𝕘𝕠𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕞𝕨𝕣𝕚𝕥𝟛𝕤

♡ 18 | she/her | call me loulou or liv!

♡ [ THIS IS A 18+ BLOG, MDNI ]

♡ Hi, welcome to my dark little corner of the internet. This blog is a home for my writing, random thoughts, and obsessive rambles.

♡ Fandoms I currently write for:

Batfamily (DC)

Invincible (TV Series)

♡ I also tend to lean into intense themes. So if you like fluff… you might want to turn away and run.

⚠️ Content Warning

♡ My works are dark in nature and I primarily write yandere themes, psychological obsession, and morally questionable characters. Please read responsibly, and don’t be afraid to block, scroll, or tap out if something’s not for you. Your comfort matters. 🤍

(English is not my first language, so I apologize for any grammar or spelling errors you may find. I'm doing my best 💔)

🌑 Ongoing Series

for the last time [ ongoing | hiatus | 16+ ]

my strange addiction [ ongoing | may contain 18+ mdni ]

N U C L E A R [ work in progress ]

Thanks for visiting!

(lmao if he was batman at the same time then damn good for him. Time management king cuz I could neverrrr. nursing school alr making me tweak)

|| i love you, with all of my hypothalamus (do you?)

you are here | TWO

Medical Intern! Damian Wayne x GN! Junior Nurse! Reader

CW: This chapter contains possible Medical inaccuracies, explicit/detailed descriptions of emergency response to drowning induced cardiac arrest.

Reader's POV

The chart in your hands felt heavier with every step you took down the hallway. Maybe it was because your arms were sore from lifting patients all shift. Maybe it was because you’d been on your feet for more than 8 hours and counting. Or maybe it was just because you knew that whatever you did, someone else was going to find a way to dump another task on you before you even clocked out.

Being a junior nurse meant being at the bottom of the food chain.

“Hey, can you cover vitals for 314? I’ve got my hands full.”

Translation: they had an extra smoke break lined up.

“[L/n], could you finish charting 309? I started it but I’ve gotta run.”

Translation: they didn’t feel like finishing paperwork.

You smiled, nodded, did it. Because what else could you do? Complain? That would just double your paperwork for tomorrow.

You hugged the chart to your chest and stopped in front of room 312. The patient refused meds again. You’d heard the interns arguing about it earlier.

“…she just won’t take them.” One of the boys stood outside the door, running a hand through his hair. He was maybe in his late 20’s, eyes bleary from lack of sleep. “We explained what they were for. Twice.”

“Explaining isn’t the same as communicating,” came the sharp reply.

You didn’t have to peek around the corner to know whose voice that was.

Dr. Damian fucking Wayne.

He wasn’t like the others. Didn’t stumble or mutter. Didn’t wear exhaustion on his sleeve. You knew he probably wore makeup. How else would you explain his lack of weariness? He was practically a resident. He was younger, sharper, carried himself like he was made of glass and steel. He made everyone else feel insecure.

And the crazier thing is? Patients actually listened to him.

“You’re wasting time,” Damian continued, flipping the chart closed with a soft snap. “She doesn’t care about half-lives and dosing schedules. She’s worried about the side effects. Did you ask her about that?”

The intern faltered. “…No?”

“Then you didn’t listen. Step aside.”

Damian didn’t wait for a reply. He knocked once, brisk, and slipped into the patient’s room. You hovered by the nurses’ station across the hall, pretending to check your vitals sheet but very much not looking away.

The patient, Mrs. De Castro, had been admitted a week ago. Lovely woman. Sweet, if a little stubborn. You’d spent half an hour convincing her to let you take blood once. She just… didn’t like being told what to do.

And yet, there she was now, smiling faintly at Damian as he stood beside her bed, voice low but clear. You couldn’t hear every word, but the cadence was calm, direct, not babying her. He handed her the meds with a glass of water.

And she took them.

Just like that.

The other interns gawked from the hallway. One muttered, “How the hell—”

“He’s Damian Wayne,” another whispered back, like it explained everything. And maybe it did.

You pressed your lips together, flipping your sheet over so you wouldn’t have to see the blank spaces waiting to be filled.

