I'm Tris, I'm a 30 yo, cis-fem, and I live in Alabama. Pronouns are she/they.
Since I was 12, I've been a fanfic writer and appreciator. However, once I graduated high school, I took a decade-long hiatus from both reading and writing due to school and adult life. In 2024, I had the urge to indulge in fanfiction once more, and now I am back with a fresh outlook and a dirty mind bursting with ideas.
It's been a pleasure exploring what the community has become in my absence, and I'm eager to dive back in.
ao3 I Best of: Riddler I WIP
A little more about me:
I have adhd; got my diagnosis at 27. It was a revelation.
The thing I'm proudest of is being a double major in nursing and psychology. I have been a registered nurse for 9 years and recently earned my BSN. I am still working on my BSP. As of 05/2025, I've begun nurse practitioner school! 🥰
Currently, I work on an inpatient psychiatric unit caring for adults and substance use patients. My long-term goal is to become a mental health nurse practitioner.
When I have time, I volunteer as a sexual assault survivor advocate on call for my local crisis center.
what i write:
I am 95% Riddler focused (Arkhamverse, Zero Year, Young Justice, BTAS, Lonely City, Assault on Arkham, and general). I will also write for Scarecrow and maybe the Sirens: Ivy, Selina, and Harley.
I am pansexual but I predominantly ship straight. Please keep this in mind when you read anything I write unless I explicitly state someone or something is gender neutral.
I strictly write f/m, gn/f or m, and f/f.
You may notice that many of my original/reader characters have some connection to nursing, medicine, psychology/psychiatry, or neuroscience. This is my little signature/crutch. I write what I know ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
I'm a little fucked in the head, so some of the stuff I write may not be to your liking. I will attempt to post content warnings.
Being an advocate for sexual assault survivors, I try to remain respectful and grounded when exploring these topics. But please note that I do write about this at times.
I'm willing to explore most kinks (even ones I have not tried), so I will list the ones I will not write for:
> 🚫 incest
> 🚫 underage
> 🚫 ageplay (physical age gap/ May-December is okay)
> 🚫waterworks/scat/vomit
> 🚫 raceplay
> 🚫 bestiality
> 🚫 anything extreme like fisting
masterlist:
Daughter of Fear - Riddler x Fem OC (INDEFINITE HIATUS)
Gotham City Storybook - Rogues x gn or fem readers
Candy - Arkham City Riddler x Fem Reader
Power Play - Zero Year Riddler x Fem Reader
In Vein - Arkham City Vampire! Riddler x Fem Reader
Human - Arkham Knight Riddler x Fem Reader
Make Me Cry - Arkham Knight Riddler x Fem Reader
The Edge of Us - Edward Nashton/Enigma X Fem OC (INDEFINITE HIATUS)
Just This Once - Edward Nashton x Fem OC - a The Edge of Us noncanon oneshot
Please Do Not Feed The Riddler - Riddler x fem or gn reader curated collection
It is wonderful to meet you, and I look forward to interacting with y'all!
I’ve planned. God, have I planned. I have outlined, re-outlined, researched, daydreamed, fantasized, built characters, rebuilt characters, made playlists, made documents, made mood and reference boards, and made notes to myself that I might never revisit again. I have been very busy preparing to write, which is not the same thing as writing, and, unfortunately, my brain knows the difference.
I used to be able to sit down and pour it out. It may not have been perfect, but it was alive. Now I feel slower with it. More deliberate. More aware of what I’m doing and what I don’t know how to do yet. I want to learn the scales before I riff. I want to understand the structure underneath the instinct. I want to be better on purpose, not accidentally good because I was emotional and sleep deprived and possessed by a hyperfixation demon.
That is where I am creatively. Annoyingly conscious. Improving, maybe. Constipated, definitely. I have, quite frankly, developed creative erectile dysfunction. The urge is there. The setup is immaculate. The follow-through is nonexistent.
That awareness did not start with writing, though. It started with meditation.
