e-l-c-kingor​:

He can’t help but flinch when the knife hits the table- but the reaction is limited, Edwin only able to squeeze his eyes shut, his jaw beginning to tremble. The very same blood spewing out onto his clothes, no doubt arching through the air from the severity of his wounds, seems to roar in his ears, that awful feeling of nausea coiling around his stomach and esophagus. Everything around him seems to be swimming- or maybe he’s teetering back and forth. Next, his vision is going to fail, then his mental faculties, then his going to bled dry and keel over and-

Similar yet inverted to his ‘host,’ it takes the inventor a moment to realize Jervis is speaking to him, struggling to open his eyes again- the raising of his eyelids freeing a couple tears. The implications of the other’s words make Edwin’s head loll forward, looking shirtward, despite his desire not to. A whimper escapes his strangled throat at the view of his absolutely ruined shirt, the obscene splotch of red- shouldn’t it be purple?- certain to stain.

“You have a spot.” Jervis swipes his thumb across his own cheek, in the place that Edwin, did, indeed, have marked with a fleck of blood. My, he did seem to have upset him, he’d never come back for another tea party at this rate.... Slowly, The Hatter pours his tea to the ground and places the cup, overturned over the bloodied blade. It’s an impractical way of hiding it, but, well, he is a storybook character, he’s never been practical.

“Caterpillar.” His voice is lilting, almost sing-song, but calm, all anger evaporated from the tone.  A gloved hand extends, beckoning.

“Caterpillar. Look at me, come here. Eyes up- don’t cry, you’re liable to drown in it, and we haven't the time for it.”

babydxhl​:

She takes the obituaries with a glee that borders on obscene – in the last week she has taken to devouring them daily with the same borderline obsession as a teen scouring horoscopes. At Jervis she makes a face, crossing her eyes, the side of her mouth jerking down.

“Don’t be jealous,” she tells him. She knows very well that’s not what’s going on.

But tabloids do love Mary Dahl, the starlet fallen from grace. The darling of the witness stand, smiling cherubim for the court illustrator as she pleads her case. Her lawyer collects each one and sends them to her in a neatly bundled pile after each trial.

“Besides, sometimes it’s better to just be a plain old freak.” She rests an elbow on the table, curled knuckles propping up her cheek. Her gaze is fixed on the tiny typed letters – her tone is bored. “I get letters, you know. From preachy nobodies.”

”I’m all but green with it.” He deadpans, conspiratorially wry as he pulls open another section, the front emblazoned with the promise of the GCPD’s new crackdown on crime (anyone who truly believed it, of course, was due to be his neighbor in a padded cell)

“Ah, well. To us, at the least you’re a member honorary.” Jervis waves a hand in a limp, idle gesture, considering the paper for a moment before snorting his disapproval with it and tossing it aside.

“They all want to play Pygmalion, don’t they...? Make you into a real girl again for a courtroom drama. Never-mind they’ve met the man himself, and locked him up here. A dollhouse for the doll-maker...”

It wasn't like he hadn't noticed, although he suspected his lover thought otherwise. How some doors sealed shut as gentle hands pried others ajar, a puzzlebox he trusted not to trap him inside. They we alike in that, the hatter supposed, he, the jackrabbit, darting deeper between the twisted briar of the unreal, Victor, the labyrinth, standing solid with his upmost vulnerabilities tucked deep within.

He hoped this didn't make him Ariadne, he had never been fond of how that story ended.

"Well reach with both hands then, if what you're trying to catch is your death." Jervis mutters at the rejection, somewhat sourly. Like Victor, he's quick to relent, and returns his hands to the hitman's shoulders, smoothing the blanket and keeping him from shrugging it off in the same loving motion.

He can feel the tension stored there, mingled with the bone-chill of a Gotham winter, and purses his lips slightly, a depth of concern in his eyes that he's somewhat greatful the other can't see.

"..Just let me." Then a half-whispered addition, as if his attentions needed further justification. "You're shivering."

𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐁𝐀𝐋.    @hypnocis​

30﹕ sender  wraps  a  blanket  around  receiver’s  shoulders.