Because it wasn’t fair.

He was your age. Maybe even younger, depending on the month. And look at him: confident, competent, brilliant. He walked through the ward like it bent around him, like this place was already his. Patients trusted him. Nurses deferred to him. Even the residents gave him room.

You, meanwhile, couldn’t even get your coworkers to stop calling you “the baby nurse.” And you've been working here for the past two years.

The door opened again. Damian stepped out, expression unreadable, and passed the chart back to the intern. “She’ll take them from now on,” he said simply.

The intern sputtered. “Wait, what did you—how did you—”

Damian’s eyes flicked to you then, just for a second. Green and sharp, scanning. It made your stomach jolt, but before you could look away, he turned back to the intern.

“Observe next time. Learn. We are doctors now, Harris.” And then he was gone, strides purposeful, coat swishing around his legs.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding and dropped your gaze back to your sheet.

Not jealous. You weren’t jealous. No, no. Why would you be?

But when you imagined yourself in his place. Commanding a room, respected without question—it twisted like envy in your chest.

You sighed, as you dragged your pen down the vitals column, gripping too hard, and told yourself it was just exhaustion.

That was all.

Just exhaustion.

Damian’s POV

He spotted you the moment you rounded the corner, clipboard clutched to your chest. The “baby nurse”, they call you.

Your shoulders were tense, steps precise and careful, like you feared bumping into anyone. Another nurse slid a chart into your hands without a word, and you accepted it with a nod so small it barely existed. Head down, eyes flicking nervously between the pages and the hall.

It was… laughable.

He suppressed a smirk. The nurse reminded him of a caged bird—well-meaning, anxious, and desperate to stay out of trouble. He couldn’t imagine ever bending to anyone’s demands that way. He certainly never let people trample over him. How pathetic.

And yet… there was a strange, faintly irritating energy about you. You moved efficiently, even while constantly deferring, constantly apologizing for existing. You  didn’t complain. You didn’t argue. You just… carried the weight of everyone else’s laziness without complaints.

He arched an eyebrow. You had no business being this people-pleasing. Not in a hospital like this. Not if you wanted to last a year without burning out. Which he deduces you probably already were.

But it wasn’t your fault. It was… your instinct.

Damian’s sharp green eyes followed your silhouette  as you adjusted the clipboard and scribbled something down in a frantic hand, glancing up at the clock like you’d forgotten the time existed. Your furrowed brows made you look… annoyed. Or maybe frustrated. Or maybe you thought he’d noticed you staring.

He had.

And yet, he didn’t move closer. Not yet. Not until he decided whether you were capable of something more than just… this.

If you couldn’t speak up for yourself, if you couldn’t claim a moment, a task, a patient’s attention… he couldn't imagine working with you.

Because he didn’t do people who let the world run them over.

A few hours later, when you were just about to clock out—out of nowhere, the double doors of the ER slammed open. A man burst through, soaked to the skin, carrying a limp woman, presumably his sister out cold in his arms. Her hair clung to her pale face, water pattering tentatively down onto the floor.

Code Blue.

Your heart lurched. Of course. Of course, something would happen while you were one chart away from completing before your shift ends. Your clipboard almost flew out of your hands as you rushed forward, only slightly catching yourself on the edge of the counter, rushing to respond to the scene.

“Help! Please, she drowned—she’s not breathing!”

Everything seemed to happen at once. The charge nurse yelled, “Code blue, resus bay!” You pushed the handles of the hefty crash cart as it screeched into place. Your sneakers skidded as you sprinted to the stretcher, adrenaline wiping away your fatigue.

“Here—lay her down, sir,” came a clipped, steady voice. Damian Wayne, already snapping on gloves as he walked calmly, his eyes already scanning the patient.

The man lowered his sister onto the bed, trembling. “She was in the pool—she’s—”

“We’ll take it from here,” Damian said firmly, already at the girl’s airway. “Check responsiveness.”

You froze for a split second—your very first drowning resus, and forced yourself into motion. Focus. Don't freeze now. You pressed your own knuckles against the girl’s sternum, pressing and rubbing hard against the bone. 

