#v;gotham

[corvidamned]

|| me: -rewatching dexter season two with the fam- kira: i know my friends accept me as a serial killer but--do they? DO THEY THO??? Would they vom if they were in my killroom??? would they help me dispose of a body? WOULD THEY WATCH ME FEED???

[ilmstro]

@the-arkham-librarian​ |  🍴

Having slipped out of the asylum together, it was a twenty-minute cab ride to Dr. Lecter’s current place of residence. In one of the many Wayne-owned buildings in uptown, up a long elevator ride, is a penthouse suite the good doctor has commandeered -- for the sake of himself as well as bettering the community, as the previous occupant was a boorish man with a sexual penchant for young girls and boys. Having done a bit of redecorating, it proved a space that could be quite flattering to Dr. Lecter’s style, despite it being in the classic Gotham art deco style.

A high-quality print of William-Adolphe Bouguereau’s Dante and Virgil hangs over the hearth that yawns toward a wide kitchen that dominates the open floor plan. Dr. Lecter keys open the lock on the door and gestures for Eliza to enter first, out of courtesy.

Flip. The light switch comes on and illuminate the room that smells faintly like fleece and ambergris. 

Welcoming, he gestures for her to take a seat on a barstool at the kitchen island.

“You’re Scottish. Do you speak Gaelic?” Already, he’s opening his fridge and taking out little glass Tupperwares of ingredients. If Eliza cared to look, she’d see first two little parcels of butcher paper, the contents hidden within, followed by chopped onions, mushrooms, garlic, and whole spinach leaves. “Beautiful language. It carries a rhythm similar to Italian.”

The parcels find the surface of a slate cutting board and unfurl: one contains strips of bacon. The other contains a whole heart -- as big as a fist.

[riddle-factory]

In the events following the reparation of their relationship, the Riddler and the Penguin had strayed their separate ways. A respectful parting between equals -- and it goes without saying between the two of them that it left the more verdant of the pair with a powerful aftertaste of smugness. Equals. Hear that, Ed? You could never do that.

Presently, in a dimly-lit alleyway, a green suit glimmers as slivers of it are touched by the street lamp. The Riddler, standing outside of Cobblepot’s present headquarters, knocks in the fashion of Shave and a Hair Cut -- Two Bits!

“Ozzie!”

Too cocky to be Ed, but that’s definitely his voice.

“Come on out, my fine feathered friend. I have a proposition for you.”

@kxngofgotham

[adrenalinesaint]

@azsaszin​

“Do you do assisted suicides or just murders? Asking for a friend.”

[corvidamned]

Visit Original Link

[riddle-factory]

He’s not mourning. You’re mourning. Look at you, tears in your eyes as you look at the huge, neon-green question mark, now unlit. A knot in your throat as you put one hand over the hourglass and turn it to watch the sand idly shift, now without purpose. Look at the wheel of misfortune, put your hand on it, spin it, listen to the series of joyous little clicks, and watch in muted nostalgia as it stops on a slice that says, “STAPLE LIVE BARRACUDA TO FOREHEAD.”

Okay, so it isn’t you. You’re probably fine. It’s the Riddler, running his hands over the features of his old stage set.

He’ll miss this show. Hell. Who wouldn’t?

This was entertainment!

[riddle-factory]

When Ed was a boy, he had a particular fascination with trains. No, not to the stereotypical degree that little boys on the spectrum are often portrayed exhibiting -- but still, a fascination none the less. Perhaps it is because trains and cars are the two things assigned to little boys from the first day they draw breath, printed on little footie pajamas and given faces and voices in Disney movies on the big screen. Maybe it was his gateway into all things mechanical, and his more specialized fixation in puzzles. Sitting on the train out of Gotham, headed west, he’s reminded of the days he spent dangling his little legs off the edge of a chair at the library, in front of a microfilm machine, cycling through diagrams of how trains were build back in the steam age.

When he steps off the platform, no suitcase in hand, it’s to a snowy scene that lays out for miles in all directions. Remote, peaceful, and silent -- like a painting of the countryside in Christmas. There are even children playing in the snow, distant as they may be, on a farm a few properties away. Edward’s destination is several miles down the road, and then some. He stops, on foot, outside a ranch house, and keeps a hand in his pocket when he knocks on the door.

In his pocket, with his finger curled around the trigger, is all the incentive the resident of this particular ranch house will need to give up what he’s come for.

A terse exchange in hushed tones, and from the depths of the house, the old woman who had answered the door produces a little boy with curly brown hair and big, doe eyes. Without explanation, the old woman closes the door behind him, shutting him out in the cold with the strange, verdantly-dressed stranger who had come to collect him.

And, with that, the stranger takes a knee in front of the boy. He removes his black overcoat, revealing that it isn’t just his trousers that are green, but his entire suit, and drapes the heavy woolen garment over the little boy’s shoulders, to protect him from the snow.

“Good morning, little Martin,” Edward smiles, booping the child’s nose with a gloved index finger. “Do you like trains?”

@silenthatchling​

[riddle-factory]

“ -- I’ll give you forty dollars and a foot-rub to set fire to the Iceberg.”

@azsaszin