     It was uncomfortable — his attention, his adoration. It was something Victor didn’t understand. His parents had never paid attention to him ( unless he got in trouble ), let alone be affectionate towards him. In his youth, he rebelliously recoiled at the idea of his parents’ love — an illusion in attempt to illustrate himself as the one in control. Rather than the deprived, unloved, child he was. The older he grew, the worst he saw in people. And the colder he grew, dismissing the idea of a relationship outside of merely using each as a naive fantasy. A foolish delusion; one that could get him killed in his line of business.       And yet, as the soft material, carrying the scent of the many teas the Hatter frequented, was gently placed upon ever-aching shoulders, the child in him overtook his response; and he could not help but relish in the tranquility — even if only momentarily.       In an instant, he clears his throat and gently distances the other’s hands. “Stop — I’m fine.” He unintentionally snaps, but is soon to soften. “… The fire’s enough … I, I don’t need a blanket too.” The common critiques of his masculinity by his father echoed within the assassin’s thoughts. Just like his treatment towards Jervis, he suppresses any feelings which threaten to emerge. A sigh escapes chapped, blue lips. “I’ve weathered worse storms than this.” Victor added, not wholly referring to quickly accumulating snow outside snuffing the city’s lights and transforming Gotham’s atmosphere into a novel twilight zone of beautiful, ominous ivory. 

Jervis is surprisingly up-to-date on queer slang and terminology for a man who generally refuses to admit time has passed since 1865. He grew up around theaters, after all, and while he never really had friends, you pick things up. He does tend to describe his sexuality in more old fashioned allusions then any concrete label because he enjoys the feeling of it.

Jervis has a bunch of lab rats who's brains he's implanted with chips, pretty much permanently removing their free will. He dresses them up in little dresses and waistcoats with tiny pocket-watches, and they commit petty theft and spy on people for him.

It's all pretty cute, and he loves the things, but uh...don't get too attached to any particular rat. He is not a good pet owner and that combined with the fact that they do suffer quite acutely already due to those chips means that they die extremely frequently.

Donut is learning the “Rob a Purse” rat trick! 

episomalvector​:

@hypnocis​​ liked for a starter

She’d been sharing a bench with the man and, never being able to be rude or selfish–

“If you’d like… I do have a few extra pastries on me– I’m more then happy to share!” She offers up the box in her lap to reveal a few adorably decorated pastries. Three white wagashi creations– a seal, a bear, and a rabbit. “They’re filled with strawberry jam!”

His eyes alight at the offer, uttering a small exclamation of delight at the artfully crafted creatures within. “Oh! Charming little things...” Perhaps predictably, he takes the rabbit by its minute confectionery ear, laying it carefully in his palm to study its work.

“And you make them yourself, you say?”

It's me, Alice, Jervis Tetch, speaking to you inside your brain-

librarywent​:

     His head shakes, and its heaviness makes the boy reach out to avoid stumbling out of his chair. The world sways around him. Dizzy and desperate, his forehead rests gently against the Hatter’s arm. “She comes, uninvited — She always comes … Death is the only escape from her. She’s made sure of it.”

"Shh.” Jervis hushes him gently, wrapping his arm around the boys shoulders to allow him to lean against the Hatter’s side, the movement accompanied by the quiet clinking of the trinkets in his jacket and the low hum of his voice, as soothingly regular as the arc of a hypnotist’s watch.

“Leave her, we’re not looking, and she needn’t be found, we’re chasing the rabbit down, down, down...down the rabbit hole.” He pats his shoulder, and his tone takes on just enough firmness to be taken as an order. “Now, relax.”

librarywent​:

     “You’re welcome to them,” Said alongside a nonchalant shrug, however the words are all but a purr. “But I regret to inform you, they’re not all that interesting.” Victor added, an easy gaze flickered down to his forearms. “A mark for every ghost I’ve created. I started after my first real assignment.”

“Don’t sell your stories short, not after all of this ceremony...” He lays a hand, gently, over the neatly marked tallies, running his thumb across one of the many raised sets. Skin against skin, scars against scars, a show of trust so quiet as to missed by most readers of our little tale.

“No daring escapes, bloody battles on the doorstep of death? You’re far from commonplace, my dear, modesty never makes for a good tall tale.”

The mind is like an object that picks up dust. The object doesn't know, any more than the mind does, why what clings to it clings.

James Baldwin, If Beale Street Could Talk

Jervis having a huge scar on his thigh that he gets real quiet about so everyone assumes it was real serious but he just spilled boiling tea on himself and is too embarrassed to admit it-

Don't ever talk to me or my fictional pathetic man ever again

I live for moments when Jervis drops his mask, in any sort of way. The explosions of rage, the moment he cracks and calls Bruce a fucking asshole, rare times when he'll suddenly begin speaking completely normally to get a reaction or because he thought it would be funny. Like. you open up his closet everything falls out and now there's a pile of dead woman on the carpet wdyd

Just realized I accidentally deleted the best written part of my multi doc :/ throwing myself into the sun rn