“Ma’am, can you hear me?” No response. Damian’s fingers were already at the carotid.

“Nothing,” he confirmed, calm as ice. His green eyes flicked to you. “Start compressions. Now.”

Your knees nearly buckled, but you climbed onto the bedside kneeling, interlaced your fingers, and began pumping hard and fast on the girl’s chest.

“One, two, three, four—” You gasp underneath your breath.

“Bag-mask,” Damian ordered. Another nurse handed it over. He suctioned fluid quickly, fitted the mask, and squeezed in breaths between her compressions.

“Someone on the IV!” he snapped.

“On it,” the charge nurse said, sliding in a line with practiced ease.

Your arms ached, sweat started to slick your forehead, but you didn’t stop. The monitor came alive with a mocking flat line. Asystole.

“Focus on the CPR. Epinephrine, one mg IV, stat. Administer in the next 3 minutes if pt remains unresponsive.” Damian commanded. His voice never wavered.

Drug pushed. More compressions. More breaths. Your chest burned with the effort as you attempted to coax one back to life. What if she doesn’t come back?

The brother tried to force his way in, eyes wild. “God she’s dying, she’s dying—”

“Sir, you need to step back,” the charge nurse barked, blocking him with an arm. “We are doing everything.”

Your focus tunneled to the rhythm beneath your palms, to the rise of the drowning girl’s chest as Damian squeezed the bag. One, two, three…

“Pulse check. Stop compressions,” Damian said.

You lifted your hands, chest heaving. Damian’s fingers pressed against the girl’s neck. Stethoscope pressing above her thoracic cavity. Gaze darted to the monitor.

Still asystole.

Damian’s gaze darkened, quickly reaching for the laryngoscope. “She’s not protecting her airway. I’m intubating. Charge, notify the brother.”

You fumbled for the tube tray, hands shaking, but managed to pass it to him without dropping it. 

“Permission acquired, Dr. Wayne.”

As quickly as he heard those words, Damian slid the tube in smoothly, movements precise. “Tube in. Secure it.”

While he slid the tube in, the nurse that administered the IV kept compressions going at the head of the bed. No pause, no wasted seconds. Meanwhile you scrambled with the tape, fixing it down. You took a breather as your eyes darted back to the flatline, the charge nurse signalling you at the end of her cycle. Every second mattered, and everything felt like slowing down. What meant to be minutes felt like hours. Then, finally, after a few moments, there was something. 

A blip. Then another. Weak, fragile, but there.

“ROSC,” Damian said flatly, though his eyes sharpened. A sinus rhythm stared back at you. She’s alive. You slowed for a moment, the pumping fists in the patients chest faltering, your eyes lifting up as you stared at the spiking beat, still barely able to believe the monitor. You quickly snapped back to action, attempting to signal the charge nurse by the monitor to take over after this cycle. 

The brother’s voice cracked. “She’s breathing?”

Damian rose, pulling off his gloves. He turned to face him, tone gentling but still clipped. “Your sister is alive, but she is critical. We’re admitting her to the ICU for monitoring. The next twenty-four hours are crucial.”

The man’s knees buckled with relief. He pressed his palms together, whispering thanks.

You stepped back from the bed as the charge nurse took your place, chest heaving, arms trembling from compressions. Your eyes flicked to the monitor again. The faint blips of the heartbeat. Proof you weren't hallucinating.

She’s alive. Your first drowning case. Your first code blue where the patient actually came back. You wanted to cry.

And Dr. Damian Wayne—steady and unshakable as he always did, was already moving on, writing orders, issuing instructions as if this was just another Tuesday night.

You swallowed hard, adrenaline still crashing through your system.

God. How does he make it look so easy?

The fluorescent lights of the lounge buzzed faintly above you as you shoved your things into your bag, eager to clock out. The smell of instant noodles lingered in the air, mixed with the faint tang of antiseptic that clung to everyone’s scrubs.

“Leaving already?”

You glanced up. Dr. Wayne was by the water dispenser, his white coat sleeves rolled up, pulling out one of the sad, flimsy paper cups stacked on top. He moved with the same carefulness he had in the ER—measured and precise, except now he was pouring steaming water into the tiny cup with a faint frown, as if the thing had personally wronged him.

