SYNOPSIS : When you transfer to Gotham University, your only goal is to keep your head down and try to make a home of the new city. But from the moment you meet your eerily perfect roommate, Tim Drake, something feels off.
WARNINGS : Yandere Behaviour, Possessive and Obsessive Behaviour, Stalking, Isolation, Coercive Control and Emotional Dependency.
A/N : hes such a freaky staker i love him
INTERACTIONS AND REBLOGS ENCOURAGED!
You met him on move-in day—one of those stifling, slow-burning Gotham afternoons where the sky hung low and heavy, bloated with smog and the smell of subway grease. The sun’s heat pressing down like a palm against the back of your neck. Every surface seemed to sweat, including you. The walls of the dormitory corridors pulsed with a damp, stale warmth, body odour, cleaning chemicals, and the unmistakable sharp tang of city mildew.
You were still clinging to the handle of your last suitcase, fingers sore from lugging it up too many stairs, when the door creaked open behind you, slow and deliberate. You turned, heart jumping instinctively, and found him standing there in the threshold.
“Tim Drake,” he said, offering a hand with all the ease of someone who had never once fumbled through first impressions. His voice was low and smooth, without the cracking awkwardness you’d grown used to from your peers. It was too composed. Like this moment had already happened in his mind, and he’d been rehearsing his lines ever since.
He stood with an air of cultivated calm. One hand in his jacket pocket, posture loose but measured, like the weight of the world, sat just behind his eyes and he’d already made peace with it. His features were sharp—dark hair falling just enough into his face to appear natural, but not messy. His gaze, steady and unreadable, flicked over you once, precisely, like the lens of a camera focusing.
You hesitated. Took his hand. His grip was warm, strangely so, but not sweaty. His palm was dry. Not too strong, not too soft. As if he’d done this a hundred times before. As if he knew the exact threshold between friendly and overfamiliar, and chose to stay perfectly balanced at its edge.
And then… something happened.
Something subtle. Just a flicker, barely there, but you felt it. That involuntary tightening of your stomach that your brain couldn’t explain but your instincts refused to ignore.
Something about him was wrong.
Not wrong in the overt, textbook Gotham sense. He didn’t twitch. Didn’t mutter to himself. Didn’t have that hollow look of someone hollowed out by the city. No, Tim Drake was—by all outward appearances—normal.
That was the problem. Too normal.
He was the kind of normal that doesn’t leave fingerprints. The kind of normal you only ever see in furniture catalogs or hotel suites, sterile, practiced. Normal that wears its own skin like a costume. Every word he spoke felt polished. Every smile measured to the millimeter. A perfect stranger made of symmetry and silence.
And behind all of that?
He looked at you like he recognized you
He looked at you like he’d been waiting for you. Like he’d seen this exact moment in a dream. Like you were something he’d already memorized, long ago, and now, finally, had in arm’s reach. Your skin crawled. You didn’t say anything. You nodded, offered your name, and turned away too quickly. Told yourself it was nothing. That you were tired. Sweaty. On edge. You didn’t look back to see that he was still watching you, eyes unreadable, smile lingering.
You tried to let it go.
Tried to tell yourself it was just a bad case of first-week nerves. That all of Gotham felt this way—off, a little too fast, a little too loud, like a city that never fully stopped. Every corner you turned hummed with tension. Sirens screamed until they were part of the rhythm of your days. People didn’t flinch at gunshots here. They just crossed the street and kept walking. You told yourself it was normal to be anxious. To feel eyes where there were none. To hear footsteps in sync with your own and assume the worst. This was Gotham. You were allowed to be afraid.
But the feeling never went away. It got worse, and it started with the mornings.
You weren’t a light sleeper, but somehow you were always the first one up. You’d shuffle out of bed at 7:30 AM, stretch your limbs in the quiet of the dorm room, and trudge over to the bathroom to splash cold water over your face. And when you returned, Tim would be there.
Every. Single. Time.
Slouched in the hallway, mug in hand, hair tousled in that deliberate kind of way that made you think of magazines and models. His voice would be low and scratchy with sleep when he greeted you—always with your name.
And then there were the little things.
At first, they felt like harmless coincidences. Sure, a bit uncanny. You chalked it up to proximity.
