Riddler hiding his trophies in all of the hard to access places that need Batman level parkour is proof that he could beat Batman any time he wanted, but he is just having fun playing harmless games with him
Joker got everyone else to go on a murder spree when he took over Arkham, but Riddler is just having fun with his little trophies and little riddles. Iconic villain behaviour, he is so full of whimsy even if he keeps using it to call me a bitch when I collect his trophies
hello pj! I hope y'all doing great! <3 i was wondering what do you like about arkhamverse scriddler? kinda for example i like how they look like an old married couple that argues everyday but that for them it's silly and keeps the passion on top
hi❣️❣️I hope ur doing good too!!
God what don’t I love about them 😭 I mean we all remember the tension of the “are you trying to appeal to my ego Crane?” tape ??
I love that their both stinky old men who love each other but in a quiet private way but clearly drive each other nuts. I love the idea of Edward helping Crane recovery after Crocs attack and still loving him with him now having acquired disabilities (dude can clearly barely walk and is clearly quiet blind now) and scarred - love without the requirement of being in good health or looking the same way for ever. Real timeless love ya know?
Content Warning: fanfiction about fanfiction, riddler experiences his own fanfiction, dramatic readings of smut, fangirl terrorism, reader is unwell
Pairing: Edward Nigma X fem reader
Setting: Arkhamverse
Edward Nigma was a man who required 24/7, undivided, single-minded devotion.
Not affection. Not partnership. Devotion. The kind that demanded you rearrange your entire schedule, moral compass, and internal monologue around the gravitational pull of his ego. The kind of loyalty that bordered on spiritual.
And you? You gave it freely. Willingly. Obsessively. Your admiration for him wasn’t subtle. It was a public service announcement. A one-woman private fan club with no shame and no filter. If he so much as quoted Fibonacci at breakfast, you clapped. If he ranted about subpar encryption algorithms over dinner, you swooned. You had once compared the cadence of his voice to an aria composed by artificial intelligence and rage.
Lucky for you, he hadn’t kicked you out for it.
In fact, your absolute, shameless worship of him was probably the only reason he tolerated you at all. No—that wasn’t fair. He didn’t just tolerate you. You were useful. Amusing, even. A well-trained audience with the occasional flash of insight. A little mascot who threw yourself at his feet and begged for the privilege of watching him monologue about zero-knowledge proofs or his latest grudge against the GCPD and Batman and whoever poor bastard that crossed him. You doted. You applauded. You followed him around with bright eyes and a notebook. You were—forgive the crude term—a groupie. A fangirl. A living, breathing ego boost in sneakers.
You loved him. Not in some vague, innocent, fluttery-hearted way. No, you loved Edward Nigma the way a forest fire loves droughts. You adored his mind. His charisma. His cruelty. You memorized the lines of his face, tracked the rhythm of his speech, catalogued his temper tantrums like weather patterns. You found poetry in the way he cursed at his bots when they failed. You once described his smile as “visceral.” And meant it.
You were content—almost content—with knowing it would never be returned. You weren’t delusional. Not entirely. You understood who he was. The kind of man he was. What made him tick. The psych profiles were public domain by now—Narcissistic Personality Disorder, Borderline, High-functioning sociopath. Obsessive-Compulsive Traits, God Complex, take your pick of the DSM-5.
Love wasn’t in his code. You knew that. You accepted it. So you didn’t ask for affection. You didn’t need it. You just needed the privilege of being near him.
And he? Well. He let you stay. Because deep down, maybe, just maybe, there was a part of him that liked being loved this loudly.
Even if he’d rather die than admit it.
Of course, that never stopped you. Not really. Your love wasn’t the sort that shriveled without reciprocation. No, your affections were self-sustaining—thriving on scraps, on glances, on that rare moment when Edward let his guard down long enough to forget you were watching. Still, even your depraved little heart had limits. You could only bottle up so many fantasies before the pressure built, before your mind—bless it—needed an outlet.
So, naturally, you turned to the only coping mechanism you trusted: fanfiction.
Yes. Fanfiction.
Not just yours. Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no…
There was an entire underground fandom dedicated to Gotham’s infamous Rogues Gallery, an entire internet ecosystem of anonymity and madness. Forums, blogs, private Discord servers, locked taglists. Digital shrines built to the city’s most wanted. People who didn’t just fear the rogues—they loved them. Obsessively. Passionately. Erotically.
And you? Well, you fit right in.
You picked the best following, obviously.
Each rogue had their own little cult: Joker with his chaos-worshippers. Ivy and her eco-feminist simps. Two-Face and his yin-yang kink crowd. Scarecrow and his masochists. Even fucking Condiment King had a niche following—mostly ironic, you assumed. But The Riddler? The Riddler had an audience. A devoted one. Hundreds of writers, artists, and degenerates bleeding their admiration into every piece of horny prose they uploaded.