You blinked. “...Uh, yeah. My shift’s done.”

He gave a short nod, tearing open a packet of what looked like tea leaves far too fancy for this place. The smell was sharp, earthy, definitely not the staff lounge’s cheap instant coffee stash. But as he lifted the paper cup to his mouth, his nose wrinkled and his brows furrowed, like he’d just tasted spoiled milk.

You froze. Was that—about you?

“I—” you started defensively, hugging your bag strap tighter. “Sorry. If you don’t like working with me, I can just—”

His eyes snapped toward you, dark and unreadable. “What?”

“You just…made that face.” You gestured vaguely at his expression, heat crawling up your neck. “Like you… I don’t know. Like I’m…uh, actually nevermi—.”

“It’s the cup,” For a beat, silence. Then Damian’s lips twitched, the barest hint of amusement breaking through his sharp features.

“It’s the cup,” He repeated, holding it up like Exhibit A. “I forgot my flask. This tastes… wrong. Like cardboard.”

Your brain short-circuited. “...the cup.”

“Yes. The cup.” His gaze lingered on you for a fraction too long before he took another sip anyway, grimacing but enduring it. “You read too much into things, Nurse...”

Your title hung at the roof of his tongue, clearly still unfamiliar with your name.

You opened your mouth, shut it again, then muttered, “…then maybe stop glaring at your tea like it owes you money, Mr. Wayne.”

That earned the faintest huff of a laugh from him, though he quickly covered it by tossing the empty paper cup into the trash. He fixed and slung his stethoscope over his shoulder and, as he passed by, added in that calm, deliberate voice.

“You did well today.”

The words stuck in your ears long after he was gone.

On the way back home, you cried—out of exhaustion, out of relief, out of everything you’d been holding back all shift, maybe even all these years.

Medical Jargons used in this chapter!

ROSC (Return of Spontaneous Circulation) - the medical way of saying the patient’s heart started beating again on its own after CPR.

IV (Intravenous Line) - used to administer fluids/medicine via the veins.

Asystole - flatline

Sinus Rhythm - normal heartbeat

Epinephrine - aka adrenaline

Intubation - (okay, actually let me pause here because this one deserves a mini rant. Feel free to skip it though since this is just my personal opinion.)

I hear so many stories of relatives and people I know refusing intubation here, and honestly it breaks my heart. Most of the time it’s because of financial issues, or fear from all the horror stories that float around. And yes, intubation is scary, and yes, there are risks. But in an emergency, that tube is literally what keeps someone alive. It doesn’t “replace” their lungs, it just keeps the airway open and connects them to a ventilator until they can breathe again.

The stigma around it, people saying it’s too risky, or that agreeing to it means you’re “giving up”can cost lives. I really wish there was more understanding that intubation isn’t the end. 

Medical Intern! Damian Wayne x Junior Nurse! Reader

SYNOPSIS: You never meant to get tangled in Damian Wayne’s orbit. He’s everything you aren't—brilliant, confident, untouchable. Meanwhile, you're just trying to survive night shifts and not trip over your own insecurities. But when a misplaced jacket, a faint trace of cologne, few sharp-tongued conversations, and gifts from an anonymous admirer, blur the lines between annoyance and something softer. And slowly you begin to realize that maybe, maybe you don't just like him.

CW: To Be Updated (although there probably won't be much aside medical gore. purely post-medschool au and unfortunately no vigilante stuff for him. that's why he's less of an asshole in this one. just another confident smarty pants)

Chapters

ONE | TWO | THREE | ... |

Miscellaneous

⟩ og post here!!

(does anyone else see Tim as 90s vincent kartheiser??? or is it just me??? anyways I think he's that kind of guy pretty change my mind)

chapter warnings: toxic academic rivalry dynamics(?), drug addiction, drug use, child/institutional neglect, emotional trauma, bullying, criminal/illegal activities

YOU have an addiction. And it comes in the form of academic validation. Now you wonder, how have you arrived at this point? Let’s go back to the time where you were still nothing but an innocent child.

