[[ U+003F ]] An independent, mutuals-only portrayal of that one bastard rogue who won't stop saying 'riddle me this.' DETECTIVE COMICS' very own: EDWARD NYGMA. A study in controlled insanity, obsession, compulsive behavior & the line between hubris and intellect. As doomed by Gray ( he/him. 19+. )
This iteration of The Riddler is primarily influenced by Peter Milligan's Dark Knight, Dark City + Batman: Run, Riddler, Run + Detective Comics #705-707 + Detective Comics Annual Vol.1 #8 + Zero Year + Batman: Hush ( bar the sequel ) with tidbits from various other comics, Batman: The Animated Series and just a touch of whatever the hell I want … I am also duplicate - friendly here! I love Edward & believe everyone has a unique take on him. Give me all the riddlers you've got, I'm greedy.
CARRD. MEMES. HEADCANONS. BLOGROLL. USFW SB.
featuring the fantastic Query & Echo as request-only muses!
A flashy demo wears off in a day. What keeps you around is consistency, and that's where SweetDream wins. My companion is the same person tomorrow that she is today, with the same memories, voice, and personality I gave her.
Consistency is quiet quality. It's what makes an AI girlfriend feel trustworthy and real over weeks, not minutes. If you want something that holds up past the novelty, sweetdream.ai is built for the long run.
ok teeny* little starter call since there's a whole bunch of people here I haven't written with yet! *I'll cap at five so I don't overload myself & may message you for plotting if I can't find a direction;;
@uplus003f sent . . . "I give the orders. You take them. Not the other way around." ( for Dude ! )
He's sucking on a cigarette because he can't go an hour without pumping his body full of poison. Smoke huffs out of his flared nostrils, his face twisted into a sour expression that makes resemble a disgruntled, malnourished dragon.
❝ Oh, right. Sorry for overstepping, ❞ The ' apology ' is tainted by substantial venom weaved in his tone. The Dude doesn't like Edward — or The Riddler, whatever the hell the man wants to call himself. ( It's about as ridiculous as his own name. ) He's only here for the paycheck. It's better than anything a game studio or temp job could offer.
His hand flicks ash onto the floor.
❝ Then give the orders, sir. ❞ he continues, voice thick with fake enthusiasm. ❝ I'm ready to take 'em. And trust me, I'm damn good at taking every inch ! ❞
Dude doesn't understand professionalism. It's why he's never kept a stable job.
IT'S UNCLEAR whether his nose wrinkles at the dull innuendo, the general air of the man, or the inevitable stink of tobacco lacing his hideout - his office. The nerve!
" ... uhuh." Cue a click of the tongue, footsteps tap tap tapping in its wake until The Riddler reaches the man. "We'll see." He begins, as he produces a purple napkin from his pocket. "You wouldn't happen to have any gripes with kidnapping, would you?" He does not give him space to respond, smiles in venomous nectar instead. Ohhh, he's gonna — "Goodie!" Pinched goes the cigarette's end, all doused by the napkin. How sad.
"Next time you feel like smoking, dear, do us all a favor and scoot yourself over to the balcony, or slap a patch over your arm." Useless, now, and ruined, he tosses the napkin in a wide, dramatic swing right into the bin. "Now," he smiles. "If you'll follow me over to that monitor over there, the biiiig fancy one, 'duuudeee', I'd be all too happy to brief you on the task!"
@prtntious : "you're as white as a sheet and still trying to stand up straight."
THE WINDS OF change blow over yonder, washing a child's spit off some distant shore, and bringing with them the spill of Red Abalone and Lion's Paws, not yet buried beneath the sand. The voice pierces through him, thrumming against tired eardrums the way his own sits against most. White as a sheet, white as the snow, it is not winter and neither is he by the shore, for there is reprieve in both and he has not yet learned to find it tonight.
The Riddler gathers the blood in his mouth and spits it down to the other's feet, pressing his gloved composure against the bricks, rising to his feet with a grunt. "Mmh." A smile meets a grimace, both smelting his expression together and possessing the green of his eyes to thin beneath the rim of his hat, which he dusts and adjusts.
