts and fire. Her axe glinted in the sun as she ducked and rolled, sending a rock flying at the dragonâs eye.
Tuffnut, meanwhile, smacked into a support beam.
âSolid beam,â he groaned, staggering upright. âVery aggressive.â
Freya glanced back once just once but it was enough. Her mouth twitched. That almost-smile again.
And just like that, the Nadder was gone, retreating with a roar after Gobber called it off.
Freya wiped sweat from her brow, breathing heavy. âYou okay?â
Tuffnut gave her a dazed thumbs-up. âDo I still have eyebrows?â
âNo.â
âSweet.â
They sat on the fence later, watching Fishlegs and Ruffnut argue over a training manual.
Freya had pulled off her gloves and was absently cleaning her blade. She was focused, serious, and didnât seem to notice the way Tuffnut kept sneaking glances at her.
Except maybe she did, because after a long silence, she said, âWhy do you keep staring at me like that?â
He choked. âLike what?â
âLike youâre about to say something stupid.â
He tilted his head. âTo be fair, thatâs just how I always look.â
Freya looked at him, skeptical. âYouâve been acting weird around me lately.â
He leaned back, heart thumping a little too loud. âDefine weird.â
âYou dropped your shield when I said your name yesterday.â
âIt was slippery.â
âYou tripped over your own braid the day before.â
âI was... emotionally overwhelmed.â
âAnd today you tackled Snotlout into a barrel.â
âOkay, that one was romantic.â
Freya stared.
Tuffnut blinked. âDid I say romantic? I meant tactical. Romantic-tactical. Itâs a new method. Very strategic. Very-"
âYouâre in love with me,â she said flatly.
He froze.
She said it like a fact. Like she already knew.
And Tuffnut Thorston, chaos incarnate, felt something rare: speechless.
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then said the first honest thing that came to his mind.
âYeah. I think I am.â
Freya raised an eyebrow. âSince when?â
Tuffnut scratched his head. âSince always? Maybe since we were ten and you knocked out Snotloutâs tooth for calling you Frey-Frey.â
There was silence. Tense, awkward silence. Tuffnut squirmed.
Freya didnât move for a long second. Then just barely she smirked.
âYouâre an idiot.â
He grinned. âYour idiot?â
âMaybe.â
His brain short-circuited.
But somehow, sitting beside her on that fence sweaty, bruised, heartbeat like a war drum Tuffnut felt like heâd just won the biggest battle of his life.
Tuffnut wasnât usually a jealous guy.
Okay, maybe he was. Like, a little. A medium amount. A whole dragon-sized barrel of jealous. But in his defense, Snotlout kept looking at Freya like she was a prize yak or something, and frankly, that was unacceptable.
It had only been a day since Freya maybe-possibly admitted she might like him back. Maybe. She hadnât denied it, at least. Sheâd said âmaybe,â and in Tuffnutâs world, that was a legally binding Viking marriage proposal.
So when Snotlout strutted into the training ring like his biceps paid rent, Tuffnut already felt his blood boil.
âOh hey, Freya,â Snotlout said, way too loud. âNeed a partner for the fireball run? Iâve got excellent reflexes. Ladies love reflexes.â
Freya was sharpening her axe. âDo they?â
âThey do,â he said, flexing so hard it looked like he might pass out.
Tuffnut stepped in fast, planting himself between them like a loyal (and rabid) yak. âActually, Freyaâs with me. Weâre a team. Like axes and blood. Like fire and more fire.â
Freya glanced up from her blade. âDidnât know we were assigned.â
âWeâre not,â Tuffnut said too quickly. âBut spiritually? Emotionally? Definitely assigned.â
Snotlout scoffed. âWhat, you two dating now?â
Before Tuffnut could blurt out something insane (like yes we are and also I carved her name into my helmet), Freya just muttered, âBack off, Snotlout.â
She didnât even look up when she said it but the tone? Cold. Final.
Tuffnut blinked.
Snotlout blinked.
And then walked away, muttering something about âlosing to a guy with a braid.â
Tuffnut was flying so high on that victory that he didnât even notice the incoming Gronckle until it body-checked him straight into a rock wall.
Pain exploded in his shoulder as he crumpled to the dirt.
âTHORSTON!â Gobber shouted. âWhat did I just say about getting distracted in the ring!?â
âI was emotionally compromised!â Tuffnut wheezed from the ground.
