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)
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 she’s given Jervis’s 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, Jervis’s oversized hat still pulled low over her face. She hadn’t 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 hadn’t 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 wouldn’t handle it. But warm water? That, he could offer.
“Drink, little clockhand,” he whispered, not truly expecting her to respond.
She didn’t.
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.
“It’s warm,” he said gently, holding the teacup in front of her. “No tricks, no poison, no shrinking potions. Just something to chase the frost away.”
She didn’t 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 didn’t 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.
“Now, little Evelyn… this may sting. But I’ll be careful. I promise on the Queen’s own chessboard.”
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, hadn’t 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 didn’t scream. She only jerked, violently then went very, very still.
He hated that.
How she didn’t cry.
Didn’t 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.
“Soon, you’ll feel better. Yes, yes, better than ever. We’ll have a tea party with sugar and songs and storybooks… once the monsters stop screaming outside.”
Still no answer. But her breathing steadied, just a little.
And when he placed a patched wool blanket over her shoulders, her hands didn’t 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.
“No, no, sweetling- shhh,” he whispered, kneeling down as she writhed. “You’re safe. You’re safe with the Hatter now. No wolves. No knives. Just hats and heat and hearth…”
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. He’d made it long ago meant to resemble Alice, though it had grown frayed and shapeless over the years. He placed it gently in Evelyn’s trembling hands.
She gripped it instantly so hard her fingers turned white.
Then…
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, don’t 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 didn’t let go of the doll.
And she didn’t 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 didn’t 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 he’d 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 he’d jury-rigged to serve as a heater. Didn’t 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.
“My 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 city’s grime and chill. Won’t that be lovely?”
She froze.
Every muscle in her small frame tensed. She didn’t 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 child’s 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.
“I won’t touch you,” he said softly. “Not unless you want me to, precious girl. No tricks. No games. Just kindness, if you’ll have it.”
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.
“I’ll be just beyond,” he promised. “You may step behind this, and I will not look. I’ll set down the basin, the cloth, the towel and then I’ll count to sixty.
Still nothing.
He stepped back. Just a few paces.
She didn’t 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 didn’t take it.
She touched his fingers instead.
Just barely.
So lightly he might’ve 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.
“Oh, Evelyn…” he murmured, voice breaking into the barest hush. “Would you like me to help you get clean, my dove? Would it be easier… if I helped?”
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.
“I’ll warm the basin again,” he said gently. “And I’ll be as careful as a watchmaker’s thumb.”
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 didn’t move.
His heart broke all over again when he saw her clearly.
Her ribs were too visible. Her stomach, bruised. Her back…
He swallowed hard.
She flinched at the water’s sound, but made no attempt to flee.
He knelt beside her and looked up into her shadowed face.
“May I?” he asked. “I’ll be careful. Like a poet’s breath. I’ll start with your arms.”
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 didn’t 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 didn’t 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.
“No more,” he whispered. “No more pain. Just warmth now. Just clean.”
His fingers brushed gently down her spine with the cloth, never skin to skin. He didn’t rush.
She was shaking.
But not crying.
She hadn’t cried once.
He moved to her legs next, careful to keep her modesty guarded by the towel across her lap.
“Oh, my poor poppet… your feet…” he murmured. “We’ll get thick boots on those soon. And perhaps little bells to chime when you walk.”
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.
“Almost done, little lamb. You’ve done splendidly. The bravest child in all of Wonderland.”
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 forward…
…and 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 didn’t 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 didn’t 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.
“My dear Evelyn,” he said softly, voice gentle as the falling snow outside, “this stew… it’s warm and full of care. Made slowly, with patience just like you need.”
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.
Evelyn’s 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.
Jervis’s voice was a soft lullaby, soothing the storm.
“It’s alright, my precious Evelyn. The stain is nothing but a mark on cloth. It can be cleaned, and it does not hurt you.”
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 she’d 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 Jervis’s, 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 – 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) – 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 Buddy’s 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, he’d be there, sprawled across the couch with that cocky smile like you were the only thing he’d 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 couldn’t explain. You wanted to believe he saw the softness you hid from everyone else.