You were a kid with practically zero, none-existent presence. You’ve known that ever since at the universal consciousness gaining phenomena at the age of four. Or were you five then?

Regardless, you were in kindergarten at the time. Your school went on some countryside beach trip, and as a child—you were a bit of an attention seeking brat. Hence why you insisted on being dressed in a pirate costume that your mother got for you for halloween a few months back. A better choice against that mandated obnoxiously bright yellow school uniform.

As for which beach, you couldn’t really remember where you all went. Was it by the East sea? The West? Or maybe it was in the South?

Well, it didn’t really matter now. All you do remember is that, at one moment, you were left alone with everyone else gone. Like a lone pirate stranded on some island.

You wonder sometimes, even now—that if you’d listened to your mother and worn that stupid uniform, would you have not gone missing?

Months passed by after, and you found yourself clumped together in a room full of other parentless kids. Even then, during your time at the orphanage, your lack of presence was pretty much the same. No one really looked out for you, as you’re well aware that your supposed caretakers already have so many kids that they have to look after. Most of which were likely just babies and much younger than you. So you often miss meals. You couldn’t really blame them. You had to learn to understand.

So on the days you went hungry, you’d go outside at night to drink tap water. What you found odd, was that however much you drank, you never felt full. It felt like the water you drank was leaking. It was always like that for years.

Then, during your years in highschool, the school you attended had an unusual commute system. Everyone shared a van and got dropped off one by one. If the van didn’t have the orphanage logo, you’d probably lied and said I was coming from a dorm where you were training to be some kind of pop star. You definitely had the looks

It wouldn’t really matter anyways, people in this shitty school in this small shitty countryside town knew each other and everyone. The rumours to which person, the people involved in some scandal like it was recorded in some chart. The good thing is that you’ve got neither, and the worst thing being rumoured about you, which was rather unfortunately true, was that they called you ‘the orphan boy’.

Just kidding. You experienced much, much worse. With saliva coated bubblegum being slapped on the back of your head, forcing you to shave your fucking hair bald in a buzzcut for months. Before being slapped on the back of the head with the same bubblegum and bullies, again. The cycle never stopped.

You’d been invisible all your life, and then, suddenly, you were reduced to those three words. It was the worst.

There were others who had done you worse, but that’s a story to tell for another day.

People like you can’t get referrals, so it’s hard to get even ordinary part time jobs. It all started almost two years ago. This so-called adult that came from the same orphanage got you and the others a job like he was doing kids like you a favor. But in reality, it was just buying medications. Illegally. With the use of fake ID’s of all things. Distributing everyone copies of falsified IDs with fake names and your faces plastered in the cards like it was food stamps. Maybe in a way, it was. Because if the orphanage ran out of food before you got back from school or this part time, you could buy your own with the cash. It kept you fed.

This went for months, and all you had to do was get a prescription. Not just from one hospital but from multiple different institutions. Use said prescription to buy said prescribed drugs from different pharmacies. Then meet up again in some nondescript location, return the ID and give the drugs to be paid and be driven back to the orphanage. A simple process, yet tiring with all the running you have to do all day.

One night was enough to change the entire course of your life. Shortly after a day of work, on the way home, that ringleader of these operations from earlier asked you a question–one that you found rather absurd at that time.

“What’re your dreams?” He asked. You were the one only awake during that time, with everyone else either snoring and having their eyes closed, so you answered, knowing that he was referring to you and not someone else.

“I don’t know. Never really thought about it.”

It was true. You really didn’t have dreams. No ambition. You lived moment to moment. You didn’t have the luxury to imagine anything else.

“People should have dreams.” He replied. You couldn't help but roll your eyes at that.

“Was your dream to exploit poor orphan kids for drug trafficking?”

The old man scoffed, before he dug through the bag of medications. He didn't seem offended by your words. More like amusement. He then offered you a small bag of the said drugs, and you can only assume it was a dose for one person.

“City kids would do anythin’ to get them, y’know. I like you kiddo, you have some.”

So you did. Not because you needed it. It didn’t change your pay. It felt like a useless gesture. But you took it anyway.

“Study hard, if ‘ya don’t want to end up like me.”