Freya was at his side in seconds, frowning hard. âYouâre bleeding.â
âCool,â he grinned, dazed. âBlood builds character.â
âYou hit your head too?â
âProbably. You look like two Freyas right now. Not mad about it.â
She rolled her eyes and grabbed his arm, hoisting him up. âYouâre the dumbest Viking in Berk.â
âBut possibly the luckiest,â he mumbled.
She didnât respond. But she didnât let go of his arm, either.
Later, while Gobber was busy chewing out Fishlegs and Ruffnut for setting off a tail spike trap again, Freya dragged Tuffnut over to the healerâs hut and sat him down.
âStay still,â she said, pulling a cloth from her pouch.
âIâm fine,â he mumbled. âThis is barely OW, okay, okay, that stings.â
âYouâre literally dripping,â she said, dabbing at his temple. âHow have you not bled out from sheer idiocy yet?â
âItâs the braids,â he whispered. âThey hold me together.â
She smirked, just a little, and Tuffnut felt like heâd been handed a dragon egg.
Her fingers were surprisingly gentle, cleaning his wound like she didnât want to hurt him. And for a second, he just looked at her.
Freya. Fearless, fiery, sharp-tongued Freya. Taking care of him.
He didnât know how to handle it, so naturally he ruined the moment.
âSo... this mean you wanna braid our hair together and make it official?â
She jabbed his wound with the cloth.
âOW. Okay! Okay, backing off!â
But she was smiling again. That tiny, dangerous smile that always made his ribs go soft.
The door slammed open.
âUgh,â Ruffnut groaned, stomping in. âYou two are disgusting.â
Tuffnut paled. âWhat?! Weâre What do you mean? Weâre not-â
âI saw everything,â Ruffnut said, waving her arms around. âYou tackled Snotlout like a lovesick goat. You tripped over your own ego. You let Freya patch you up like a baby sheep. Youâre in love.â
Tuffnut stared at her in horror. âDonât say it out loud, sheâll hear you!â
âSheâs right next to you.â
He turned to Freya. She was looking at Ruffnut with a single, unimpressed blink. âYouâre late,â she said. âHe already confessed yesterday.â
Ruffnut gasped so loud it echoed. âWHAT?! You like him BACK?!â
âMaybe.â
Tuffnut gave a panicked thumbs-up. âShe said maybe, and Iâll take it!â
Ruffnut looked between them like she was watching a boar walk on two legs. Then her eyes gleamed with evil mischief.
âOh this is perfect. Iâm gonna tell everyone. Iâm gonna make a banner. âFreya <3 Tuffnutâ no wait, Iâll carve it into the dragon pens-â
âTouch my name and Iâll gut you,â Freya said calmly.
Ruffnut saluted and walked out, muttering something about poetry and threats.
Tuffnut sat back with a dreamy sigh. âIâm so glad sheâs my sister.â
âYouâre both freaks.â
âI know.â
They sat in silence for a while. His head stopped bleeding. Her hands didnât tremble when she cleaned the rest of the wound. And every now and then, their eyes met and held for just a second too long.
Tuffnut didnât say anything cheesy. He didnât make a joke. He just looked at her.
And maybe she didnât say it, but the way she looked back said everything.
Berkâs annual Harvest Festival was known for three things:
1. Setting things on fire,
2. Questionable mead-fueled decisions, and
3. At least one Viking ending up naked in a goat pen.
Tuffnut wasnât planning on being that Viking this year. He had bigger problems.
Like the fact that Freya was standing twenty feet away in an actual dress.
Heâd never seen her in anything other than armor, fur, and fury, but there she was wearing a dark green gown, her hair braided down her back, eyes flicking between stalls like she wasnât a walking heart attack in human form.
Tuffnut couldnât breathe.
âSay something to her,â Ruffnut whispered from beside him, elbowing him hard. âOr I will. Loudly.â
âI canât,â Tuffnut hissed. âShe looks like sheâd kill me and steal my soul.â
âYeah,â Ruffnut smirked. âAnd youâre so into it.â
After three failed attempts at walking over (and one near collision with a spit-roasted yak), Tuffnut finally approached Freya just as she was eyeing a throwing axe game.
âNice dress,â he blurted. âI mean fierce dress. Death dress. In a good way. Like, you look like you could kill me at a royal feast.â
Freya turned to him, eyebrow raised. âThat supposed to be a compliment?â
He nodded too fast. âAbsolutely. Iâm sweating.â
âYou do that a lot.â
âI do it more when you look like that.â
She paused, then looked back to the axe game. âWanna lose to me?â
âDo I want to be humiliated in public by a girl Iâm hopelessly into? Yes. Yes I do.â
Ten minutes later, Tuffnut had lost every axe throw, scored zero points, and had a suspiciously bruised ego.