What he didn’t see what you never let him see were the wings.
They were your secret, folding neatly against your back, heavy with everything you couldn’t 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.
Syndrome’s machines tore through the skyline, smoke choking the streets. You couldn’t 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.
“Well, well, birdie,” Syndrome’s voice mocked from above. “Let’s see how high you can fly with your wings broken.”
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.
“Hey-hey, what the hell-” 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.
“You-” His voice faltered, the mask slipping for just a second. The recognition hit him like a blow. The super I almost killed…
But you didn’t know. You couldn’t know.
“I-I’m sorry,” you gasped, words breaking with pain. “I didn’t want you to… to see me like this.”
Buddy swallowed hard, forcing his face into something softer, gentler than the hurricane inside him. He cradled you against him, holding you too tightly.
“Don’t talk,” he murmured, trying to steady his voice. “Just… don’t talk. I’ve got you.”
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 didn’t know who he was.
When your breathing slowed, Buddy pressed his lips against your hair, whispering words he didn’t mean to say out loud:
“…God, what am I supposed to do with you?”
The bathroom was a mess of feathers and blood. Buddy’s 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.
“Sorry, sorry,” 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. “You’re… not very good at this, you know.”
Buddy’s 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.
“Yeah, well, forgive me for not having a degree in wing repair,” 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.
“Who did this to you?” he asked, voice low. Too low.
You hesitated. Your wings twitched, feathers brushing against his arm. “…One of those machines. That villain, Syndrome. I don’t think he saw me clearly, but… he almost did.”
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.
“Buddy?” you asked softly, pulling him out of his silence. “You’re pale. Are you okay?”
He swallowed hard, forcing himself to move again. He pressed gauze against the wound, pretending the pressure in his chest was just adrenaline. “I’m fine. Just-” His voice cracked, and he had to clear his throat. “Just worried about you, birdie.”
The nickname slipped out before he could stop it. His heart dropped, but you only gave a faint, tired smile.
“Birdie, huh? Guess that fits now.”
He chuckled weakly, hiding behind it, but inside he was screaming. If you knew… if you realized he was Syndrome, you’d never smile at him again. You’d hate him. Fear him.
And he couldn’t 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 couldn’t let you go. Not now. Not ever.
“…I’ll protect you,” he whispered into your hair, though the words tasted like ash. “From him. From Syndrome. I promise.”
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 didn’t know what to do with his own hands if they weren’t 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.
“You’re different,” you murmured.
His head jerked up, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Different how?”
“I don’t know.” You tilted your head, wincing as you shifted your wings. “Softer, maybe. Less… sharp. You’ve always had this bite to you, Buddy, but since that night you’ve…” You trailed off, searching for the word. “It’s like you’re afraid. Of something.”
For a second, his hands stilled. His gaze dropped to the bloodied gauze in his hands, and his jaw tightened.
“I’m not afraid,” he said finally, voice low, deliberate. “I just don’t want to lose you.”
Your breath caught. Heat spread across your chest, and not from the pain. You swallowed, your heart betraying you with how fast it raced.
“You won’t,” 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.
“Good,” 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 shouldn’t.
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.
“I’ll protect you,” he whispered again into the empty room, trying to convince himself it was true. “Even if it’s from me.”
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 Carroll’s 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 Jervis’s control. Traumatized, mute, and forced into obedience. Though outwardly docile, she’s 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 “Alice” 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 Reader’s silence and behavior suggest long-term psychological damage.
• Stockholm Syndrome undertones: The story explores unhealthy attachment and survival within abuse.
Masterlist
Words: 716
---
She didn’t understand. Not yet.
But she would.
Jervis Tetch watched her from across the room, fingers twitching against the teacup he’d 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 he’d 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. He’d heard it, felt it, known. She might’ve 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 wasn’t there. “My dear,” he said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “why must you always look so dreadfully miserable?”
She didn’t answer. Her fingers trembled in her lap.
“This is a wonderland,” he continued as he crossed the room. “A perfect little world, carved out just for you and me. And yet…” He opened the cabinet drawer and retrieved the revolver she thought she’d hidden.