But then—
You passed the abandoned old stone chapel every day on your way to your 10 AM seminar. You liked it. It made you feel grounded, gave you some comfort in the routine. Peaceful, in a place that didn’t often allow peace.
By the third week, Tim was always there.
Sometimes ahead of you, waiting on the chapel steps with a to-go cup in hand and that same unreadable expression and a glint in his eyes. Sometimes behind you, footsteps light on the brick path, catching up without ever hurrying. And always, always with the same gentle, offhand line—
“Oh. Didn’t know you came this way too.”
As if it were a coincidence.
The next morning, a charger for your exact phone model appeared in the drawer. Yours had stopped working the night before. You hadn’t mentioned it. You never told anyone which shampoo you brought, it was the same type you’ve been using for years. And yet, the next time you stepped into the communal shower, the air was thick with its scent. And when you mentioned once, just once, offhandedly, that the student lounge made you feel safer than the library for studying, Tim started showing up there too.
You never asked what he was working on.
You didn’t want to.
Because some instinct in your gut whispered that if you asked, he’d tell you.
And you weren’t ready to hear the answer.
did you guys like the camera simile i used for tim please clap i was very proud of it
The twins! There’s nerdjo 🤭and then there’s fratjo too ig, I was really excited when i saw nerdjo trending so I grabbed the opportunity to draw him hehe
in more pleasant news: this year is seeing the biggest humpback migration in Australian history, bigger than it was PRE whaling. That's right, there are more humpbacks migrating off the coast of Australia than there were BEFORE industrial whaling started.
A huge, fat W for environmentalists and Greenies. what an achievement
can you do a yandere smut inspired by obsession? But the wish was done upon the yandere by the reader? :3
Im gonna be honest, the whole "cursed by a supernatural force to want to eat your pussy and kill your other hoes" isn't a super compelling plot to me for a fic because I like to write about genuinely crazy men. The movie was great, don't get me wrong, but I'm not interested in rewriting it in this medium because I don't have anything to add.
that being said, i think the idea of reader teasing/leading on a yandere who they know has feelings for them for shits and giggles /entertaining a puppy crush with no intention of it getting too serious and then getting a whole lot more than they bargained for is a compelling plot line.... this would work very well for someone who's generally well liked/respected but also unfathomably stubborn like dick grayson methinks.
DICK GRAYSON FICLET UNDA THE CUT (i got carried away)
Maybe you flirt back a little with that beat cop who stops into the coffee shop you work every morning, who throws you a wink and says he's keeping the city safe for you, even though you know you shouldn't. Maybe you even agree to go out with him for a drink and let him take you on a ride to the docks on his bike afterward. Maybe even more than once. He's handsome, charismatic. Probably would make a good boyfriend. It's a shame you have a roster of other men in your phone who would too.
But dick is sweet, and hot, and you don't have it in you to let him go, or maybe you just don't want to give up the attention he gives you. So when he sends you "good morning, beautiful ;)" texts, you leave a couple extra heart emojis at the end of your reply.
The texts get more frequent, a touch more invasive. He asks you where you're going whenever you tell him you can't hang out, and if it's anywhere farther than the corner store at the end of your block (and even then sometimes) he'll pester you to let him walk you there because "he doesn't know what he'd do with himself if you got hurt."
You always politely decline, of course, because nine times out of ten you're actually going to see another man, and he's never pressed you more than a couple of times. Still, you keep getting this creepy feeling that keeps you looking over your shoulder as you walk, keep catching flashes of blue in your periphery that make you think it's time for another eye exam.
Things get weirder still when you find out a week later that a few of the guys you had been seeing were actually in cahoots with one another in a drug-selling scheme. That nightwing guy had caught them selling to a group of teens and dutifully turned them in, answering questions on the news with that award winning smile of his.
His smile is kind of familiar, though you can't place from where.
None of it makes much sense, and frankly, it's all kind of upsetting. Dick contacts you a few times, but you ignore him. Not because he did anything wrong per se, but because you don't want to talk to any men right now, really. You ask your manager to be switched to the day shift at work so you won't have to explain yourself to him and assume that will be that.