Freya, on the other hand, won a small carved dragon figurine, which she shoved into his hands with a muttered, âHere. So it doesnât look like you lost completely.â
Tuffnut clutched the dragon like it was sacred.
âYou gave me a gift,â he said dramatically. âThatâs basically marriage.â
Freya shoved him lightly. âShut up.â
He grinned like a man hit by lightning. âI wonât.â
As the sun dipped behind the cliffs, fire pits lit up, the air buzzed with drums, and someone (probably a Haddock cousin) set off fireworks too close to the mead tent.
Tuffnut was trailing after Freya through the chaos when it happened.
They passed a group of village girls by the bonfire, all of whom stared at Freya.
âIs that Freya?â one whispered. âWith Tuffnut?â
âShe looks...like a girl.â
âAnd heâs not dead?â
Freya heard it. Tuffnut knew she heard it. Her jaw twitched, her grip on her mug tightened
âHey,â he said, grabbing her wrist gently. âThey donât matter.â
She looked at him.
âYouâre terrifying in a dress,â he said. âIn the best way. I might cry.â
Her expression softened just a little.
Then the drums shifted. Faster, louder. A voice yelled, âDANCE CIRCLE STARTING LETâS GO, VIKINGS!â
And just like that, they were in the middle of the circle.
Tuffnut didnât know how to dance. His body moved like a baby yak in a storm.
But Freya was...graceful. Still strong and grounded like a warrior, but fluid. She didnât smile, but her cheeks were flushed, and she didnât run away which meant she didnât hate it.
Tuffnut kept pace, barely. âAm I doing it?â
âYou look like youâre dying.â
âHot, right?â
She actually laughed. A real one. Not a smirk or a scoff but a laugh that cracked through the noise and made his heart physically ache.
And then it happened.
They were still laughing, still dancing (badly), still spinning in that flickering firelight, when he said it.
âI think I love you.â
It just...fell out.
Freya stopped moving.
The drums thudded in the background. The fire popped. Tuffnutâs soul left his body.
She stared at him.
âYou think?â
âI-I do. I know.â
She didnât say anything.
âI mean,â he stammered, âyou can stab me now. Thatâd be fair.â
Then finally Freya stepped closer. Slowly. Deliberately. Her face unreadable.
She reached up, grabbed his braid-
And tugged him forward just enough to kiss him.
It wasnât soft. It was quick, rough, maybe even a warning. But it happened.
Then she pulled back and said, âIf you tell anyone, Iâll gut you.â
He nodded, stunned. âSo... still maybe?â
She smirked. âLess maybe.â
Ruffnut screamed in the background. âI KNEW IT!â
Tuffnut was not a smart man.
He was clever, sometimes. Especially when it involved explosives or convincing Snotlout to eat something that definitely wasnât edible. But smart? Logical? Emotionally stable?
No. Absolutely not.
Which is why, after Freya kissed him at the festival, Tuffnut had spent the last three days spiraling so hard it was a miracle he hadnât flung himself off a dragon.
ââLess maybeâ isnât a real thing,â he muttered, pacing outside the training grounds. âItâs like saying âkinda dead.â You either are, or you arenât. I need rules. I need a guide. I need a Viking code of emotional conductâ
âShe kissed you,â Ruffnut said from the wall, picking at her nails. âThatâs a yes.â
âBut then she said sheâd gut me if I told anyone!â
âStill a yes. Just a violent one.â
He groaned, clutching his head. âWhat if it was a festival thing?! What if it was like⌠a drums and firelight kiss, not a âI wanna braid your hair and emotionally support youâ kiss?â
âYou are the dumbest man on this island.â
âThank you,â he said dramatically. âAt least that is certain.â
He tried everything.
Day One after the kiss, he attempted a normal conversation with Freya during training. He walked up, cool as an iceberg, and said:
âSo! Casual question. How do you feel about braiding our names into matching tunics?â
She hit him in the stomach with the butt of her axe and walked away.
Day Two, he tried being distant and mysterious.
He leaned against things a lot. Didnât talk unless spoken to. Squinted into the distance like he had secrets. When Freya asked if he was having a stroke, he responded with, âMaybe Iâm just complicated.â
She walked away again.
Day Three, he gave up.
âIâm going to ask her,â he announced to Ruffnut that evening.