Her face paled.
He turned to face her, twirling the gun lightly in his hand. “Oh, Alice,” he whispered, his voice almost a croon. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice? That you could take it, stash it away, and perhaps shoot your way to freedom?”
He raised the gun to his own temple.
She gasped a raw, involuntary sound and froze.
“Reach for the gun again,” he said softly, a tremor in his voice now, eyes wide and wet with mania, “and I’ll blow my brains out all over your pretty little dress.”
Her breath caught in her throat.
“You don’t want that, do you?” he asked, eyes searching her face like a madman reading tea leaves. “You love me. You just don’t understand it yet. But you will. I’ll teach you. I’ve been nothing but honest. Kind. Patient.”
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 hadn’t pulled away.
“You were no one before me,” he murmured, stroking her thigh as if to soothe her. “Just a little girl in a world that never cared. But I saw you. I saved you. And this… all of this…” He spread his arms wide. “It’s for you. I made it all for you.”
Still, she didn’t 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.
“But,” Jervis said gently, as if explaining the rules of a simple game to a child, “if you ever try to leave again...if you lie, or scheme, or steal from me then I won’t kill myself next time.”
He looked up at her, smiling sweetly.
“I’ll kill you. And then I’ll walk straight into the river and drown with you in my arms like a proper tragic poem.”
His voice was calm, almost singsong. It terrified her more than if he’d 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.
“There, there,” he whispered. “Don’t cry, my dear. Don’t fret. Everything’s going to be just fine… as long as you behave.”
She didn’t move. Didn’t 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 didn’t 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 he’s 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. Tuffnut’s chaotic charm annoys her until it doesn’t, 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.
He’d ridden dragons, eaten expired yak cheese, and once got launched off a catapult because he thought he could “fly a little.” But none of those things not one made his heart stop like Freya did.
It wasn’t fair. She’d grown up right next to him same village, same snow, same rotten fish stew every winter. She wasn’t new. She wasn’t mysterious. She wasn’t 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, he’d do it again.
Gobber’s voice echoed through the arena. “Alright, ya worthless lot! We’re doin’ the Nadder drill today. Partners, now!”
Tuffnut’s head snapped up. Before he could even blink, Snotlout was halfway toward Freya, smirking like he owned the village.
Nope.
Tuffnut didn’t even think. He sprinted across the training grounds and somehow shoulder-checked Snotlout into a barrel of water. It was instinct, really.
“Oh no,” Tuffnut said, loud and fake-dramatic. “Snotlout’s drowned!”
“I’m fine!” came the muffled reply from inside the barrel.
“Looks like I’ll have to step in,” Tuffnut said, already turning to Freya with his most charming grin.
She blinked at him. “You just tackled him.”
“Gently,” he offered.
Freya gave a small huff, amused. “You’re insane.”
“But available,” he said quickly, walking beside her as they approached the arena. “And very good at distracting dragons. And ladies.”
“You distracted Snotlout into a concussion,” she said, pulling her helmet down.
“Exactly,” he whispered with a wink. “Tactical genius.”
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.
“Thorston! Cover my right!” she barked.
“Anything for you,” he mumbled, dashing after her.
The Nadder hissed, circling. Freya didn’t 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 dragon’s eye.
Tuffnut, meanwhile, smacked into a support beam.
“Solid beam,” he groaned, staggering upright. “Very aggressive.”
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. “You okay?”
Tuffnut gave her a dazed thumbs-up. “Do I still have eyebrows?”
“No.”
“Sweet.”
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 didn’t seem to notice the way Tuffnut kept sneaking glances at her.
Except maybe she did, because after a long silence, she said, “Why do you keep staring at me like that?”
He choked. “Like what?”
“Like you’re about to say something stupid.”
He tilted his head. “To be fair, that’s just how I always look.”
Freya looked at him, skeptical. “You’ve been acting weird around me lately.”
He leaned back, heart thumping a little too loud. “Define weird.”
“You dropped your shield when I said your name yesterday.”