So yes, you indulged. You let yourself get pulled into the filth. You read late into the night, one hand buried between your thighs and the other scrolling. And if you happened to print out your favorites? Keep a few copies stashed for emergencies? Well, who was going to stop you?
He was your heart. Your gloriously brilliant, narcissistic, sociopathic, riddle-wielding megalomaniac of a man. You scrolled endlessly through his tag, heart pounding every time you found a fic that got the voice just right. Every time someone described his hands the way you imagined them—precise, elegant, cruel. You had favorites bookmarked. You had headcanons. You had opinions about his stamina. You knew exactly how you wanted him, and the internet—God bless America—gave you content.
...Yet.
Certainly not Edward.
He had no idea.
But then—you slipped up.
You weren’t paying attention. Which, ironically, was exactly the sort of thing that got you in trouble. Not just with him. With yourself. With the universe. But in your defense, this piece was so good—hot enough to short-circuit your brain. The kind of smut that made your thighs shift and your fingers twitch, your mouth parted just slightly as you reread the same paragraph for the third time, breath catching with every line...
“You’re really pushing it today,” he rasps, voice taut with suppressed fury. His empty hand catches your other wrist, keeping you close to his body. His thumbs rub little circles on your palms, but the look in his eyes is anything but soft. It’s a warning. “Do you have any idea what I’m going to do to you?”
“Something hot, I hope.”
Edward’s eyes narrow. “You think you’re cute, don’t you?” He walks you backward, step by step, deep into the bedroom, your low fairy lights luminating the pathway. “That smart mouth. Running away from me. Acting like a petulant child just to see how far you can push me.”
“Is it working?”
“Oh, it’s working.”
You were just reaching the clash—already squirming a little where you sat, lip caught between your teeth—when it was ripped away from you. Not emotionally. Not metaphorically. Physically. Yanked.
A startled whine burst out of you, unfiltered and immediate, something sharp and needy and too genuine to fake. You clutched at the air, blinking in disoriented horror as the page disappeared from your hands.
And then you heard him.
“What,” Edward drawled, dangerously calm, “could possibly be so important that it prevents you from listening when I’m talking to you?”
Your blood ran cold.
Your face ran hot.
Your body made a whiplash attempt to do both at once, because there he was—looming, frowning, one hand pinched around the paper you’d just been drooling over. It hung limply in his grasp, crinkled from your fingers, the print still fresh enough to read with ease if he so much as tilted his head.
Which he did.
Which he was doing now.
You were fucked. So fucked.
The page crackled softly as he adjusted his grip, fingers twitching with faint disdain. You weren’t sure if it was because of the content or the formatting—Edward had opinions about both. And yet… he still hadn’t looked at you. Still hadn’t handed it back. Still hadn’t burned it, ripped it, made a scene.
Edward Nigma, The Riddler, was reading it.
Your stomach dropped through the floor. “Edward,” you tried, voice too high, too quick, “that’s not—I mean, it’s just—"
His brows twitched. His eyes narrowed. His mouth moved—just slightly, silently—and you knew exactly what line he’d hit.
And then he read it. Aloud.
“‘You think you’re cute, don’t you?’” His tone was flat. Curious. Calculating.
Your soul detached from your body.
Edward blinked. Once. Then again. And then slowly, like he was solving a riddle carved into an ancient tomb, he tilted his head and looked at you. Something flickered behind his eyes. Confusion, sure. Offense? Probably. But also… amusement. Or horror. Maybe both. He was short-circuiting in real time.
“This is…” He flipped the page, scanning more. “This is me. This is fictional pornography of me. You’re reading… your own filth about me.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “I mean—not mine mine. I didn’t write it—”
“Illiteracy would be the least concerning factor here,” he muttered, eyes flicking down again, brow furrowing deeper. He was blushing now. You could see it. High on his cheeks, creeping toward the tips of his ears. His gaze darted, flicked across a line that made his nostrils flare and his lips part slightly, and oh no, he was still reading.
“Edward,” you croaked, reaching for the paper. “Please—”
But he stepped back. Out of reach. He held it high, a hostage negotiator clutching a ticking bomb.
“Do you have any idea what kind of psychological implications are buried in this text?” he asked, the voice of a man drowning in disbelief. “Do you have any idea what this says about your obsessive tendencies, your compulsive emotional projection, your frankly unrealistic expectations of my—” He paused. His mouth moved. You saw his pupils dilate. “Oh my God, there’s a line about my hands—”
That was your moment. You lunged. Snatched the page right from his distracted grasp.
“Hey—!”
You didn’t run. No. You stood your ground, smoothed the page, cleared your throat, and read it aloud.
“‘That smart mouth. Running away from me. Acting like a petulant child just to see how far you can push me—’”
“STOP READING THAT IN FRONT OF ME,” Edward barked, voice an octave too high, already retreating like a spooked alley cat.