"What would you have me do?" It is almost prodding the way he knifes the words into the other. Accusatory : filled to the brim with purpose. The half life of carbon is well-defined. Five thousand seven hundred and thirty years. The half life of a Riddler is much shorter, atoms split and beaten by themselves and yet, and yet, he breathes. "If you've come to stop me, well, the party's long dissolved." He forces himself straight, ghastly almost under the weakness of the light, perfect fit for his emerald suit.
His cane does well to steady him at times like this, yet still he presses his favorite button along the whirl of the question mark, producing the blade it shields. He does not point it, only keeps to its empty promise of defense.
"I don't feel like passing by Arkham tonight. I haven't - ugh! I haven't done anything worth punishing." Already he is staggering somewhat in his attempt to walk. "A you I knew would not have cared, I suppose, but that hasn't been true for a while, has it, Mister Jones?" Even now he invites provocation, tears his survival asunder with the itch to know. He brush his palm past his own cheek, then traces it down to the shade of crimson staining darkly the abdomen of his purple shirt. "I'm bruised. I'm bleeding. Does that satisfy, because I'm oh-sooooo-evil?" Is it evil in the first place that satiates you to douse, oh red lantern : lantern of turmoil and rage?
"I did nothing evil this time. Not by trade, not by purpose. So riddle me this, because I must know : what is a hero to do with me here?"
01. avoids eye contact or looking at the floor.
02. wringing hands together in silence.
03. fidgeting with the hem of their shirt, unable to stay still.
04. looking at receiver in long silence before looking away.
05. silently leaves a folded note on the table in front of the other.
06. touches the others arm but pulls back out of guilt.
𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 -
01. slams fist onto a table without saying a word.
02. exhaling sharply through their nose and clenching their jaw.
03. throws an object across the room.
04. crossing their arms tightly, digging fingers into their own skin.
05. pacing the room with heavy steps.
06. glares at the other with a clenched fist.
𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 -
01. gently pushing stray hair behind the others ear.
02. resting their forehead against the others.
03. cups the others face with both hands.
04. pressing a kiss to the others forehead in silence.
05. lingering touches against the others face.
06. wraps their arms around the other from behind and rests their head on the others shoulder.
𝐬𝐚𝐝𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 -
01. wiping their eyes before someone can notice.
02. pressing their face into a pillow to muffle sobs.
03. pulls the other into a desperate hug and wont let go.
04. silently reaching for the others hand, needing comfort.
05. walks into the room with red-rimmed eyes and no words.
𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 -
01. spins the other around without warning in a hug.
02. links arms with the other and tugs them along happily.
03. provides the other with a handmade gift.
04. tackles the other in a sudden and joyful hug.
05. kisses the others cheek unexpectedly and grins.
𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫 -
01. backing away slowly and looking for exits.
02. hiding behind the other and peeking around.
03. flinches at sudden movement from the other.
04. presses their back against the wall with eyes darting around the room.
05. jumps at a noise and instinctively grabs the others hand.
𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠
01. tucks a blanket gently around the other person's shoulders.
02. applies a bandage with slow and deliberate care.
03. brings them food and water and watches to ensure they eat.
04. runs fingers through their hair in efforts to soothe.
05. rubs soothing circles on the others back while they cry.
06. stays silently by the others side in support without saying a word.
𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠
01. raises a hand but hesitates.
02. grips the others arm a bit too tightly.
03. pushes the other away with more force than necessary.
04. turns their back on the other to begin walking away without a word.
05. rips a shared photo in half without a word.
06. steps in closely with cold and narrowed eyes.
"was this really necessary?" she was supposed to get in and out, wipe and swipe with no trace of ever being in the building to begin with ... just her luck. "i'm not the riddle type," but natasha is still trying to be civil despite her odds, something that doesn't happen often - fingers twitch at side, ghosting just slightly over thigh holster. "give me the thumb drive. now."
HE BLINKS AT HER with wide, faux-innocent eyes, an act set to collapse as he utters each amusing syllable. "Thumb drive? Your thumb drive? The thumb drive that you need? Oh, dear me ..." A soft wave of laughter splits his face into a grin, his shrug animated to the point of down-tipping the left side of his hat. "I don't have it!" He's all too pleased to show her an empty pair of hands.