She didnât look up. âAsk her what?â
âIf she likes me. Like, likes me likes me. Not just likes me in a âyouâre amusing when injuredâ kind of way.â
Ruffnut looked at him for a long time.
âYouâre terrified.â
âCorrect.â
âYouâve survived being dragged by a dragon through a thorn bush.â
âThis is scarier.â
âThen go. Be bold. Be a man. Be the disaster you were born to be.â
Freya was sharpening her blades behind the longhouse when he found her. Alone. Quiet. The last bit of sun gleamed off her shoulder armor like a warning sign.
Tuffnut swallowed his heart.
âHey,â he said, leaning against the doorframe. âDonât stab me yet.â
She looked up. âNot planning to.â
âCool, cool. Just checking. Listen, uh, Iâve been thinking well, spiraling, really but with purpose.â
Freya blinked. âOkay.â
âSo⌠that kiss.â
She paused her sharpening.
He kept going before his brain could explode. âWas that, like, a âshut upâ kiss? A âmaybe donât dieâ kiss? A âyouâre tolerableâ kiss? Because honestly Iâve been pacing in circles like a headless chicken and Iâd really love to know if weâre -yâknow a thing. Or if I imagined all of it in a mead-soaked, fire-lit dream.â
Freya didnât answer right away.
She just... stared at him.
And he could feel his soul exiting his body. Slowly. Painfully.
Then finally she stood up, walked toward him, and said:
âDo you want it to be a dream?â
Tuffnut blinked. âWhat? NO. I want it to be real. I want you to be real. I want us to be real, even if you keep threatening to stab me because I like you so much that it hurts my ribs.â
She stepped closer. âGood.â
âWait, good?â
Freya leaned in.
And this time, when she kissed him, it wasnât quick. It wasnât a warning. It wasnât a maybe.
It was real. Warm. Certain.
And when she pulled back, she said, âNow stop overthinking everything or I will stab you.â
Tuffnut was glowing. Beaming. Possibly levitating. âI love you so much itâs concerning.â
âI know.â
He was still smiling hours later.
Tuffnut had been certain the moment he shouted it from the rooftops, everyone in Berk would celebrate. He pictured cheering villagers, clapping hands, and maybe even Snotlout bowing down like a royal subject.
What he did not expect was the sharp edge of Freyaâs glare when she found him less than an hour later.
It started early that morning. Tuffnut had barely gotten out of his hut before the news was already everywhere. Kids ran after him, shouting, âIs it true? Youâre with Freya? The axe-wielding legend herself?â Adults nodded knowingly, and even the blacksmith gave him a thumbs up.
âHey, Fishlegs!â Tuffnut hollered with a grin. âGuess whoâs officially off the market!â
Fishlegsâ eyebrows shot up, and he nearly dropped his stack of books. âYou mean Freya? Are you serious?â
âDead serious!â Tuffnut threw his arms wide like he was presenting the sun itself. âShe kissed me! Twice!â
That was when Tuffnut noticed the sharpness in the crowdâs eyes like they were waiting for something to happen.
It happened quickly.
Freyaâs footsteps were silent but fierce, and before Tuffnut could even think to duck, she grabbed him by the front of his tunic.
âTuffnut,â she hissed, low and angry, âwhat the hell do you think youâre doing?â
His grin faltered. âI was just-â
âYou were what?â Her voice dropped to a dangerous whisper, but there was no mistaking the fury. âYou were shouting like a wild man, calling me your âwar queenâ and telling the whole village that weâre-what? together?â
Tuffnut scratched the back of his neck, feeling suddenly very small. âYeah, I thought people should know. I mean, we kissed. Thatâs a big deal, right?â
Freyaâs eyes narrowed. âItâs a big deal to me, but that doesnât mean I want it broadcasted like itâs a festival announcement. You donât get to decide whatâs okay to share without asking me first.â
He swallowed hard. âI didnât mean to embarrass you.â
She pulled him closer, her breath sharp with frustration. âYou did. You embarrassed me. Iâm not some prize for you to parade around, Tuffnut. Iâm a person. A warrior. I donât want every child on this island shouting about your âgirlfriendâ like itâs a joke or a story.â
Tuffnut blinked, stunned by the weight of her words.
âI thought youâd be happy,â he admitted quietly.
âI am happy,â Freya said, voice cracking just a bit, âbut Iâm also scared. You made this real for everyone except me. I didnât get to prepare for this. I didnât get to choose if I wanted it to be public. And now it is.â
The crowd around them had fallen silent, sensing the tension.