If those words had come from a decent adult who studied hard and had an actual job, you probably wouldn’t have listened. Was it because it came from a good-for-nothing middle aged man? You don't know why, but you found it strangely persuasive. Maybe because he was a failure, you figured what not to become.

That same night, you found yourself digging through the garbage bin of some publishing factory that is a walking distance from the orphanage. And wouldn't you know it. You found a stash of misprinted, but still readable books about biology and one about statistics. You can read the text just fine.

Then by the time the sunrise hit, you were able to understand a quarter of the material you have read in that misprinted biology book.

And just like that, you actually started doing this thing called studying. You used to be 15th in your class out of 30. In the middle. Just average. Ordinary. And in the matter of months after devouring every book you can get your hands on, actually putting an effort to understand—you went into being the 15nth in your year.

15th out of 264.

The number in your report card seemed to have great power. Out of nowhere, you didn't miss out on meals anymore. The orphanage staff started saving plates just for you. You got to study in peace, in the admin office with the AC still running and lamplight on. They even let you pull all-nighters without complaint.

People started treating you differently.

It was a change, and you liked that.

And once in your life, you started feeling full even without eating. Whatever that was, it became your sustenance. And that’s when the hunger changed. It wasn’t just for food anymore. It was for something else. You wanted to be first.

You remembered the pills. Methylphenidate, they were called. You think. What’s the harm of taking it, you thought? It’s not like you were actually going to use it. You weren't going to get hooked.

Right?

Curiosity trumped caution. Just once, you told yourself.

Wrong.

For whatever it did, consuming it made you more sharper, more focused at the task at hand. You were able to do even better, solve many equations and understand multiple complex concepts in a matter of hours. It definitely helped.

Your hard work had finally bore fruit.

You ranked first. Easily surpassing the one sitting on the throne before you. Winning the gold in competitions that those same teachers who wouldn’t even bat at your visible bruises a few months prior suggested you join after they realize potential.

Everything changed, not just the adults, but everything around you for the good. Once your grades shot up, the punks who just couldn't stop tormenting you and making your life hell…finally stopped. As if you wore some invisible armor. And you didn't want to lose it. Losing it would mean death. You couldn't have that. Never again.

Whatever happens, you had to go on, and be number one. The thought of going back? You hated that more than death itself.

So you started stealing pills. Quietly. Regularly. As quickly as you got obsessed with learning, so did your dependence on the drug.

You took them twice everyday, like it was life support. Once before the first class period. Once before your nightly study sessions. Washed down with a drink.

You worked hard and studied harder, regardless if it was night or day, anywhere, every time you saw an opportunity to study, you seized every chance like it was your last.

Then opportunity knocked again.

The orphanage found your father.

They contacted him. Confirmed your identity. And just like that, after all those years, someone saw you again. Really saw you.

In four months, you’d be leaving for Gotham City. To meet him. To finally return to the place you were born. The life you could've lived, if you wore that yellow uniform. Life, at last, was looking up.

TIMOTHY DRAKE has an addiction, and it came at the form of a person. YOU. At the very least, not yet that you knew of.

Timothy was an algorithm in human skin.

He knew this about himself. Always had.

The world, to him, made too much noise, but not in the way people thought. Not loud, exactly, just cluttered. Inefficient. Unnecessary. He had to arrange it in lines and frameworks—somewhere between the straight edges of compulsion and control. He mapped it all: people’s tells, their stutters, the way they blinked too quickly when they lied or blinked not enough when they were about to cry. Timothy had learned to observe people like experiments.

He knew at age six, he was never like the other children. Too smart. Too fast. He was a genius, they said. He could speak seven languages by the time he was thirteen but still found it exhausting to look someone in the eye and remember to smile with his teeth. Social rules felt like cheat codes someone forgot to give him. So he compensated in other ways—by being perfect. Polished. Efficient. Academic excellence, extracurricular consistency, public charm, private distance. His image was so pristine it felt bulletproof.

But then… you happened.

It started in the middle of October. Cold enough for scarves, warm enough for competition. He still remembers the first time you walked past him in the hallway without looking in that plain uniform that’s not even the part of the dress code. On your first day. You stuck out like a sore thumb—plain on purpose, like you were begging for attention.