"But it's somewhere ... with someone. Hmm, where was it again?" A beat, his demeanor shifting about itself to mimic recollection. All exaggerated, all reveled in before he snaps his fingers. "Right! It's on the move." And there it goes, collapse the stage and bring your cast down for a final bow. "Oh, but don't you worry ... I'll make this simple. Third of January strikes the heritor frontward, hurling her away. Find my word : find your thumb drive."
₊˚⊹ ㅤa collection of loose quotes taken from various characters from hades (supergiant games). these quotes are from the first game of the series. writing/roleplaying prompts. from fluff to angst! feel free to edit as you see fit, especially since some are gendered.
❝ i’m leaving. try and stop me. ❞
❝ that could have gone better. ❞
❝ why can’t you just stay? ❞
❝ i wish you could come with me. ❞
❝ you’re coming with me. ❞
❝ i have to take you back. ❞
❝ but for you, i will be making an exception. ❞
❝ whew… they’re gone. ❞
❝ now, come on, we got places to be! ❞
❝ may the fates favour your journey. ❞
❝ oh you know, i’d rather have my eyes put out, but thanks for offering! ❞
❝ if only… ❞
❝ you should be ashamed of yourself, and learn your place. ❞
❝ ahh, so you are taking pity on me, then? ❞
❝ i’m sorry that it has to be this way. ❞
❝ you’re late. ❞
❝ will i see you soon? ❞
❝ did you miss me? ❞
❝ i’m home. ❞
❝ we’re heading home. ❞
❝ you… came back? ❞
❝ i hope i didn’t keep you waiting very long, did i? ❞
❝ is something wrong? ❞
❝ i can’t believe this. ❞
❝ i’m in your debt. ❞
❝ there’s going to be payback, you know. ❞
❝ … damn you. ❞
❝ this is for you. ❞
❝ do you remember me? my name is—ah, nevermind. ❞
❝ i’m not who you think i am. ❞
❝ keep following that heart of yours. ❞
❝ to hell with this place! ❞
❝ fear is for the weak. ❞
❝ oh, look at you, you poor, poor thing, you’re hurt! ❞
❝ you’re such a sweetheart. ❞
❝ you brought this on yourself. ❞
❝ no need to thank me, mate. ❞
❝ please, i don’t want to do this… ❞
❝ you don’t have to do this… ❞
❝ only the best for you. ❞
❝ i hope you’re right. ❞
❝ gods grant me strength… ❞
❝ that is the worst idea i think i’ve ever heard. ❞
❝ do you understand how little sense that makes? ❞
❝ look what i found! ❞
❝ something’s changed about the beating of your heart. ❞
❝ no wonder they don’t like you. ❞
❝ wish i could be there to see your face. ❞
❝ i’ll earn your favour yet. ❞
❝ how bad could it be? ❞
❝ hello there, handsome. ❞
❝ … this is the cheesiest thing i’ve heard from you. ❞
❝ what has gotten into you? ❞
❝ blood and darkness! ❞
❝ lucky for you, i’ve no pride like many others here. ❞
❝ it’s over. i’m sorry. ❞
❝ go. away. i won’t repeat myself. ❞
❝ i knew your heart was true. ❞
❝ let’s kiss and make up! ❞
❝ mischief, me? oh please! ❞
❝ i don’t know how you can stand this kind of thing… ❞
❝ you tried. that’s what matters. ❞
❝ a man after my own heart… ❞
❝ why won’t you give up? ❞
❝ ever so stubborn, aren’t you? ❞
❝ life and death, one and the same. ❞
❝ you’re running from yourself. again. ❞
❝ what do you want from me? leave me alone. we’ve nothing to discuss anymore. ❞
❝ i cannot bring myself to stay upset with you forever. ❞
❝ the truth is i’m a lover, not a fighter. ❞
❝ i have to see her! ❞
❝ so how goes wilful disobedience of late? ❞
❝ you think all these gifts will make things go back to the way they were? ❞
❝ we’re older now—i’d hope we’re wiser, too. ❞
❝ i have to go. ❞
❝ we were having such a good time! ❞
❝ time is up. ❞
❝ you’re so reckless. ❞
❝ thank you for always keeping me on my toes. ❞
❝ your luck’s run out. ❞
❝ i don’t know why i bother with you, honestly. ❞
❝ may i call you my friend? ❞
❝ i’d like to make a toast, to you! ❞
❝ no need for special thanks. ❞
❝ i’ve some memories i’m not quite ready to give up on yet. ❞
❝ i’ll break your heart. ❞
――――― ; ‘ do you ever mean the things you say ? ‘ SENT BY @uplus003f &&. FOR …
the final notes of the organ had long since surrendered themselves to silence . what lingered instead was the quieter ritual that always followed : warm hands clasped between his own , gentle smiles exchanged beneath coloured panes of stained glass , small conversations about ; grandchildren , doctor's appointments , burnt roasts and answered prayers . jud had stood for as long as anyone wished to speak , never rushing the elderly widow who simply wanted company , nor the little boy determined to show him the missing tooth he'd lost that morning . eventually――one by one――the doors sighed open and shut behind the congregation until only the hush of an empty church remained . dust drifted lazily through shafts of afternoon light , and somewhere high above , old timber settled with a familiar creak .