I swear something in me turned on when I first began to meditate roughly seven years ago. I was not intoxicated. I was not trying to have some grand spiritual awakening. I had probably done it three or four times, and then one day I could suddenly see my thoughts instead of just being trapped inside them. It felt like a veil lifted. And not in a dramatic “I have touched the face of God” way, because I am still me and would probably ask God for peer-reviewed citations.
I became aware that I was aware.
That sounds simple until it happens to you.
Then it is deeply weird.
Over time, that awareness moved into my body. I started noticing what I felt internally and externally. My breath. My tension. My nerves. The way emotions arrive physically before I have language for them. Now I seem to have wandered into the metacognition stage of development, which is a fancy way of saying I am thinking about my thinking and sometimes I would like to file a complaint with management.
I am proud of it.
I am also uncomfortable with it sometimes.
There are days where being this aware feels useful. I can name what I feel instead of becoming one giant emotional meatball. I can separate anger from anxiety, irritation from exhaustion, fear from actual danger. I can look at myself and say, “Okay, that was not your best moment,” without deciding I am either evil or doomed or secretly the worst person alive. (Still learning to do that on the reg, definitely not a pro.)
That is growth. That is also annoying. Growth is rarely glamorous. Sometimes growth is sitting in your own skull with a flashlight and saying, “Well, that wiring is certainly doing… something.”
I think about where I am developmentally sometimes. I know ADHD and neurodivergence can make development uneven. I do not feel embarrassed by that. I actually find it interesting. I am thirty years old, I do not have children, and in some ways, I still feel like I have a young mind and personality. Not childish, exactly. Just curious. Still forming. Still excitable. Still able to get enchanted by an idea and chase it down the street barefoot.
I like that about myself.
I do not think I am better than other people because I am self-aware. If anything, being self-aware has taught me how much I do not know. I misunderstand people sometimes. I miss social nuances. I overthink interactions and intentions. I have to ask questions. I have to sort choices into logic, safety, risk, benefit, consequence, ethics, and then hope I do not fuck it up anyway.
And sometimes I still fuck it up.
I am human.
Which is apparently legal.
At the same time, I am doing a lot. I have to say that plainly because if I do not, I will minimize it until it disappears.
I am a first-generation college student, and I have been a nurse for almost ten years. In June, it will officially be a decade. (Yes, that means I became a registered nurse at 20. Yes, that is young and a little impressive. No, I had absolutely no neurodevelopmental business being a nurse at that age, but that is apparently legal too.)
Now I am a charge nurse on an acute adult psychiatric unit at a large south-eastern, nationally (and internationally in some specialties) renowned hospital, which means my job is patient care, middle management, crisis control, customer service, de-escalation, problem solving, reading the room, reading people, reading situations that should not be happening in the first place, putting out fires I did not start, and anticipating fires that have not happened yet.
On a normal shift, I may be responsible for up to twenty psychiatric, behavioral, neurocognitive, and substance use patients. I am responsible for helping protect them from themselves and from each other. I am responsible for nurses, techs, and unit secretaries. I am responsible for policies, procedures, orders, admissions, acuity, safety, documentation, communication, and whatever fresh hell decides to crawl out of the ceiling to scare my patients sometimes (bad hallucination joke).
I work with physicians, residents, students, social workers, occupational therapists, pharmacists, counselors, leadership, and families who are scared, angry, exhausted, or all three. I screen admissions and have to think about whether someone is appropriate for our unit, whether they will destabilize the population, whether we can safely care for them, and whether accepting them is compassionate or reckless.
And one of the hardest parts of my job is making sure people above me do not make questionable decisions.
That is a strange thing to say out loud. These are people with more letters behind their names, more formal authority, more years, more titles, and more institutional power. But sometimes my role is to ask the uncomfortable question. Sometimes my role is to slow the machine down. Sometimes my role is to say, “No, that is not safe,” or “That does not make sense,” or “We need to think this through.”
It is all so draining. It is scorching. It is mental, emotional, physical, and sometimes traumatic.
I do it because I can. I do it because I care. I do it because someone has to be paying attention.
Recently, I also had to stand on the other side of the counter.
A family member was admitted to one of my sister psychiatric units. I had to experience what my patients’ families experience while also maintaining my professional and personal boundaries. I had access to systems. I had influence. I had proximity. I had knowledge. I also had ethics, HIPAA, and enough goddamn sense not to ruin my life because I was scared.
