Wolffe letting out a soft chuckle whenever your sarcasm and wit comes out in full swing.
Wolffe crossing his arms against his chest and laughing proudly when you tumble over after attempting to pull a silly move.
Wolffe smiling so happily that the corner of his eyes crease whenever he's speaking to you.
Wolffe being teased by his boys because it's so painfully clear that he has a soft spot for you.
Wolffe forming a warm and welcoming sensation in his chest when you compliment the paint job on his armour.
Wolffe receiving subtle signs of approval from Master Plo after seeing the way that you two simply are around each other.
Wolffe staying up late every night, unable to sleep, blissfully haunted by your character; a ghost who wants nothing but the best for him, and hopefully, his love in return.
Wolffe who feels sick with anger the second you're injured, even if it's just a scratch.
Wolffe refusing to remove his helmet, shielding his glossy vision and held back tears as he holds your unconscious body close to his chest.
Wolffe pacing back and forth along the medical wing corridor, knowing that he has to keep himself occupied, or else he'll drive himself insane over the thought of losing you.
Wolffe whose words fall silent the second that you wake up. A lump in his throat, clouds in his brain; he's no poet, far from it, and he curses himself for not being able to speak plainly.
Wolffe who fails to meet your gaze as your weak hand comes up to cup his jawline, followed by a soft, "I know."
Wolffe, who is neither bark nor bite, because he's so overwhelmed by the positive and wholesome feelings that you flood him with.
Wolffe in love.
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1fae1 au and oc belong to @ghouljams sorry for haunting your inbox btw
Price runs cold, it comes with being in the court of winter. He isn't corpse freezing, though he definitely can be if he so pleases. Rather, he feels cool. Cool like a gust of wind or soft rain under the power of the unforgiving sun, cool like a shower after a long day of work, washing away the tension in your muscles and the worry of your brow.
Like the bastard that he is, it never fails to amuse him when his cold hands make his little witch yelp and swat at him. He doesn't pull away. Instead, he drags his fingers over her skin, delighting in the goosebumps that are left in their wake. His hands slip under the fabric of whatever pretty dress she has on that day, and he chuckles low and deep when she shivers but makes no effort to push him away.
His witch runs hot. Everything she touches is warm, like a long embrace. Every potion she crafts goes down like the thickest liquor, every charm like a freshly dried blanket over your shoulders.
Everything except for him.
A chill sweeps through her little cottage when he breaks through the threshold, despite the warm lamps and candles and the fire raging under her cauldron that make her home feel like a furnace. She can always feel him coming. Like seeing dark clouds in the distance yet neglecting to find shelter before the storm comes.
He knows exactly why his witch burns like the sun, blood running with all the warmth of a summer fae. Even so, he marvels at how human she feels under his palms. Her every curve and dip so smooth and lush. She hums so sweetly when he drags his thumbs over her cheeks, dousing the blazing skin.
He can nearly feel the steam billowing into the air when his lips meet hers. Their bodies lay entangled in the thick sheets and covers of her bed, and he can feel the warmth buzzing just above his skin. He watches her, taking in the serenity of her expression. The tension in her muscles and the worry of her brow have long since washed away. He watches her and startles himself with the suffocating feeling in his chest. Like a dam breaking, her searing touch sinks into his bones and he takes a breath like his head has been under water for centuries.
For the first time, the devil's heart aches.
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Please let me have this. The concept of Jervis is so good even though his comics aren’t…great…..and writing a Wonderland-loving weirdo as a Wonderland-loving weirdo just sounds fun. So, I guess you’d call this my…
• JERVIS TETCH Headcannons / Interpretation •
• ——— •
Jervis Tetch- or, the Mad Hatter- was a once respected neurologist turned criminal. Unassuming at face value, he creates chaos through his backwards intelligence and hypnotism, molding Gotham to fit his vision of ‘home’.
• ——— •
Jervis was a neurologist, studying the subconscious. He was lonely, with few friends as a result of his social anxiety and awkwardness, but otherwise lived an average life.
This loneliness would bubble up into desperation, driving him to begin his criminal career before he would dawn his alter ego- the result of an unreciprocated crush on his coworker. He’d inconspicuously use hypnotism to make strangers steal gifts to impress her with, the small scale and lack of traceability leaving Jervis guiltless. But eventually his crush would catch on, refusing his gifts and eventually demanding he never talk to her again. In a panic, he would hypnotize a group of bystanders into stealing a large sum of money, which accidentally lead Batman straight to him. Batman would find Tetch begging for the woman to willingly leave Gotham with him, promising anything she wants with the stolen money.
His intelligence and fondness for mind control would land Tetch in Arkham Asylum, which was more than a shock to him. Of course he knew he was risking jail time, but Arkham?? He didn’t think anything he was doing was THAT bad! But now, he was sitting next door to some of the Gotham’s worst villains, amongst their ranks! He could never live a normal life again…. He didn’t want linger on those thoughts, escaping through one of the few distractions he had at his disposal- a copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. He reread and escaped from the reality of the Asylum so often that it soon became his most important influence and, in addition to acclimating to his criminal status, resulted in the creation of his alter ego- the Mad Hatter.
• ——— •
Jervis is deceptively non-villainous- pleasant, soft-spoken, and chipper. He enjoys “helping” others, and has moments of ditziness and anxiousness. If you had met him on the street unknowingly, you’d likely think he was just a well meaning eccentric with his head a little too far in the clouds. He does, however, have an awful temper, and is also quick to shift blame away from himself.
Many say he isn’t ignorant to this perception, with debates whether or not he knowingly plays up his personality to manipulate others. Generally, the people who know his history don’t typically respect him, but also don’t put down their guard around him. After all, there is no arguing his use of hypnotism and mind control, and the wacky schemes that are difficult to crack because of the nonsense logic that only he finds sense in.
The Mad Hatter has two main goals:
Make Gotham into a Wonderland. Causing general chaos, really. What he means by this isn’t clear (perhaps intentionally) as his schemes can be inconsistent. However, it’s usually with two underlying themes- regaining control, and not being alone.
To kill Batman. Ooooh he wants him dead. Jervis blames Batman for the loss of his old life, and sees this more that anything as a service to the people of Gotham, protecting the “innocent” from having their lives ruined as well.
• — — — •
(Character Concepts / Sketches)
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౨ৎ
You were a haunted house. You were the bones, the unsteady frame that time had begun to take its toll on, pieces crumbling from the weight of everything it's forced to uphold. The rooms were all empty, once full of carefully picked decor that echoed life. Now, they were barren. Years of people coming and going, taking more than they left until the house grew completely and utterly empty. No one wanted an empty house, an ugly house, a useless house, and so, you were left to rot with nothing more than the ghosts lingering about as a constant reminder of all you'd lost, all you'd let them take from you.
You were all peeled wallpaper and overgrown vines. Resilient grass growing out from under your floorboards— "life always finds a way," your mother would've said if she wasn't just worm food and soil nutrients, a decomposing carcass fueling the circle of life.
Life always finds a way.
The irony was almost humorous.
Almost.
You'd gotten used to the everpresent, overbearing quiet, only the ghosts and the occasional creak of the old floorboards to keep you from insanity. Sometimes, on nights when it was real quiet, not even the whistle of the wind to keep you company, you thought you could hear your mother's voice calling to you from the back garden where she lay— calling for help, pleading for it even. But you've learned to ignore the symphony of agony that the afterlife brings, convincing yourself it's just the maggots and flies enjoying their banquet.
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