“It was slippery.”
“You tripped over your own braid the day before.”
“I was... emotionally overwhelmed.”
“And today you tackled Snotlout into a barrel.”
“Okay, that one was romantic.”
Freya stared.
Tuffnut blinked. “Did I say romantic? I meant tactical. Romantic-tactical. It’s a new method. Very strategic. Very-"
“You’re in love with me,” 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.
“Yeah. I think I am.”
Freya raised an eyebrow. “Since when?”
Tuffnut scratched his head. “Since always? Maybe since we were ten and you knocked out Snotlout’s tooth for calling you Frey-Frey.”
There was silence. Tense, awkward silence. Tuffnut squirmed.
Freya didn’t move for a long second. Then just barely she smirked.
“You’re an idiot.”
He grinned. “Your idiot?”
“Maybe.”
His brain short-circuited.
But somehow, sitting beside her on that fence sweaty, bruised, heartbeat like a war drum Tuffnut felt like he’d just won the biggest battle of his life.
Tuffnut wasn’t 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 hadn’t denied it, at least. She’d said “maybe,” and in Tuffnut’s 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.
“Oh hey, Freya,” Snotlout said, way too loud. “Need a partner for the fireball run? I’ve got excellent reflexes. Ladies love reflexes.”
Freya was sharpening her axe. “Do they?”
“They do,” 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. “Actually, Freya’s with me. We’re a team. Like axes and blood. Like fire and more fire.”
Freya glanced up from her blade. “Didn’t know we were assigned.”
“We’re not,” Tuffnut said too quickly. “But spiritually? Emotionally? Definitely assigned.”
Snotlout scoffed. “What, you two dating now?”
Before Tuffnut could blurt out something insane (like yes we are and also I carved her name into my helmet), Freya just muttered, “Back off, Snotlout.”
She didn’t even look up when she said it but the tone? Cold. Final.
Tuffnut blinked.
Snotlout blinked.
And then walked away, muttering something about “losing to a guy with a braid.”
Tuffnut was flying so high on that victory that he didn’t 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.
“THORSTON!” Gobber shouted. “What did I just say about getting distracted in the ring!?”
“I was emotionally compromised!” Tuffnut wheezed from the ground.
Freya was at his side in seconds, frowning hard. “You’re bleeding.”
“Cool,” he grinned, dazed. “Blood builds character.”
“You hit your head too?”
“Probably. You look like two Freyas right now. Not mad about it.”
She rolled her eyes and grabbed his arm, hoisting him up. “You’re the dumbest Viking in Berk.”
“But possibly the luckiest,” he mumbled.
She didn’t respond. But she didn’t 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 healer’s hut and sat him down.
“Stay still,” she said, pulling a cloth from her pouch.
“I’m fine,” he mumbled. “This is barely OW, okay, okay, that stings.”
“You’re literally dripping,” she said, dabbing at his temple. “How have you not bled out from sheer idiocy yet?”
“It’s the braids,” he whispered. “They hold me together.”
She smirked, just a little, and Tuffnut felt like he’d been handed a dragon egg.
Her fingers were surprisingly gentle, cleaning his wound like she didn’t want to hurt him. And for a second, he just looked at her.
Freya. Fearless, fiery, sharp-tongued Freya. Taking care of him.
He didn’t know how to handle it, so naturally he ruined the moment.
“So... this mean you wanna braid our hair together and make it official?”
She jabbed his wound with the cloth.
“OW. Okay! Okay, backing off!”
But she was smiling again. That tiny, dangerous smile that always made his ribs go soft.
The door slammed open.
“Ugh,” Ruffnut groaned, stomping in. “You two are disgusting.”
Tuffnut paled. “What?! We’re What do you mean? We’re not-”
“I saw everything,” Ruffnut said, waving her arms around. “You tackled Snotlout like a lovesick goat. You tripped over your own ego. You let Freya patch you up like a baby sheep. You’re in love.”
Tuffnut stared at her in horror. “Don’t say it out loud, she’ll hear you!”
“She’s right next to you.”