Some whispered, others exchanged uneasy glances.
Tuffnut felt their eyes like daggers, but his attention was only on Freya. Her hands were trembling slightly where she gripped his tunic.
âIâm sorry,â he said, voice low. âI was excited. I got carried away.â
Freya pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. âExcited or not, you crossed a line. I need to be able to trust that youâll respect me.â
He nodded quickly, his chest tightening. âYouâre right. Iâm sorry. Iâll keep things between us from now on. I promise.â
She looked away, her jaw clenched, but after a long pause, she said, âGood. Because right now, all I want is to disappear.â
Later that night, Tuffnut sat alone by the fire, the flickering flames reflecting the storm inside him.
He replayed every moment: the way Freyaâs eyes had burned with anger, the way her hands had clenched, the way her voice had cracked with hurt beneath the fury.
He realized something he hadnât before.
It wasnât just about telling everyone. It was about her about her needing to feel safe, respected, and in control of how she shared herself with the world.
And heâd shattered that trust without even meaning to.
His heart felt heavier than any sack of mead heâd ever carried.
The next day, he found Freya again, this time sitting alone on the edge of the cliff overlooking the sea.
He approached slowly, unsure if sheâd even want to see him.
âFreya,â he said softly, sitting beside her.
She didnât look at him.
âIâm sorry for yelling it out like that,â he continued. âI thought I was being brave, but really I was just being dumb. I didnât think about how itâd make you feel.â
She finally met his eyes, weary but still guarded.
âYouâre not dumb,â she said quietly. âYouâre just loud and... impulsive. And sometimes, thatâs hard to deal with.â
He smiled weakly. âIâm going to try to be better. For you. Because you matter.â
Freyaâs lips twitched in a reluctant smile.
âBut donât expect me to stop stabbing you with words when you mess up.â
He laughed, genuine and relieved.
âI donât expect that. I deserve it.â
They sat in silence, the waves crashing beneath them, the space between them feeling a little less heavy.
⢠Jervis Tetch (Mad Hatter): A poetic, delusional villain shaped by obsession and loss. In the chaos of Arkham City, he finds purpose in caring for a broken child. Though mad, he shows surprising gentleness and protectiveness.
⢠Evelyn (Child!Reader): A mute, traumatized young girl found freezing and alone. Severely abused and mentally underdeveloped, she clings to the only warmth sheâs given Jervisâs hat, his voice, and his presence.
Trigger Warnings
⢠Child neglect and abuse: The child has suffered long-term trauma, including physical abuse, starvation, burns, and dislocation injuries.
⢠Severe malnourishment and illness: The Reader is found in near-fatal condition freezing, bruised, and close to collapse.
⢠Nonverbal behavior / Developmental trauma: The Reader does not speak and is mentally underdeveloped due to prolonged isolation and suffering.
⢠Psychological horror / Arkham setting: The story takes place in the bleak, lawless world of Arkham City, where violence and madness are constant.
⢠Implied past torture / captivity: The child's condition and reactions imply a history of extreme cruelty and imprisonment.
⢠Found family in dark settings: While the relationship is purely platonic and protective, it explores intense emotional trauma and vulnerability.
⢠Emotional dependency / coping through delusion: Jervis's attachment to the child blends fantasy, grief, and protective obsession.
Masterlist
~Part 2~
Words: 998
Snow fell in slow, dead flakes across the cracked bones of Arkham City.
It didnât glitter. It didnât dance. It just fell straight down, heavy and silent like ash from a burning dream. The buildings were hollow. The streets buried in cold and rot. Somewhere far off, someone screamed. Then silence again.
Jervis Tetch walked calmly through it all, one hand holding the edge of his coat shut, the other gently touching the brim of his beloved hat. His boots left deep prints in the snow. His lips moved with a lullaby only he knew.
âTwinkle, twinkle, little bat⌠how I wonderâŚâ
Then he stopped.
Something was lying near the wall.
At first, it looked like a discarded doll. Limp. Small. Broken in the snow. But Jervis wasnât one to walk past things without looking closer. Not here. Not ever.
He stepped forward.
His shadow fell across the bundle.
A child.
A girl.
She was curled tightly into herself beneath a rusted pipe, half-covered in powdery snow. Her arms wrapped around her knees, her head pressed into them, hair matted and tangled. Her body was horrifyingly small like someone had pressed pause on her growth long ago and never hit play again. Skin so pale it was blue in places. Frost bit at her cheeks, her bare arms, her bruised legs.