That week’s Calculus mock quiz had been brutal. People had groaned, cried, even appealed to the teacher. But not him. He had scored a perfect 10. He should have been the talk of the class.

Instead, it was you. But not because they were impressed, no.

You, with your scuffed shoes and that unplaceable accent like you were trying not to exist too loudly. You, the supposed genius transferee who got a score of four.

Some laughed at you. But you didn't care.

He remembered the moment he overheard your name in the hallway, half-whispered by students. It was all baseless rumours, about you being an orphan, a fraud that cheated his way into this place.

And just like that—Timothy Drake, golden boy, heir of Gotham’s most elite academies—was no longer the only talk of the town.

He wasn’t threatened. Not really. Not at first. Competition was natural. Expected in this environment. Even welcome. But what he didn’t expect was how you seemed to slip through the usual systems of interest. You didn’t care about their words. You walked through the halls like someone who had already died once and come back immune to criticism.

That is where he began… noticing.

How you never raised your hand in class, but always had an answer. How you studied alone. Always alone. In the library, under that buzzing light you never bothered to report as broken. The way your hands trembled—not with fear, but with strain. Like you were constantly wound too tight, buzzing on something invisible. Like your mind was racing five laps ahead of your body and your body was struggling to keep up. Like you wanted to prove the world something.

You didn’t just want to win.

You needed to.

And that? That was something Timothy understood, in all these years of watching people.

Yet still—he couldn’t understand you. That was the part that disturbed him. Every time he tried to predict your behavior—when you'd turn the page, when you’d pack up your books, whether you’d look at him after class—he got it wrong.

He didn’t like getting things wrong.

So he observed. Watched. Stalked.

Not in a way that would draw attention. Not overtly. Just enough. Just close enough to start cataloguing you. You drank two cans of cheap black coffee a day. Always by the rundown convenience store just a few blocks away from the campus. Always carried mints, but never chewed gum. Never ate, not even once—during your first week in the cafeteria. During class, you’d leave your textbook open to the same chapter but read from different margins. Like you were trying to create new meaning from something already finished.

He noticed something else too. The way you always checked your wrist—not for a watch, but as if you were timing something that only you knew about. Like you had a schedule in your head that the rest of the world didn’t operate on.

A few days later, one rainy morning before class, he finally decided to approach you. Not closely. Just enough to test a theory.

“Hi. I’m Tim—Timothy Drake. We haven’t spoken before, but… mind if I sit here?"

Silence.

Your silence answered him. People don’t usually do that—at least not to him. At the minimum, he expected a greeting.

It wasn’t just that day. It was every day after. Still—no glance. No acknowledgment.

One night, he realized it.

You didn’t see him. And that—no. That wasn’t acceptable.

He wasn’t used to being invisible. People noticed Timothy Drake. Teachers paused when he entered the room. Adults leaned in when he spoke. Girls and boys both lingered too long when he brushed past them. Even introverts stutter when they’re acknowledged by him. The world saw him. It bent around him. Always had.

But you?

You looked through him like he was part of the furniture. Like he wasn’t real.

He thought maybe it was an act. Some strange tactic. A defense. A performance. But the more he watched, the more he realized—

You genuinely did not care.

You had no time for people. You were addicted to something else. Maybe knowledge. Maybe success. Obsession dressed as ambition. Your hunger mirrored his own, but where his was calculated, yours was raw. Desperate. Messy.

It should have repulsed him. Instead, it enthralled him.

Because there was no one else like YOU.

He knew more than half of the people in this classroom, their scores are paid by daddy’s money. Yours wasn’t, and neither were his.

He saw you in the library one late afternoon when everyone was leaving. You were muttering to yourself in a language he couldn’t quite place, scribbling so fast your pen nearly broke. Your eyes were bloodshot. Your hands were shaking. Your lips were blue from cold or caffeine or something else—he couldn’t tell.

And still—you didn’t stop.

Timothy, watching from behind the bookshelf, felt something like vertigo.

Because you weren’t just trying to be the best.

You were trying not to disappear.

