don't tell alfred

audreycritter  asked:

I'm on mobile, and I don't know if this is where you usually take prompts, but I'll request Tim and Bruce. Bonus points if it includes the line, "One of us is going to have to sleep eventually."

This is officially my favourite thing I have ever written. Thank you so much for the prompt :D

They’re at a stalemate, have been for days now. All because Bruce had dared to suggest Tim stop drinking coffee and get some sleep. A reasonable suggestion, Alfred had assured him, since Tim is, after all, only fourteen years old and much too dependant on caffeine to keep him going than anyone should be. Unfortunately, Tim hadn’t seen it that way.

No. Tim had slowly lowered his newly-filled coffee cup from his lips and stared at him until Bruce had shifted uncomfortably. Then he had smiled sweetly and asked mildly, “Are you going to take your own advice?”

And that’s where Bruce went wrong, Alfred was quick to point out six hours later when he came down to invite them up for breakfast. Because he should have just said yes, poured his own coffee down the sink and gone to catch a few hours sleep between his thousand-thread-count sheets. But he didn’t. Because Bruce is a grown adult dammit. And more than that; Bruce is the goddamn Batman. He couldn’t just give in to the sass of a teenager, even if that teenager is a sleep-deprived, more-caffeine-than-blood Robin. 

His second mistake had been saying something of that effect to Tim, who had rolled his eyes and taken another gulp of coffee before stating that he wouldn’t stop drinking coffee, nor would he sleep, until Bruce did so as well.

So here they are.

Three days later.

And Bruce is beginning to regret his entire life.

(“Nothing new there,” the painfully Jason-like voice in his head snorts.

Bruce reminds himself hallucinations are normal after forty-eight to seventy-two hours with no sleep.)

“One of us is going to have to sleep eventually,” Bruce sighs. He runs a hand through his hair, looking sidelong at Tim’s equally mussed locks.

Tim takes a pointed sip of his lukewarm coffee. “I vote you.“ 

From somewhere in the depths of the Cave, Alfred sighs and mutters something about stubborn fools. Followed a moment later by a louder rumination about good role models. Bruce chooses to chalk that one up to auditory hallucinations; Alfred generally prefers to give useful yet sarcastic advice to his face.

"Don’t you have school?” he wonders in Tim’s direction, sure the boy had vanished form the cave for several hours each day but not entirely sure that’s where he’d gone. “Don’t your teachers ever question why you look so exhausted?”

The teen glances up from the case files he’s poring over to give Bruce a flat stare - he wears the expression so often Bruce is beginning to think it’s just his resting face. (You know, if he ever rested.) “Yes. And I tell them it’s because the hours I should be spent sleeping are spent running across Gotham’s rooftops in tights,” he deadpans.

Bruce blinks.

Tim blinks.

Alfred sighs. Bruce knows it’s definitely real this time because he’s suddenly standing behind them with a tray “More coffee, sirs?” he offers drily. “Or have you seen sense yet?”

Tim takes a mug and sniffs it warily, nose crinkling in disgust before he hastily sets it back on the tray. “That isn’t coffee, Alfred, it’s decaf.” He sounds so outraged that Bruce laughs. It may or may not be a touch hysterical.

“I’ll have you know, Master Timothy, that you’ve been drinking decaf for the last two days.”

“Hah!” Bruce points a mocking finger at his young partner. “Alfred wins.”

“I wasn’t aware I was even playing,” Alfred comments over Tim’s indignant, “You’ve been drinking it too!”

That makes Bruce pause, his sleep-deprived mind working over the facts of the Case of the Decaf Coffee. He frowns into his near-empty mug as realisation washes over him. “We both lost,” he tells the unfaithful liquid. It ripples ambiguously.

“I’ll just get a blanket then,” Alfred is saying, “Perhaps a pillow as well…”

And when Bruce looks up, blinking sluggishly, several minutes have passed and Tim is fast asleep, as though the very suggestion that his bloodstream had no caffeine in it was enough to knock him out, head cushioned on his folded arms, an errant sticky note stuck to his ear. Bruce reaches out to poke him just to be sure he isn’t foxing, but his hand doesn’t quite make it, flopping onto the table and brushing Tim’s fingers with his own. Then his eyes slide shut and he too is asleep.

(They find out several hours later - at a more reasonable hour of the morning - that not only did Alfred win, he cheated. The last mugs of coffee were laced with a mild sedative. Bruce can’t even bring himself to be more than a little irritated because at least Tim finally slept.)