No coat.
No shoes.
Her feet were nearly black with cold. Cracked and bleeding.
Jervisâs breath caught in his throat.
He knelt beside her, slowly, like approaching a frightened rabbit. His hand hovered inches from her shoulder but didnât touch. Her eyes were wide open. Blank. Not quite looking at him just staring past him, somewhere no one else could see.
She didnât flinch.
But her whole body was shaking. Violently. Constantly. Not from fear alone but from pain. Cold. Starvation. Memories.
Her thin chest barely moved when she breathed.
âOh⌠dear heart,â he murmured. âWhat terrible tea party have you stumbled from?â
No answer. No blink.
He looked at her more closely now. Her fingers were curled so tight into her shirt that her knuckles were white and split. Blood, old and new, covered her knees and elbows. Scars lined her arms some faint, others fresh. There was a burn mark on her collarbone. Her left shoulder was dislocated. No child should have looked like this.
Jervisâs throat tightened.
He took off his hat.
The wind rushed past them, cold enough to bite bone. But he didnât hesitate.
With slow, delicate fingers, he placed the tall green hat over her head.
It slipped down instantly far too large and the brim fell over her face, hiding her completely.
Still, she didnât react. No flinch. No sound. Just shaking.
He knelt in the snow beside her and waited a long, aching moment.
Then he whispered:
âYouâll freeze here, little one.â
Still no response.
He looked down at her feet. The skin was blue. Purple. Her toes had stopped moving. If she tried to walk, theyâd crack like glass.
No.
He had to move her.
âIâm going to pick you up now,â he said softly, almost apologetically. âI will be gentle. As gentle as the March Hareâs sigh.â
No answer.
No resistance.
But her eyes shifted only a little downward.
And her body tightened. Like she was bracing.
As if expecting pain.
Expecting a blow.
He moved anyway.
Gently so gently he slid his arms beneath her. One arm behind her back, the other beneath her legs. Her body was so light it didnât even strain him. But what he felt in his arms made his heart twist.
She wasnât just thin.
She was sickly. Malnourished. Freezing.
A brittle doll of skin and bones.
She let out a soft, barely-audible breath as he lifted her. Not a word. Not a sob. Just breath. But her hands one of them clutched the rim of the hat, pulling it down lower. Hiding.
Jervis held her close against his chest.
He stood carefully, shielding her from the wind as best he could with his coat. The hat had fallen lopsided over her face. It nearly swallowed her whole. But she didnât move to fix it.
He turned and began walking. His boots echoed softly down the ruined alleyways.
âI know a place,â he murmured to her, as if telling a bedtime story to someone who hadnât heard one in years. âA warm place. With blankets and books. And tea, of course. Mustnât forget tea. Hatterâs orders.â
She made no sound. Just breathed.
Just shook.
By the time they reached the entrance to his little hideout an old subway chamber nestled beneath a broken stairwell her shivering had slowed. Not stopped. But less frantic. Her cheek rested against his chest now. Eyes still hidden under the tilted brim of his hat.
He carried her down slowly, every step steady.
Inside, the old station glowed with faint light strung bulbs and patched batteries illuminating patched rugs and salvaged cushions. A stack of books. A teapot. A half-smashed grandfather clock stood in the corner, its hands forever stuck at 6:30.
He laid her down gently on a soft pile of folded blankets near the heater pipe.
The warmth made her flinch.
Then go still.
She didnât open her eyes. She didnât speak. Her hands still clung to the rim of his hat like it was the only thing keeping her real.
Jervis sat beside her. Not too close. Just enough.
He didnât ask her name.
He knew she wouldnât answer.
He didnât offer food yet. Her body was too fragile. Heâd wait. Heâd warm water. Heâd find her clothes.
For nowâŚ
He sat. Silent.
Snow whispered outside the tunnel entrance. Arkham screamed in the distance. But here, in the soft dark, it was quiet.
He tilted his head and whispered:
âSleep, little Evelyn.â
She didnât know that name.
But she didnât resist it either.
And slowly so slowly her tiny, bloodied fingers loosened from the hatâs brim.
Just for a moment.
Then tightened again.
Thank you so much for reading! I had this on my mind for a while and I really enjoyed writing it! stay tuned for the next part! And feel free to check out my other Jervis Works!
Characters:
⢠Jervis Tetch (Mad Hatter): A hypnotic, poetic, and dangerously intelligent villain from Gotham. Known for his obsession with Alice in Wonderland, heâs usually the one pulling the strings â until now.