He turned to Freya. She was looking at Ruffnut with a single, unimpressed blink. “You’re late,” she said. “He already confessed yesterday.”
Ruffnut gasped so loud it echoed. “WHAT?! You like him BACK?!”
“Maybe.”
Tuffnut gave a panicked thumbs-up. “She said maybe, and I’ll take it!”
Ruffnut looked between them like she was watching a boar walk on two legs. Then her eyes gleamed with evil mischief.
“Oh this is perfect. I’m gonna tell everyone. I’m gonna make a banner. ‘Freya <3 Tuffnut’ no wait, I’ll carve it into the dragon pens-”
“Touch my name and I’ll gut you,” Freya said calmly.
Ruffnut saluted and walked out, muttering something about poetry and threats.
Tuffnut sat back with a dreamy sigh. “I’m so glad she’s my sister.”
“You’re both freaks.”
“I know.”
They sat in silence for a while. His head stopped bleeding. Her hands didn’t 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 didn’t say anything cheesy. He didn’t make a joke. He just looked at her.
And maybe she didn’t say it, but the way she looked back said everything.
Berk’s 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 wasn’t 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.
He’d 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 wasn’t a walking heart attack in human form.
Tuffnut couldn’t breathe.
“Say something to her,” Ruffnut whispered from beside him, elbowing him hard. “Or I will. Loudly.”
“I can’t,” Tuffnut hissed. “She looks like she’d kill me and steal my soul.”
“Yeah,” Ruffnut smirked. “And you’re so into it.”
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.
“Nice dress,” he blurted. “I mean fierce dress. Death dress. In a good way. Like, you look like you could kill me at a royal feast.”
Freya turned to him, eyebrow raised. “That supposed to be a compliment?”
He nodded too fast. “Absolutely. I’m sweating.”
“You do that a lot.”
“I do it more when you look like that.”
She paused, then looked back to the axe game. “Wanna lose to me?”
“Do I want to be humiliated in public by a girl I’m hopelessly into? Yes. Yes I do.”
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, “Here. So it doesn’t look like you lost completely.”
Tuffnut clutched the dragon like it was sacred.
“You gave me a gift,” he said dramatically. “That’s basically marriage.”
Freya shoved him lightly. “Shut up.”
He grinned like a man hit by lightning. “I won’t.”
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.
“Is that Freya?” one whispered. “With Tuffnut?”
“She looks...like a girl.”
“And he’s not dead?”
Freya heard it. Tuffnut knew she heard it. Her jaw twitched, her grip on her mug tightened
“Hey,” he said, grabbing her wrist gently. “They don’t matter.”
She looked at him.
“You’re terrifying in a dress,” he said. “In the best way. I might cry.”
Her expression softened just a little.
Then the drums shifted. Faster, louder. A voice yelled, “DANCE CIRCLE STARTING LET’S GO, VIKINGS!”
And just like that, they were in the middle of the circle.
Tuffnut didn’t 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 didn’t smile, but her cheeks were flushed, and she didn’t run away which meant she didn’t hate it.
Tuffnut kept pace, barely. “Am I doing it?”
“You look like you’re dying.”
“Hot, right?”
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.
“I think I love you.”
It just...fell out.
Freya stopped moving.
The drums thudded in the background. The fire popped. Tuffnut’s soul left his body.
She stared at him.
“You think?”
“I-I do. I know.”
She didn’t say anything.
“I mean,” he stammered, “you can stab me now. That’d be fair.”
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 wasn’t soft. It was quick, rough, maybe even a warning. But it happened.
Then she pulled back and said, “If you tell anyone, I’ll gut you.”
He nodded, stunned. “So... still maybe?”
She smirked. “Less maybe.”
Ruffnut screamed in the background. “I KNEW IT!”
Tuffnut was not a smart man.
He was clever, sometimes. Especially when it involved explosives or convincing Snotlout to eat something that definitely wasn’t 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 hadn’t flung himself off a dragon.