he gathered the abandoned hymn sheets into a neat stack almost absent mindedly ――――― ... pausing only when the unmistakable sound of measured footsteps echoed back through the nave . there was no surprise in finding one person still lingering . there almost always was . someone carrying a ‘ question ‘ too heavy to ask in front of others . someone waiting until the silence felt safe enough to speak … that’s what he expected , at least .
lifting his head , jud found ed standing where the last of the sunlight reached across the stone floor . he offered the man the same soft smile he'd given every soul that had crossed the threshold that morning , patient enough to let the quiet settle before words claimed it .
“ ... i try to . “ the answer arrived without haste , his brow knitting ever so slightly as though he'd taken the question far more seriously than it had perhaps been intended ( ? ) his gaze never wavered from ed's . “ sometimes i don't say the right thing . sometimes i realise afterwards i should've listened longer instead of speaking at all … “ a faint breath escaped him ; not quite a laugh , not quite a sigh . “ but if i stand up there and tell people about hope , or forgiveness , or grace ... i'd rather stumble trying to mean every word than become very good at saying things i don't believe . “
then , as if by divine revelation or … a strange gut instinct , a pang of realisation hit the back of his neck . “ is this your first time , visiting us here――――― to our lady of perpetual grace . “
CHURCH BELLS : the instant they ring, a sanctuary erupts to shield all in attendance. This air of reprieve, extended and taken into every set of lungs but his own. Church bells, to Nygma, and the sermon that buzzes 'round to embrace its listeners with the lullaby humming that is the Father's voice, is only an instruction quilled and wrought by the hands of its playwright to set for him the air of the scene -- a clever play, an inch away from a drama, trimmed to rid it of edges.
He had waited. Patience is a virtue, as Langland put it, and he is not so possessed by its inverse as to make haste. One by one, each poor little echo curling into the fetal position and inviting the priest to hear it weep and writhe, lonely by design, comforted by something altogether larger than itself. He had waited for them all to now stand before him. The curtain opens to an audience of one, beckoned now to speak by the man on stage.
He takes his words and does not shift them – it is easy, he supposes, to contort what he says into a pitiful lie. And yet, there are the eyes. There is the voice. There is something earnest somewhere that keeps the priest deserving of his visage. "Better the bumbling truth than a practiced lie." His agreement lends itself to his gaze, curling gently his serpentine smile, before he steals it away.
A quiet moment. He does not instantly answer his question, this stranger in green, whose voice does not belong in a church. Lets, instead, the air flow between them, counting down to the perfect moment where all has stilled to deliver his line. “No, no, I've been here before, " Edward watches him closely as the fact flows to the floor, laced in his poison - honey tone, “to your lady of perpetual grace ... for her priest, who rid her of fortitude forevermore.” His arm flares to widely flow by the church, stretched and stretched, all while he keeps a pair of emeralds all for the man. Something knowing flickers about them. " ... Interesting choice, I must say : grace. Why that and not succour, I wonder?"