  • Anna: Good morning.
  • Bates: Good morning.
  • Alfred: Good morning.
  • Jimmy: You all sound like robots, why don't you spice it up a bit?
Skate Date

This is for the very talented @iyuro for the @xmas-usukexchange2016! Happy New Year! A thousand apologies for the lateness, but I hope you like it! I took your prompt of America not being able to skate well, and England helping him along, as well as the hand warming. Happy Holidays!

The lights twinkle above, mirroring the farther away blue lights of the stars. There is poetry there, England is sure of it, but for now he is focusing on the very wobbly American clinging to the edge of the outdoor skating rink. It is slightly amusing to see the very proud, boisterous, America reduced to fake smiles at the little kids passing him with ease, whilst he held on to the wooden barricade as tightly as he guarded the last of his McDonald’s fries.

He was so pretty out here where the fairy lights’ reflection gleamed in the ice that hadn’t been skated into powdery white yet and the outdoor golden lights made that too perfect hair shine. England just watched the younger nation stagger along with less ease than Princess Charlotte learning to walk. The fashionable down puffy jacket and smart Burberry scarf (a gift for the boy –good British fashion), made him seem a perfect Hollywood golden boy, handsome and those teeth so white with every wide sheepish grin he gave.

Ah, this was poetry, poetic justice, at least, smirked England, as he glided off with ease towards the suffering American. Upon seeing him skating in his direction, America straightened up with a megawatt smile, real, and damn did that make England’s heart melt. “Ah, Art-thur,” America stuttered out, and England enjoyed that too much, maybe his insides would implode with the delight of America being put out for once.

“Alfred.” England greeted, “I see you started without me.” It came out too gruff and annoyed, and England internally cringed.

“Ah, yeah…” America grinned, putting his hand into that full golden head of hair, and England’s eyes narrowed with jealousy of that hand. The motion however, made America lose his balance, and he tilted downward, catching himself on the edge, leaving him in an interesting position with his arse up and head down. When he quickly pulled himself up, England swore some of the wood broke off from America’s grip, and his face was as red as his coat. “I think my blades are too sharp. Ya know, they seem to be too slippery.”

England let his massive eyebrows rise, and as much as he enjoyed the younger nation embarrassed from his failings, he didn’t want America to get all prideful and call off this ice skating, um, date? England could feel his cheeks turning rosy in return at the thought. America’s eyes were downcast and so blue, their brilliance mirroring the lights, the flush on his cheeks so endearing, England cleared his throat.

“Come on now.” He said, as if America was his young colony and they were off for a walk. He gently took America’s larger hand, and the silly Captain America-themed thin cotton gloves made him roll his eyes. Alfred seemed dumbfounded staring down at their hands together. “It’s easier this way.” The glib lie rolled off England’s tongue, something to cover up how his cheeks were turning even more scarlet in the cold air.

America seemed to snap out of it. He laughed and tugged slightly on England’s leather glove. “I like this.” At those words England was incapable of speech, so he slowly slid forward, America inching alongside of him. He could feel the heat through the thin glove seem to burn through his own leather gloves and into his hand. They were moving slower than everyone else, the endless stream of people flowing about them made it feel like they were in a dream.

“Um…” America was very quiet for himself, and England could see the furrows of concentration etched in America’s face.

“Hmm…” England said, enjoying the warmth of the hand in his own, plus the dizzying swirl of people around them, and the lights gleaming on the edges. Music played, just soft or muted enough to hear the bass of the song, enough to hear the high notes that came once in awhile into his hearing. “Alfred?”

“I don’t know how to skate.” It comes out pitifully small amongst the thriving happy chaos.

“I know, my dear.”

America is staring down at England with those heavenly blue eyes, wide and bewildered, as much as when England had given him that unicorn.

“You know?” 

Ah, there it was, that infuriating edge of annoying arrogance. As if he had thought he was a world class figure skater dancing away.  “Yes,” England said through gritted teeth as he pulled them aside to the edge again where two toddlers were playing with ice chips and rubbing it on the wood barrier, as their mothers blocked the way of skaters coming around the edge. England felt safe here.

America smiled at that, white teeth and pretty lips and England just wanted to kiss him to shut him up. Wipe off all that smugness with a good snog, as well as piss off the rude ladies as a nice final touch.

“Well, I know you like skating, and so I thought, hey Arthur and I should go skating. Then you were all blushy.”

“I was not!” England interjected.

“Blushy,” America grinned at him. “So I thought you’d like this.”

It was sweet and infuriating all at the same time. And how desperately England wanted to behave like a child and kick the boy in the shins with his skates.