“‘Less maybe’ isn’t a real thing,” he muttered, pacing outside the training grounds. “It’s like saying ‘kinda dead.’ You either are, or you aren’t. I need rules. I need a guide. I need a Viking code of emotional conduct”
“She kissed you,” Ruffnut said from the wall, picking at her nails. “That’s a yes.”
“But then she said she’d gut me if I told anyone!”
“Still a yes. Just a violent one.”
He groaned, clutching his head. “What if it was a festival thing?! What if it was like… a drums and firelight kiss, not a ‘I wanna braid your hair and emotionally support you’ kiss?”
“You are the dumbest man on this island.”
“Thank you,” he said dramatically. “At least that is certain.”
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:
“So! Casual question. How do you feel about braiding our names into matching tunics?”
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. Didn’t talk unless spoken to. Squinted into the distance like he had secrets. When Freya asked if he was having a stroke, he responded with, “Maybe I’m just complicated.”
She walked away again.
Day Three, he gave up.
“I’m going to ask her,” he announced to Ruffnut that evening.
She didn’t look up. “Ask her what?”
“If she likes me. Like, likes me likes me. Not just likes me in a ‘you’re amusing when injured’ kind of way.”
Ruffnut looked at him for a long time.
“You’re terrified.”
“Correct.”
“You’ve survived being dragged by a dragon through a thorn bush.”
“This is scarier.”
“Then go. Be bold. Be a man. Be the disaster you were born to be.”
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.
“Hey,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “Don’t stab me yet.”
She looked up. “Not planning to.”
“Cool, cool. Just checking. Listen, uh, I’ve been thinking well, spiraling, really but with purpose.”
Freya blinked. “Okay.”
“So… that kiss.”
She paused her sharpening.
He kept going before his brain could explode. “Was that, like, a ‘shut up’ kiss? A ‘maybe don’t die’ kiss? A ‘you’re tolerable’ kiss? Because honestly I’ve been pacing in circles like a headless chicken and I’d really love to know if we’re -y’know a thing. Or if I imagined all of it in a mead-soaked, fire-lit dream.”
Freya didn’t 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:
“Do you want it to be a dream?”
Tuffnut blinked. “What? 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.”
She stepped closer. “Good.”
“Wait, good?”
Freya leaned in.
And this time, when she kissed him, it wasn’t quick. It wasn’t a warning. It wasn’t a maybe.
It was real. Warm. Certain.
And when she pulled back, she said, “Now stop overthinking everything or I will stab you.”
Tuffnut was glowing. Beaming. Possibly levitating. “I love you so much it’s concerning.”
“I know.”
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 Freya’s 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, “Is it true? You’re with Freya? The axe-wielding legend herself?” Adults nodded knowingly, and even the blacksmith gave him a thumbs up.
“Hey, Fishlegs!” Tuffnut hollered with a grin. “Guess who’s officially off the market!”
Fishlegs’ eyebrows shot up, and he nearly dropped his stack of books. “You mean Freya? Are you serious?”
“Dead serious!” Tuffnut threw his arms wide like he was presenting the sun itself. “She kissed me! Twice!”
That was when Tuffnut noticed the sharpness in the crowd’s eyes like they were waiting for something to happen.
It happened quickly.
Freya’s footsteps were silent but fierce, and before Tuffnut could even think to duck, she grabbed him by the front of his tunic.
“Tuffnut,” she hissed, low and angry, “what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
His grin faltered. “I was just-”
“You were what?” Her voice dropped to a dangerous whisper, but there was no mistaking the fury. “You were shouting like a wild man, calling me your ‘war queen’ and telling the whole village that we’re-what? together?”
Tuffnut scratched the back of his neck, feeling suddenly very small. “Yeah, I thought people should know. I mean, we kissed. That’s a big deal, right?”
Freya’s eyes narrowed. “It’s a big deal to me, but that doesn’t mean I want it broadcasted like it’s a festival announcement. You don’t get to decide what’s okay to share without asking me first.”
He swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
She pulled him closer, her breath sharp with frustration. “You did. You embarrassed me. I’m not some prize for you to parade around, Tuffnut. I’m a person. A warrior. I don’t want every child on this island shouting about your ‘girlfriend’ like it’s a joke or a story.”