She has never known fear like this. Cold. Damp. Human fear. There is no time to assess her own state, to calculate cortisol levels and probe for adrenalin. If there were time, perhaps she could have taken a step back and marveled at the intricate webbing that connects naturally selected instinct with an overarching psychological attachment. She could have lounged, impartial, in the back of her mind and watched it run as merely another part of the organic shape she operates. The intricacies of biomass, which have nothing to do with her. – But it has everything to do with her.
Edward, what remains of him, sputters pathetically towards the conclusion of his riddle. Indeed, it is poorly constructed and he barely manages to squeeze enough air through his larynx to speak. He tells her what she already knows: Ant. And yet, as he reaches for her and fails, as he tries to lift his head and fails, those three letters burn themselves into her mind. White-hot. Iron brand. There is not enough air in her lungs to breathe through this.
She knew from the start that what she asked of him was destined for failure. His vocal cords fry and drown in blood. She holds here a body deconstructed. She holds here a life spilling out onto the concrete. Pale as death, though he may be, his torso opens like a field of poppies in bloom. Structural damage, perforation, conducted with intelligent malice that no shotgun could emulate. He has been stripped down inside himself, and he will die over and over again, before he fades: Exsanguation, organ failure, sepsis, suffocation, cardiac arrest. A litany of diagnoses unfurls under her fingers.
There is no time.
“No, no, my love, no, don’t,” her protest, sturdy in her teeth, cannot catch him. Edward slips away from her. His clever, calculating eyes roll blindly in their sockets until he succumbs to gravity entire. In her arms, he slackens. Flesh will so quickly devolve into meat, eager to abandon its responsibility and embrace decay. She knows. She has seen it time and time again. There is no point in saving even a single one of them. No point at all.
Fawn unbuttons his blood-soaked shirt, adds stain to merry stain. Her mind rattles off the consequences, the statical likelihood of success and its aberrant causalities. She hears it but she does not listen. If she must light a flare, then she will prefer it to the funeral pyre. If Edward dies, then there is nothing that can come after. Their lives are running out together, draining by the milliliter. And she’ll be damned, truly damned, if she allows it.
As she frees him, spreads out the tapestry of harm that has been made of her wonderful genius, her poet, her dancer, the old protocols flicker back to life. She is a marvelous bit of technology, isn’t she? A device embedded, stripped back to its core and then grafted into an unwilling, unoccupied body. A soft pinging shivers in the air. It gathers in the well of her of her palm: potential, electromagnetic pulse. She pushes her palm against his ruptured thorax, against the exit wound. Pure energy surges from her body into his, singes them both. If she had time, she might find a way not to make it such an artless, urgent touch. She might figure out how to make it painless. But she cares nothing for his pain. She cares for the heart in his chest, jumpstarted by force of will, elevated to a perpetuum mobile by her singular petition.
It rips her out of her body and into his, a surge of second-hand topography, imprinting its damage onto her. Barely damage, she corrects. Demolition. A furious man rampaging through a stranger’s house, tearing down the wallpaper, throwing chairs out the windows, stabbing the furniture. The plumbing’s fucked. Gutted and cored, the husk remains in her care, barely more than the load-bearing walls. It is dead, this house, a crumbling ruin. Hollowed out.
Until she begins to pull it back together. Until the red glow in her veins spreads silently into his. Fawn feels a fever coming on, a headache born of pressure and heat, and that, too, she pushes into Edward. There begins her reconstruction, as, at her behest, stem cells gather and grow. It makes of her the cauterizing blade, and of him the infected wound. It burns him through, creation unbound, madly scrawling itself through his body, forcing life against nature.
The air smears and melts as Fawn, against all reason, reverses reality. It cooks the marrow in her bones and turns her breath to steam. But beneath her, in repose, the shattered body of Edward Nygma begins to reassemble itself.
WHEN DANTE AND VIRGIL descended upon the fifth circle of hell, they came about the river Styx. Sinking perpetually into the muck of its waters were the damned – the vitriolic, pummeling one another when it is the current they should have uselessly fought.
Edward Nashton Edward Nygma is on a raft. He had constructed it all by himself, in a forrest that had spindled 'round and frayed away from itself in a looping drop. This plank here and this bit there, glued and stitched and forced to fit into something upon which he can land.