“‘Oh, it’s working,’” you purred, walking after him with the slow, deliberate menace of someone with nothing to lose.
“You’re unwell!” he snapped, backpedaling toward the hallway.
“Thank you,” you chirped sweetly, flipping the page.
“Do not follow me with that—”
You did.
You absolutely did.
You pressed forward, drunk on the power of watching Gotham’s most arrogant man literally run from your voice.
“‘In one swift, fluid motion, he spins you around—’”
“Do not say the dresser line—”
“‘The way he shoves you into the dresser, the mirror rattling against the wall—’” you called after him, voice sing-song. “—is almost reckless, and it makes you giggle.’”
Edward made a sound—half choke, half high-pitched snarl—and whipped around with wide eyes. “That never happened.”
You flipped the page like a weapon, eyes sparkling. “No,” you purred, grinning, “but you’re thinking about it now.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. Color flared in his cheeks, high and hot. “You are—” His voice broke again, and he pointed at you, trembling slightly with indignation. “—deranged. You have a condition. You need to be sedated.”
“Oh, I’m just getting started,” you chirped, flipping to a fresh page. “Let’s see… ‘his grip tightens on your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze—’”
“No.”
“‘Gone is the teasing smirk, replaced by raw, unfiltered need—’”
“STOP!”
“‘You know sometimes you can push him too far, but the sight of him like this, utterly consumed by desire—’”
“OH MY GOD.”
“You don’t remember this one?” You paused, feigning confusion. “You wanted me to call you Mister Nigma, sir—”
Edward’s entire soul left his body. You could see it. The exact moment he ascended into another realm. He staggered back like he’d been hit by a tranquilizer dart, one hand flailing for balance against the nearest wall.
“Where did you even get these?” he croaked.
A theatrical gasp was inhaled sharply through your lips, a hand to your chest. “Oh, Eddie…” You gave him a wicked, sympathetic smile. “Baby, you’ve got fans.”
He looked like he was about to vomit.
Then you stepped forward, shaking the next page out with reverence. “You want to hear the one with the wet thong line? It’s a favorite.”
“No!” he cried, a man on the edge. “You’re sick! You’re feral! You need a leash and—wait, don’t read another word—”
“‘And as if he can read your mind, Edward’s hand shifts between your legs—’”
Reaching a fever pitch, he let out an honest-to-god shriek and bolted back down the hall, muttering curses about arson and selective amnesia.
And you? You followed. Smiling. Reading.
Because if you were going to go to hell, you were dragging him with you.
You pursued him with the unrelenting focus of someone with absolutely no shame and nothing to lose. Edward was retreating fast now, his boots scuffing the concrete as he moved like the hallway might grow a trapdoor to swallow him if he just ran hard enough.
“You’re embarrassing yourself!” he called over his shoulder, breathless, one hand gesturing frantically while the other waved in an attempt to swat away your voice like a fly. “Do you want me to have a stroke?! Is that your plan?!”
“I’m just trying to support your legacy!” you beamed.
He disappeared around the corner.
You took a deep breath and turned the page.
“‘M-Mister Nigma…’ you gasp, your voice breathy and needy as you rock on his fingers—’”
“NOOOOOO!”
You rounded the bend just in time to see him stumble against the far wall, his hands braced like he was trying to physically hold his soul inside his body. His ears were crimson. His hair was a disaster. His breathing was not okay.
“‘Please, please, Mister Nigma, sir, please make me cum—’”
“SHUT! UP!” he howled, hands flying to his head. “I’M GOING TO FLING MYSELF INTO THE GOTHAM BAY.”
“Eddie,” you purred sweetly, slowing your pace now, savoring the kill. “You should be flattered. Not everyone gets literary tribute written to the exact way they touch cunt.”
“IT’S FICTION!” he screamed, voice cracking. “IT’S LITERARY DEFAMATION!”
You stopped a few feet away, grinning down at him where he had slumped dramatically against the wall like a man in mourning.
“Oh,” you cooed, folding the papers with exaggerated care, tucking the chaos under an arm. “If you think this is bad, wait until you see the fanart.”
His whole body shuddered. “There’s pictures?”
“Full color,” you cooed. “Shading and everything.”
Edward groaned—loud, full-body, forehead-to-wall groaned.
And you, victorious and still high off the chase, just patted his shoulder as he tried to reboot.
“Let me know if you want me to have the author write a sequel,” you added helpfully. “I was thinking next time, maybe in your workshop. Tools involved. Bit of a dom!Riddler callback…”
He wheezed like a dying cat as he slid to the floor. Your eyes followed, watching bemused, lips pursing to the side.
“...I’ll take that as a yes.”
AN: Shameless plug of my fic Candy referenced in this. :3
Did you like this? Check out the rest of the PLEASE DO NOT FEED THE RIDDLER series!