Tuffnut blinked, stunned by the weight of her words.
“I thought you’d be happy,” he admitted quietly.
“I am happy,” Freya said, voice cracking just a bit, “but I’m also scared. You made this real for everyone except me. I didn’t get to prepare for this. I didn’t get to choose if I wanted it to be public. And now it is.”
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.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low. “I was excited. I got carried away.”
Freya pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “Excited or not, you crossed a line. I need to be able to trust that you’ll respect me.”
He nodded quickly, his chest tightening. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll keep things between us from now on. I promise.”
She looked away, her jaw clenched, but after a long pause, she said, “Good. Because right now, all I want is to disappear.”
Later that night, Tuffnut sat alone by the fire, the flickering flames reflecting the storm inside him.
He replayed every moment: the way Freya’s 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 hadn’t before.
It wasn’t 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 he’d shattered that trust without even meaning to.
His heart felt heavier than any sack of mead he’d 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 she’d even want to see him.
“Freya,” he said softly, sitting beside her.
She didn’t look at him.
“I’m sorry for yelling it out like that,” he continued. “I thought I was being brave, but really I was just being dumb. I didn’t think about how it’d make you feel.”
She finally met his eyes, weary but still guarded.
“You’re not dumb,” she said quietly. “You’re just loud and... impulsive. And sometimes, that’s hard to deal with.”
He smiled weakly. “I’m going to try to be better. For you. Because you matter.”
Freya’s lips twitched in a reluctant smile.
“But don’t expect me to stop stabbing you with words when you mess up.”
He laughed, genuine and relieved.
“I don’t expect that. I deserve it.”
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 she’s given Jervis’s 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 didn’t glitter. It didn’t 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.
“Twinkle, twinkle, little bat… how I wonder…”
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 wasn’t 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.
Jervis’s breath caught in his throat.
He knelt beside her, slowly, like approaching a frightened rabbit. His hand hovered inches from her shoulder but didn’t touch. Her eyes were wide open. Blank. Not quite looking at him just staring past him, somewhere no one else could see.
She didn’t 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.
“Oh… dear heart,” he murmured. “What terrible tea party have you stumbled from?”
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.
Jervis’s throat tightened.
He took off his hat.
The wind rushed past them, cold enough to bite bone. But he didn’t 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 didn’t react. No flinch. No sound. Just shaking.
He knelt in the snow beside her and waited a long, aching moment.
Then he whispered:
“You’ll freeze here, little one.”
Still no response.
He looked down at her feet. The skin was blue. Purple. Her toes had stopped moving. If she tried to walk, they’d crack like glass.
No.
He had to move her.
“I’m going to pick you up now,” he said softly, almost apologetically. “I will be gentle. As gentle as the March Hare’s sigh.”
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 didn’t even strain him. But what he felt in his arms made his heart twist.
She wasn’t 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 didn’t move to fix it.
He turned and began walking. His boots echoed softly down the ruined alleyways.
“I know a place,” he murmured to her, as if telling a bedtime story to someone who hadn’t heard one in years. “A warm place. With blankets and books. And tea, of course. Mustn’t forget tea. Hatter’s orders.”
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 didn’t open her eyes. She didn’t 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 didn’t ask her name.
He knew she wouldn’t answer.
He didn’t offer food yet. Her body was too fragile. He’d wait. He’d warm water. He’d find her clothes.
For now…
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:
“Sleep, little Evelyn.”
She didn’t know that name.
But she didn’t resist it either.
And slowly so slowly her tiny, bloodied fingers loosened from the hat’s 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, he’s usually the one pulling the strings — until now.
• Reader (You): A deeply unhinged admirer of Jervis who’s become completely consumed by his ideology and presence. Intelligent, obsessive, and emotionally volatile. A twisted mirror to Jervis’s 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 (Jervis’s backstory): References to Jervis’s 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 — illusionist, poet, hypnotist, killer. But never had he played the role of prisoner quite like this.
And he hated how well he’d gotten used to it.
He’d 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 — 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 — even mad love — 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, "I’ve come to rather enjoy these… domestic rituals."