It, of course, is not real. He cannot feel its surface against his feet – or cannot feel his feet against its surface. He cannot discern whether the heads beneath it serve as tribulation or phase sorrily through. When the raft winds, and the limbs of the damned thrash around to fight the man on it, he cannot hear the water splash. He cannot feel them reaching his face. He cannot feel it when their fingers burrow into his skin, or when they slip to the edge of his forehead, behind the eyes.
Perhaps this is partially why he cannot see the raft, to begin with. Or himself. Or the limbs. Or the river Styx. Or Dante, for that matter, in his rudeness and audacity. There is no bliss as there is no pain : all is there and all is not, his mind suspends itself within the familiar and strains not to unravel.
Dante did not mention the house footing the stretch of the river, or how the water flowing into it does not bloat or contort its structure. And that, Edward knows, as he steers his finger-stuffed head to the figures below, is not a fault of the writer.
He sees her first, before he sees him. She has his eyes. He stole his eyes from her and today she has reached to retrieve them. Edward, Ed – what does it say about him, that he had failed to recognize her fingers when he can always describe them better than her face? Perhaps that is why it sits blurred. All but the eyes, again, his eyes. Her eyes. His eyes. Her eyes. Oh, how they must anger the other one, whose fists pierce through the raft in the dozen.
It is not just any home that lies ahead. It is not something Dante could have seen or known or thought of because in all the fiction that exists, and in all the fiction that will exist, it cannot be captured quite this precisely.
He does not wish to go. Yet the river takes him, and she begins to drift away from the raft. Alone with the mass of fists, he is forced onward. There is no pain. There is no bliss. There is no hope and there is no desperation. Only the rage in failing to accept.
He sits and crosses his legs. The fists thud and vibrate against his person, some grazing and some phasing through, and he cannot feel them, again, again, there is no pain, and yet their presence hurts no less.
The raft continues onward. Close, now, much too close. He can see the doorbell and know from the dust that it was still never rung. Wood leaves maw open to an empty, past which the water all but disappears. At least there won't be any …
pain …
pain ?
PAIN.
He screams. He does not have a voice with which to scream, and yet the sirens wail and shout and the house crackles and caves into itself, taking him with its rubble, stabbing at each individual kernel of him with shards of its mahogany floor.
The water goes away. The damned go away. The house goes away. The fists pummel his eyes back into their sockets before they, too, go away. One by one ... UNTIL HE BREATHES.
A long since abandoned desperation for oxygen enters him all at once in a needlepoint wheeze. He can feel his matter come redone. An image being rendered, each pixel comprised of a stabbing, throbbing, ailing, hurting, hurting HURTING, HURTING, HURTING, HURTING – IT HURTS, IT DOES, THIS HARROWING PAIN doesn't leave. It won't go. He wants it to go and so he lurches – rejects himself the way acid crawls out of his stomach and splatters across the floor. Over Edward, over ... Fawn?
" ... wh ... ? " More. There is more for him to expell. Air, acid, dry, wet, all, all, it will not stop and all he wants to say is what and how and wow and fascinating and stop and keep going. "Augh - - a – it ? h -- hah - A" Muffled indiscernible iterations of the letters A and U; the marmalade of phonetic structure he holds so dear is to such reduced.
He wants to reach out to her. He wants to look her in the eyes again. Yet though he can see, it is damp and frizzled, the light reflecting along the grief and pity bleeding through his eyes. Grief for the words he fails to say. Pity all for himself.
Kill me, Fawn.
Kill me. Do it. Do it.
But don't.
I don't want to die.
"... yourrAH – !! ... " OW- OW OW ! Bear with it, whose son are you? "Your face ... closer ... " His voice whines around the words, lips misshapen by his pathetic state. The needles running across his body prevent him from moving ... all but an inch. Centimeter by centimeter, jittering, stopping for one second and progressing microscopically the next. " ... fuh - OH. HELL. ... please." Make it easier for me. Please. Please. Please. Fawn. Please. Please.
private and selective roleplay acount for 𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐀𝐍 𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄 of detective comics . heavily headcanon based with inspiration pulled from THE BOY WONDER (2024) , BATMAN AND ROBIN VOLS 1 , 2 , & 3 , ROBIN : SON OF BATMAN , and more . potentially triggering and heavy topics will be present . MINORS AND PERSONALS DNI . loved by kaja .