⢠Reader (You): A deeply unhinged admirer of Jervis whoâs become completely consumed by his ideology and presence. Intelligent, obsessive, and emotionally volatile. A twisted mirror to Jervisâs own madness.
Trigger Warnings:
⢠Kidnapping / Non-consensual restraint: Jervis is tied up and held captive.
⢠Stalking / Obsessive behavior: The Reader has followed and studied Jervis obsessively.
⢠Psychological manipulation / gaslighting: Emotional and mental domination is a central theme.
⢠Delusional thinking / Mental illness: The Reader exhibits signs of severe psychological instability.
⢠Implied violence / Threats: Mentions of destroying the watch, control tactics, possible poisoning, and a blood-stained setting.
⢠Grief / Loss of sibling (Jervisâs backstory): References to Jervisâs trauma regarding his sister Alice.
Masterlist
Part 1
Words: 612
---
He was the master of mind games. But now, the cards were in her hands. Or were they?
It had been seven days.
Seven days of tea parties with broken cups and sugar cubes shaped like skulls. Seven days of lullabies hummed in strange meters. Seven days of you watching him sleep like a child watches their favorite toy, terrified someone might take it away.
Jervis Tetch had played many roles in his life â illusionist, poet, hypnotist, killer. But never had he played the role of prisoner quite like this.
And he hated how well heâd gotten used to it.
Heâd tested the ropes. They were strong. You tied them every night and every morning, even when he was unbound. You were obsessed, but not careless.
His pocket watch was still gone â probably burned like you claimed.
And yet⌠you always sat too close to him. You always lingered when brushing his hair from his face. You loved him. You were infatuated. You were sick. But love â even mad love â made people pliable.
He would play the game now. As the Hatter.
"You know," he said smoothly that morning as you served him slightly burnt toast on a mismatched china plate, "Iâve come to rather enjoy these⌠domestic rituals."
You beamed. âI knew you would. It just took time.â
"Time," he echoed. "Yes, well. We all have plenty of that, donât we? Or perhaps weâre running out." He tilted his head. "Tell me, dear girl, what happens when the tea runs out?"
You hesitated, fingers twitching on the kettle.
He saw it â the first hairline crack.
âIâd never let that happen,â you muttered, pouring the tea.
"No. Of course not." He smiled, too kindly. "Youâve taken such care of me. Almost as if Iâm something precious."
âYou are,â you said, eyes wide and unblinking.
âThen why the ropes?â he asked softly.
You looked down, almost embarrassed. âTo keep you safe.â
âFrom who?â
You didnât answer.
He let the silence breathe.
"You know..." He leaned in, voice low, velvet-dark. âIâve been thinking about Alice.â
Your eyes narrowed, jealousy slicing through your reverence like a jagged knife.
Jervis watched. Good.
"She was weak," you muttered. "She never saw you like I do."
"And you do?" he asked, softly baiting.
You nodded quickly. âI see everything. I know youâre brilliant. Youâre art. Youâre... truth.â
He reached forward â you didnât stop him. His fingers brushed your wrist.
"Then perhaps youâd like to help me write a new verse," he whispered, "one where weâre equal."
You blinked.
He tilted his head. âYou trust me, donât you?â
You nodded. âMore than anyone.â
"Then untie me."
You hesitated. âYouâll run.â
âNo,â he said, eyes soft as velvet, voice gentle. âWhy would I run from the only person whoâs ever truly adored me?â
Your hands shook as you reached for the knot.
But something in your head â your instinct, or perhaps your insanity â tugged you back.
"No," you whispered. âNot yet. Iâm not ready.â
And just like that, the crack closed.
But not completely.
Jervis smiled anyway.
Because heâd planted the seed.
That night, he watched you sleep curled on the velvet couch across the room, hands clutching one of his old hats like a childâs teddy bear. He sat in his chair, untied, as you had finally started leaving him at night. He hadnât moved â yet.
He could run.
He should run.
But instead, he watched you.
"Not above them, not around them... but deep into their center..." he whispered to himself, his fingers twitching where the watch used to be.
You stirred.
He wondered.
What would happen if he stayed?
Not as your captive.
But as your Hatter.
Characters:
⢠Jervis Tetch (Mad Hatter): A hypnotic, poetic, and dangerously intelligent villain from Gotham. Known for his obsession with Alice in Wonderland, heâs usually the one pulling the strings â until now.