I just keep listening to Hollywood Undead's "City" and all i can think about is-
You look out over the city, scowling at the twinkling lights. The stains and flakes of mascara paint your eyes and cheeks in onyx streaks.
"It's so pretty," you say softly.
Behind your shoulder, he shifts, waiting only a heartbeat before wrapping an arm around your waist. You don't flinch when he cups your opposite cheek and coaxes your face towards his. His blue eyes blaze with a hypnotic intensity that prickles at your skin, and when his thumb rakes over your sore, split lip, you have never felt more safe.
note: i don't condone this but it was fun to write
word count: 828
"Will you calm down?" Edward chides, his arms firmly wrapped around your waist. Despite the ongoing struggle, you can hear and feel in your ear the way his warm breath huffs in an amused laugh. He’s pulling you back, muscles flexing as he attempts to contain your fury. You’re not making it easy, thrashing against his hold, desperate to get your claws on that pathetic excuse of a cocktail waitress who deigned to even breathe in his vicinity.
"Calm down?" you snarl, your voice dripping venom as you glare daggers at the woman. She's standing there, eyes wide, mouth opening and closing as if searching for words, but nothing comes out. She’s frozen, clutching her tray to her chest, probably realizing she made the worst mistake of her life by batting her lashes at your Eddie-kins.
You growl low in your throat and lunge forward, fingers outstretched like talons, but Edward’s grip tightens, his arms pressing into your waist. "I will end you!" you scream, your voice echoing loudly in the intimately lit lounge. "Keep your filthy, fucking acrylics off him, you slut!"
The waitress stumbles back, her face draining of color, but you don’t care. You see nothing but red, rage bubbling inside you like molten lava. Edward’s hold is the only thing keeping you from tearing her apart right here and now.
"You’re making a scene," he simpers in your ear, his voice low and calm, but you hear the amusement underneath. He’s enjoying this—your unhinged, violent passion for him. And it makes your blood boil even more.
"Let me go," you growl, nails digging into his forearms as you try to break free. "I’ll cut her eyelids off! See how she bats those fake ass lashes then, the fucking whore!" You bare your teeth in a feral snarl, eyes fixed on the target of your wrath.
"Now, now, my love," Edward purrs with a grunt, his grip turning into a vise around your ribs as he tugs you back. He shifts his weight, pulling you flush against his chest, the movement equal parts restrictive and sensual. "There’s no need for such theatrics. She’s hardly worth your time, is she?" His voice is smooth, like warm honey, as he mouths the words against your ear. You shiver as it feeds the blazing emotions brewing inside you.
"Not worth my time?" you echo, voice high-pitched and incredulous. "Not worth my time?!" You twist in his arms, eyes locking onto his, burning with intensity. "But she touched you, Eddie! Touched you! And for that, I should carve out her heart and make her eat it!" A light bulb blinks in your mind’s eye, and you look away from him, vision unfocused. Your lips curl into a twisted grin at the thought, the violent imagery of slicing at her soft skin and wriggling your fingers into her cracked chest dancing through your mind in vivid detail.
Edward watches you, his eyes gleaming with admiration and dark amusement. "Ah, my beautiful little psychopath," he coos, tightening his hold just enough to keep you on a leash. "So ferocious in your love for me."
The way he says it, with such pride, almost sends you into another fit of rage. But his arms around you, his voice crooning in your ear—it all sends a shiver of pleasure down your spine. His acknowledgment of your possessive nature only fuels the heat blossoming in your blood.
"Don’t patronize me," you hiss, though your body softens slightly against his. Your eyes dart back to the waitress, who is now practically cowering, her face a sickly shade of white. "She deserves it," you mutter through gritted teeth. "She deserves to suffer."
"And she will, love," Edward tuts, nuzzling his nose against your temple and you can feel him smile. "She’ll suffer in the knowledge that she will never, ever have me. Because I’m yours." His words send a thrill through you, and despite your fury, a possessive smile tugs at the corners of your mouth.
"Mine.” You growl possessively, your hands clutching into the front of his shirt. Then, you look back at him, gaze softening in a quite concerning display of labile emotions. You pout, giving a doe-eyed look and your brows knit in disappointment. "But, Eddie, I still want to see her bleed,” you whine.
"Oh, I know you do." Edward narrows his eyes in indulgent amusement. He then presses a kiss to the top of your head, his hold around your waist turning tender, as if he’s cradling a precious, volatile gem. "But not here, darling," he murmurs. "Not now. Let’s not spoil the evening with bloodshed, hmm?"
You let out a frustrated grumble, still trembling with the urge to strike, to make the woman pay for even daring to look at your Edward. But his voice, his touch, his attention—they’re always like chains around your fury, reining it in just enough to keep you from doing something – anything brash.