“Hm…” America was still smiling down at him, his eyes reflecting the glimmering lights. The music, and the chatter, seemed to disappear with the sound of blood rushing through England’s ears. He was rubbing his hands. “Just don’t tell Mattie. ‘Cuz he doesn’t know, and he keeps wanting to play hockey, and he said you like skating too.” America’s teeth chattered at the end. “O-of course. You know it’s all pretty out here with the Christmas lights and all.”

England was watching America’s hands rub together as if they couldn’t get warm, and the boy’s red ears, and he murmured without thinking, “The fairy lights are rather nice.”

“Yeah, it’s nice.” America echoed, almost mindlessly. As England looked up he saw that America’s eyes were smiling at him, staring rather, and he felt himself flush further.

“Here.” England murmured bringing the large hands into his own again. He gently raised them and puffed warm air on them. America was gaping at the sight. Then a goofy grin spread over his face.

“They feel better now. But, I’m still cold. I mean, that feels good. Though. Really.”

England had moved closer with each stuttered statement. “Really. Cold, are we?” he asked, slightly breathless. The people and music and noise vanishing with the nearness.

“Yes.” Whispered America, his eyes so close, England watching his lashes fluttered onto red cheeks. “Yes…”

England didn’t hear anything at all now, the toddlers’ mothers inane chattering gone, the lights were only dimly in the background as his eyes closed and his lips touched America’s.

Then it was only sweetness, as Englamd tilted his head more into the kiss. He could feel America pull him against his strong body. As he pulled away finally, knees slightly shaky from the rush, he could see the glimmer of blue eyes darkened with enjoyment.

“Mmm…” America hummed as they parted. He grinned at England. “Not so cold anymore.” He waggled his eyebrows.

England slapped lightly against his arm. “Way to kill a brilliant moment here, Alfred.” But America’s arms were still around him, and he was warm and snug, and could have stayed like this forever.

He could see America’s teeth chatter slightly, as he leaned into England, the weight making England slide a bit. But it was better this way, their legs now touching and against each other. Their foreheads touched, and England grinned.

“So I’m not supposed to tell Matthew, am I?”

America closed his eyes. “Nooooo, you promised.” He said in mock agony.

“I did no such thing.” England smiled, feeling America’s heart beat and seeing his golden hair slide away between his gloves.

“What can I do…”

“Hm.” England said, “Maybe you should warm up some more.”

“Oh,” America shot upward. “Good idea!” Said boisterously as America started to try to skate to the opening, totally oblivious to the shocked soccer moms staring at him. Realizing England wasn’t skating to follow him. He turned around. Very carefully.

England could feel his glower, and he hoped his frown was as evident as it felt. America had the decency to look sheepish. “Oh.”

“Oh.” England mocked slightly. He couldn’t help that he tilted on his skates and tapped the front down annoyed, skillfully balanced.

“Ooh, you look so good!” America pitifully skated very slowly back. He leaned forward quickly, and pecked England’s lips. “Now come on! Let’s go warm up, and get hot cocoa, and…”

England could feel his face’s redness as easily got ahead of America and he gently pulled his big oaf of a boyfriend towards the open gate. “Come on, you.”

America smiled his megawatt smile at him. “Wasn’t that fun?!”

Seriously, England didn’t know why he kept him. Matthew was going to get an earful tomorrow. He tried to hide the small smile that kept creeping up at the edges of his mouth.

He didn’t mind not skating on a skating date for once, not at all.

anonymous asked:

Kit Kat, I'm in the bathroom at the mall and in pain. Um, can you help? Please don't tell Alfred and Dick I snuck out of the Manor.-💚🐱

“Lydia? I’m coming! A-are you ok?!”

I think modern architecture is the greatest anti-happiness there has ever been. Nobody can live in those shelves, they can’t do more than eat and sleep there; for their hours of leisure and their weeks of holiday they are driven on the roads. That is why a young couple would rather have a motor-car than anything else - it’s not in order to go to special places but a means of getting away from the machine where they exist.
—  Nancy Mitford, Don’t Tell Alfred


[hot apple fritters bro.
looks like we got ourselves another supporter of this ship- ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) 👌💕]

So I was walking back form Lichtenstein’s house and I decided to vist Hungry. Prussia was there for some reason I still don’t know. Anywhy it was late when I left Hungary’s house so I started to walk back to England’s place but Prussia wouldn’t let me. I ended up staying the night at Germany’s house. This is what I woke up to. No one tell America anything he’s going to be made enough I didn’t make it to France’s or England’s house last night.