⢠Reader (You): A deeply unhinged admirer of Jervis whoâs become completely consumed by his ideology and presence. Intelligent, obsessive, and emotionally volatile. A twisted mirror to Jervisâs own madness.
Trigger Warnings:
⢠Kidnapping / Non-consensual restraint: Jervis is tied up and held captive.
⢠Stalking / Obsessive behavior: The Reader has followed and studied Jervis obsessively.
⢠Psychological manipulation / gaslighting: Emotional and mental domination is a central theme.
⢠Delusional thinking / Mental illness: The Reader exhibits signs of severe psychological instability.
⢠Implied violence / Threats: Mentions of destroying the watch, control tactics, possible poisoning, and a blood-stained setting.
⢠Grief / Loss of sibling (Jervisâs backstory): References to Jervisâs trauma regarding his sister Alice.
Masterlist
Part 2
Words: 637
She followed the ticking down the rabbit hole â and found him. Now he can never leave.
---
Jervis awoke to the scent of lavender and rust.
His head throbbed â not from one of his own tricks, but from being tricked.
By her.
Ropes tightened around his wrists and ankles, keeping him slumped in a chair far more ornate than the decaying warehouse deserved. Across from him, someone hummed sweetly, tunelessly. A lullaby off-key.
"Youâre awake," your voice sang. Light. Eager. Twisted with joy.
He opened his eyes fully now. The room was dimly lit â candles flickered from every surface, melting onto pages of old Lewis Carroll books and crime scene photos. Pages of his own file from Arkham had been pinned up on the walls. And beside them â photos of him. Dozens. Some from the press, others clearly taken from shadows, long-lens, up-close.
"You..."
He blinked, the recognition sharp and angry. "You're the girl. From the alley. The one who followed me after the Narrows riot. I saw your face â you ran."
You stepped forward, barefoot, dressed in a flowing, mismatched outfit like a tea party ghost. You smiled too wide.
"I didnât run, Jervis. I waited."
You touched his cheek and he flinched. Not from fear â from disbelief. The strings were always in his hands. This was wrong.
"Youâve been in my head for so long," you whispered. "I tried to resist it. I really did. But youâyou speak in riddles, and rhymes, and truth... The world didnât understand you. But I did. I do."
He snarled. "Youâre insane."
You giggled. "Of course I am! What else could I be? Iâve been listening to your voice for months. Rewinding old tapes. Memorizing the rhythm of your rhymes. The way you flick your watch open... Click. Tick. Command. Control..."
His face darkened at the mention of the watch.
"I destroyed it, by the way," you added, shrugging. "Didnât want you getting any funny ideas. This is my tea party, not yours."
Jervis laughed bitterly. "So what now? You play mad queen, and Iâm your pretty pawn? Do you plan to keep me caged like a canary forever?"
You leaned close, your breath against his ear.
"I donât want to keep you, Jervis. I want to love you."
That word hung in the air like poison.
"Every moment Iâve ever lived has felt like static," you said, stepping back to look at him. "Until I heard you. You made me feel seen. Heard. You showed me how madness could be beautiful."
He sneered, trying to tug at the ropes. "And you think thisâthis deranged playhouseâis love?"
"I think," you said, cocking your head with a childish grin, "that you and I are meant to be. You just donât realize it yet. But you will."
He narrowed his eyes. Calculating. "You're using my own madness against me."
You laughed and twirled in place. "Iâm not using anything. You gave it to me. Your words were seeds. Now youâre in bloom."
Jervis swallowed hard.
For the first time in a long while⌠he felt helpless. Outplayed.
Your gaze softened then. âWould you like some tea?â
He scoffed. âI'd prefer arsenic.â
You smiled sweetly. âDonât tempt me.â
Then silence.
He watched you set the table like it mattered. Like this wasnât a decaying hideout with rat-bitten curtains and blood-stained floors. Like you were hosting a real guest. A beloved. Not a prisoner.
"I can make you forget her," you said, eyes suddenly darker, softer. "Your sister. Alice. I know she hurt you."
"Donât you dare speak her name," he snapped.
You didnât flinch. You only sighed and whispered, âShe wasnât worthy of you. But I am.â
He stared at you. Deep. Cold. Searching for a crack in your mask.
But it wasnât a mask.
This was you.
And he realized then â as the candlelight danced in your wide, loving eyes â that you were even madder than he was.
TO BE CONTINUED...
---
Heyy thank you so much for reading! This is the start of a small series of mine. It won't be big or compact but I still hope you'll like it! Also I will from now on I will post at least 1 thing each week so stay tuned for more!