I had to file a petition on them, knowing that if it was activated, I might have to face them in court with my other family members. I had to be family and nurse and not confuse the two. I had to care without crossing lines. I had to let the system work even when I knew exactly how ugly, limited, necessary, and imperfect the system can be.
That changed me.
Now I am about to start the next part of my education. May 2026 to August 2027. A full year of strapping in and becoming what I have been slowly, stubbornly working toward. I am going to be a Master ’s-educated and licensed psychiatric mental health nurse practitioner. I was accepted into the Veteran Affairs Nurse Practitioner Residency program, which is essentially the federal government looking at me and saying, “Yes, we would like to take this already tired psych nurse and refine her into a fully trained provider by throwing her into a structured, high-intensity, evidence-based clinical training pipeline with veterans, complex cases, and just enough supervision to keep things legal but still deeply humbling.” It is competitive, it is rigorous, it is an incredible opportunity, and it is also a little bit insane.
I am also in the mental health scholar program at work, which means I have somehow volunteered to be even more immersed in psychiatry than I already am, as if forty-eight to sixty hours a week on an acute unit was not immersive enough.
I am learning how to move from licensed nurse to advanced practice provider. I am learning how to think differently, carry more responsibility, make decisions that stick, and stand behind them. It is exciting. It is terrifying. It is the natural next step. It is also the moment where the training wheels come off, someone hands you a prescription pad and says, “You’ll figure it out. Just don't kill anyone, lol. You’ll be fine.”
They are going to let me be responsible for people’s lives in a whole new way.
Which is wild.
I do not know who the fuck reviewed my application, read my essays, looked at my track record of being both highly competent and held together by anxiety, neurodivergence, polytropism, possible OCD personality traits (questioning), and sheer spite, and said, “Yes, this is exactly who we want making clinical decisions,” but I would like to meet them. (I did.) I would like to shake their hand. (I couldn’t due to distance.) I would also like to ask if they are okay. (‘Cause I’m not. 🤡🫠)
I am passionate about psychology, medicine, neuroscience, and people. I want to help. I want to understand. I want to be careful with power. I want to be deliberate with what I say, what I prescribe, what I recommend, what I assume, and what I do not assume.
I want to be respectful, adaptive, humble, kind, empathetic, truthful, and curious. I want to be someone who keeps learning instead of someone who gets a title and decides that is the end of development.
I worry about my impact on the world. I worry about my well-being. I worry about whether I am spending my time correctly, whether I am giving too much, whether I am becoming who I meant to become, or misguided and just surviving whatever is in front of me.
I want to live. Not just keep going. Not just work, sleep, pay bills, recover, repeat.
I want to live well. I want to travel. I want to write. I want to learn. I want to have a life that feels like mine when I look back at it.
I am not religious, but I am not arrogant enough to think the human mind is the largest thing in the conscious universe. I do not believe in one true thing. I believe in curiosity. I believe in humility. I believe life is organized chaos with a nonzero chance of meaning, and maybe that is enough for me right now.
Thirty years old. Almost ten years a nurse. Still young in some ways. Older than I used to be in others. More aware than before. More unregulated than I like. More capable than I give myself credit for.
I am not perfect. I am not finished. I am not just good or bad.
It's been a minute. But here's a prologue for a story I've been planning over the past few months. I am absolutely not ready at all to post the story. It is in no state to share at this point. But hopefully this will intrigue and satiate you and me. It's pretty heady, so I'llbe curious what others think. Starting this story off with a think piece was important to me.
So, without further ado, here's the prologue to Ordinary Things:
If nothing in the universe carries inherent meaning, why do we keep inventing it?
Centuries ago, Gottfried Leibniz asked a question that set philosophical minds abalze: Why is there something rather than nothing?
Ever since, ontologists and dreamers alike have bruised their minds against that riddle, dissecting the machinery of being, tracing the thin pulse between what is and what could have failed to be. They call it inquiry, but truly, it is longing: the human attempt to make sense of its own existence; one shining thread in the vast, unraveling tapestry of space and time.