He recognized it. The manic precision. The way your body was breaking down but your mind kept clawing forward. It wasn’t survival, not anymore. It was compulsion.

He found himself thinking about you on the drive home. In the shower. When he read. In the space between REM cycles. He started mapping out your patterns. Estimating your caffeine intake.

And still—you wouldn’t look at him.

Not once.

You made him feel like he didn’t exist.

That was the moment it began to curdle.

His obsession wasn’t born from attraction. Not initially. It was disruption. You were a crack in this predictable system. A riddle he couldn’t solve. A human variable that resisted logic.

You were an unpredictable variable inside a vessel of order.

And Timothy Drake had to know everything.

Why you acted the way you did. Why you pushed yourself so far past breaking. What made you tick. What made you tremble. What made you stop– He had to know everything about you.

He couldn’t rest until he did.

Because maybe this wasn’t just about competition anymore. He didn’t even care if you managed to surpass him somehow. He needed to see if you could.

This was curiosity rotting into something unnameable.

Timothy Drake's mind was a machine built from and for control.

But you—you made him want to lose it.

You made him want to peel back every layer, pick at every scab, test every reaction.

He didn’t just want to study you.

He wanted to unravel YOU.

| … | Next |

A/N:

YOU: Internally crashing out after seeing that hideous 4/10*

TIM: Internally crashing out every time you don’t acknowledge him*

my strange addiction [ pairing: Obsessed! Dark! Timothy Drake x Male! Reader ]

Inspired by Psychological Thriller series ‘Friendly Rivalry’ and ‘YOU’

Sypnosis: In which, Timothy Drake notices you before anyone else does — and decides that’s not going to change.

The following are themes explored in this fic: Toxic academic rivalry dynamics(?), drug addiction, drug use, child/institutional neglect, emotional trauma, bullying, criminal/illegal activities, dark yandere themes such as obsession, stalking, and possessiveness. More will be added as the fic progresses.

A/N: Please do take note that this fic is set in an Highschool! AU. No red robin or batman stuff here, sorry. (He's a major stalker here though) Won't have a specific posting schedule for this one either, I'll update this whenever I can.

» CHAPTERS

| ONE. | TWO. | THREE. | Loading... |

» OTHER RELATED CONTENT

—Main inspo.

—he is not plotting at all

N U C L E A R [ noo • klee • ur ]

(adj.) being or using the power produced when the nucleus of an atom is divided or joined to another nucleus.

PAIRING: Platonic! Grayson family x daughter! reader [ WIP status ]

SYNOPSIS: To be updated

WARNINGS: To be Updated

A two-parter miniseries

» CHAPTERS

01. » A happy nuclear family.

02. » Family? No, just nuclear.

» OTHER RELATED CONTENT

I would literally sell my soul for u to write this I beg of u PLS WRITE IT 🙏🙏

(Temporary hiatus my ass...I know y'all are free to call me a clown. I'm itching to write it lol)

Thinking of Yan!Tim Drake x Male! Woo Seulgi!(kdrama version) reader, I hope that's cool with everyone!

I guess comment down below if y'all wanna be tagged once it's done bc it might take me quite a while to be able to finish writing🤍🎀

The clip is from Friendly Rivalry S1 EP6, you're welcome.

OH. MY. GOD. PLEASE TELL ME I'M NOT THE ONLY ONE—when I first saw this, Yandere! Tim instantly came to mind. Everything about this scene SCREAMS Tim. Fuck, now I need to write it💔

"If you score higher at me on this midterm, I’ll tell you how I got your information and why I got it." ????!?!??

The way she's just circling her in her skateboard like a predator is to prey? The way she laughs and sounds so condenscending but clearly still wanting to help her? To actually surpass her? The fact that she leaned in, touching her hair even if she doesn't have to?

I COMBUSTED. TIM. TIM. TIM. TIM.

I AM NOT FINE.

So again, let's review the facts.

Skater, check. Academic overachiever, double check. Probably doesn’t need to be top 1 but is anyway. Gets OBSESSED the moment something (someone) doesn’t fit the pattern. Smiles like it’s affection but it’s a challenge. He’s already decided you’re his favorite puzzle piece.