Unfortunately, it is not the last you hear from him, because a few days later you get a knock on your door, and it's him in uniform. You freeze at the deadpanned way he looks at you. You try to explain yourself to him after a beat of silence, stumbling over words as you try to apologize, but after about a minute of painful dialogue, he cracks a smile and tells you not to worry about it. He's just here to get testimony from you since you were recently in contact with the subjects of the recent arrest.
You ask if you have to, he says that you do.
So you let him in, get him a glass of water and squirm as he asks you questions about the men you were seeing, the types of relationships you had with them, how long you'd been seeing them, if there were any others.
Dick, for the most part, is professional. Keeps that golden boy smile plastered on his face the whole time, though you see it waver for just a second when you explain that you'd been seeing more men. The interview is over in about thirty minutes, and he asks to use the bathroom before he leaves. Soon enough, he's walking out your door and you pray to every god you can think of that you never see him again.
A few days later, while you're taking a shower, you think about texting him. Not to start anything up again, but maybe to clear up any negative feelings. The last thing you wanted was for any bad blood between you to lead to you getting more roped into this legal mess. You move to grab your razor but catch something in your periphery as you do. A little black dot in the corner across the room. At first you shudder, thinking maybe the roach problem you had a few months ago was coming back, but the more you look at it, the clearer it becomes that it's not a roach. In fact it's not a bug at all, because bugs aren't reflective.
It's a camera.
Panic sets in immediately. You throw a towel over yourself and run into your room, locking the door behind you before rifling through your closet to find the baggiest clothes you own and putting them on. You search the bedroom top to bottom for any cameras. Pulling out drawers, ripping off covers, knocking trinkets off shelves. Only once you’ve absolutely wrecked the room do you calm down, panting on the floor, more confident - but not certain - you aren’t being watched.
You think back to who could have planted it there. Obviously it was Dick. Probably for the investigation. But why would he put it in your bathroom? Why not your bedroom or kitchen? Wouldn’t that make more sense for a crime investigation?
Suddenly, a deep wave of unease washes over you. This wasn’t for the crime investigation. Dick had been way too nice to you when you talked, you should have known there was an ulterior motive. You weren’t sure if this was a sick joke or if Dick had actual problems, all you knew was that having a stalker was one thing, but having a stalker who's a cop is another.
You wrack your brain for what to do. It’s not like you could turn him in to the police. You could move, maybe, but with what money? Dick knows where you work, where you live, and now after that interview, copious amounts of other personal information on the people you care about. You need a neutral party, someone who isn’t connected to the justice system but still has some kind of authority.
And in Bludhaven, there's only one person who comes to mind.
You read on an internet forum that people often spot him getting food at a shop on the north side of town when he’s working, so you hunker down there. You bring a book to read while you wait, but can’t focus enough to absorb any of it, so you pass the time watching the dim, flickering tv at the corner of the store playing local news and worrying yourself sick.
At around 1 AM, the door chimes and there he is. Nightwing. He laughs at a joke the shop owner makes to him and you try and fail again to place his smile. For some reason, it makes your stomach roll.
Just as he’s about to walk out the door, you finally muster your courage and tap him on the shoulder.
“Nightwing, sir, I um... I'm sorry, I just-” You stumble on your words.
He smiles warmly at you, “You want an autograph? I’d be happy too,” he looks down, searching the pant legs of his suit, “I just don’t have a pen on me-”
“No!” you interrupt, blushing at your own rudeness as he glances back up at you “I’m sorry, I just… I need your help. I don’t know who else to go to.”
You tell him about Dick, about his interview and about the camera you found in your bathroom, how it made you scared. He listens with a frown until you’re finished before speaking. “That does sound scary. But don’t worry, I think I can help you.”
Your face lights up as a wave of relief floods over you. “Really?” you ask.
He nods and leads you outside, helping you onto his bike. You thank him profusely as he gets on himself, wrapping your arms around his torso and revving the engine. “Hold on tight.” he says, flashing that eerily familiar smile at you, all teeth, “I promise, I’m not gonna let anybody hurt you ever again.
Yeah I said something similar yesterday but we can NOT let what happened to Renee Good cloud what happened to everyone else at the hands of these SS Demons!!!
Because we can’t disregard one person if we’re for human rights!
Hey there~! 🌸
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