Yes, the world of concrete objects can be grasped, turned in the palm, weighed, broken open, studied until its essence confesses what it is.
But what of the abstracts? The ideas, the beliefs, the sacred fictions we forged to quiet our terror of the infinite?
A true nihilist would insist there is nothing and no meaning in that nothing. There is no before, no after, only the long corridor between them, endless and echoing, lined with doors we keep trying to open, observe, hypothesize, experiment, study, and organize its contents. Behind each, we build meaning out of dust, and atoms, and the slow collapse of stars. We call it morality, or love, or work, or faith. We give it names so it feels real, so we can hold it without trembling.
Countering, existentialists answer: if the universe is empty, then the act of creation is divine rebellion. Meaning is not found; it is forged, hammered out in the dark by hands that know they will one day turn to ash.
Nihilism sees the void and kneels before it.
Existentialism stares into it—and begins to build.
Perhaps both are right. Perhaps we are only the brief consciousness of an indifferent cosmos trying to make sense of its own reflection. Still we speak, still we name, still we love, as if language itself could defy extinction.
But it would behoove you to remember that every law we invent, ethical, physical, divine, was written by a creature terrified of its own impermanence.
We measure infinity with clocks. We map the unknown with science and mathematics.
Social psychologists David Dunning and Justin Kruger once warned the more we illuminate our plane of existence, the more darkness we uncover. Knowledge is a terrible burden, an infection of consciousness that compels us to ask why even when no answer awaits.
We are, as far as we know, the only minds cognizant of bearing witness to the abyss—and that may be the cruelest miracle of all.
Still, we try.
We fold our laundry, make coffee, hold the hand of the suffering and call it care.
We fall in love and call it fate.
We forgive monsters and call it grace.
We bleed and call it proof that we’re alive.
We perform these rituals every day, these small, ordinary devotions, believing they will save us from the void.
Maybe they do.
Perhaps salvation was never cosmic at all, only domestic: found in the warmth of a mug between trembling hands, in the pulse of another wrist, in the gentle violence between two bodies oscillating between polar revulsion and tempestuous attraction.
Or maybe we are only delaying the collapse.
The belief in something more may be the final delusion, an invention of those who glance at the void, then look away before it swallows them whole. Whereas those who dare to gaze into the Great Terror greet it, make peace with it, and engage in a dalliance of understanding.
Still, someone will always close their eyes, cover their ears, whisper prayers into the static. Because even knowing that nothing lasts, humans remain faithful to the experiment. They keep believing that ordinary things can outshine the infinite; that meaning can be built from madness; that love, against all evidence, might be real.
In the end, it becomes apparent:
There are no answers here, only equations we have forgotten what we were solving for.
It's been so damn long. I can't tell you how much warmth I feel from knowing I'm missed...
I miss you too. I'm still here. I'm okay. Just going through some personal stuff and work stuff, and I've been struggling to create... But I'm hoping to be back online soon.
God, there's something euphoric in finally seeing exactly what we've been begging for for years: Alastor in his prime as both a radioman and a serial killer, and seeing the moment he died.
This is so so funny. We have seen no evidence the Vees even have a foothold outside of Pride. They don’t even rule ‘all of Pride’ they own a neighborhood in Pentagram City.
Is he a mad scientist? Yes, but he uses his skill to make new bugs for Niffty.
Does he work for Voxtek? Yes but only out of necessity, I mean, pretty much EVERYONE in any tech field works for Voxtek; he's not a spy. And he uses that access to get them into the building for the plan.
Is there gonna be any relationship with Niffty? Yes, she's not boy-crazy over him as we expected but HE is absolutely fascinated with everything she does.
Is he in the hotel just to test a theory? Yes but he genuinely gets along with everyone, doesn't cause problems, and joins to help without hesitation.
Did he know Pentious? Yes, they worked together/were roommates (oh my god they were roommates 💅💅💅) and split over differing opinions on inventions, but he had no qualms working with him to link Heaven and Hell.
What do you mean you've never had to rip your husband's head off in order to stop you from killing himself and everyone else in existence in order to impress his ex?
