Unauthorized Biography
Word count: 2.6K
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!
Tag List: @trulydisturbed @wolfsrahne28 @riddled-with-fear @illustratedartist @angelsmile28 @caesariawritesstuff @jezabellesunshine @wingedqueenlynx @jazanatorr
If you are interested in being on the tag list please let me know in the comments.
Thanks for the support!