You beamed. “I knew you would. It just took time.”
"Time," he echoed. "Yes, well. We all have plenty of that, don’t we? Or perhaps we’re 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 — the first hairline crack.
“I’d never let that happen,” you muttered, pouring the tea.
"No. Of course not." He smiled, too kindly. "You’ve taken such care of me. Almost as if I’m something precious."
“You are,” you said, eyes wide and unblinking.
“Then why the ropes?” he asked softly.
You looked down, almost embarrassed. “To keep you safe.”
“From who?”
You didn’t answer.
He let the silence breathe.
"You know..." He leaned in, voice low, velvet-dark. “I’ve been thinking about Alice.”
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. “I see everything. I know you’re brilliant. You’re art. You’re... truth.”
He reached forward — you didn’t stop him. His fingers brushed your wrist.
"Then perhaps you’d like to help me write a new verse," he whispered, "one where we’re equal."
You blinked.
He tilted his head. “You trust me, don’t you?”
You nodded. “More than anyone.”
"Then untie me."
You hesitated. “You’ll run.”
“No,” he said, eyes soft as velvet, voice gentle. “Why would I run from the only person who’s ever truly adored me?”
Your hands shook as you reached for the knot.
But something in your head — your instinct, or perhaps your insanity — tugged you back.
"No," you whispered. “Not yet. I’m not ready.”
And just like that, the crack closed.
But not completely.
Jervis smiled anyway.
Because he’d 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 child’s teddy bear. He sat in his chair, untied, as you had finally started leaving him at night. He hadn’t moved — 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, he’s usually the one pulling the strings — until now.
• Reader (You): A deeply unhinged admirer of Jervis who’s become completely consumed by his ideology and presence. Intelligent, obsessive, and emotionally volatile. A twisted mirror to Jervis’s 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 (Jervis’s backstory): References to Jervis’s trauma regarding his sister Alice.
Masterlist
Part 2
Words: 637
She followed the ticking down the rabbit hole — and found him. Now he can never leave.
---
Jervis awoke to the scent of lavender and rust.
His head throbbed — 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.
"You’re awake," your voice sang. Light. Eager. Twisted with joy.
He opened his eyes fully now. The room was dimly lit — 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 — 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 — you ran."
You stepped forward, barefoot, dressed in a flowing, mismatched outfit like a tea party ghost. You smiled too wide.
"I didn’t run, Jervis. I waited."
You touched his cheek and he flinched. Not from fear — from disbelief. The strings were always in his hands. This was wrong.
"You’ve been in my head for so long," you whispered. "I tried to resist it. I really did. But you—you speak in riddles, and rhymes, and truth... The world didn’t understand you. But I did. I do."
He snarled. "You’re insane."
You giggled. "Of course I am! What else could I be? I’ve 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. "Didn’t want you getting any funny ideas. This is my tea party, not yours."
Jervis laughed bitterly. "So what now? You play mad queen, and I’m your pretty pawn? Do you plan to keep me caged like a canary forever?"
You leaned close, your breath against his ear.
"I don’t want to keep you, Jervis. I want to love you."
That word hung in the air like poison.
"Every moment I’ve 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 this—this deranged playhouse—is love?"
"I think," you said, cocking your head with a childish grin, "that you and I are meant to be. You just don’t 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. "I’m not using anything. You gave it to me. Your words were seeds. Now you’re in bloom."
Jervis swallowed hard.
For the first time in a long while… he felt helpless. Outplayed.
Your gaze softened then. “Would you like some tea?”
He scoffed. “I'd prefer arsenic.”
You smiled sweetly. “Don’t tempt me.”
Then silence.
He watched you set the table like it mattered. Like this wasn’t 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."
"Don’t you dare speak her name," he snapped.
You didn’t flinch. You only sighed and whispered, “She wasn’t worthy of you. But I am.”
He stared at you. Deep. Cold. Searching for a crack in your mask.
But it wasn’t a mask.
This was you.
And he realized then — as the candlelight danced in your wide, loving eyes — 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!
