get some sleep Tim

Tim: I want to tell you my secret now.

Conner: Okay…

Tim: I see dead people.


Conner: In your dreams? While you’re awake? Dead people, like, in graves, in coffins?

Tim: Walking around like regular people.

~ · ~ · ~ · ~ · ~ · ~

Okay, first of all, those’re just Jason and Damian walking around the Manor. Secondly, GET SOME SLEEP, Timothy.

Hypocrite | Tim Drake x Reader

Description: You’re a hypocrite because you want Tim to start sleeping more, eating more, and living more. Tim is a hypocrite because he wants the same for you. You’re both utter disasters.

Request: Hey um could I request something for Tim? His partner is also a lifeless corpse only surviving on coffee, but they both are hypocrites and it’s them being fluffy trying to convince each other to go to bed without the other (possibly ending with both of them just going to sleep together?) Sorry if this is complicated or dumb but I love your blog! Your writing is great!

Words: 1226

Notes: From now on, all of my stories labeled “x reader” should have genderless readers. If said otherwise, then they will be labeled as such (x fem!reader, x male!reader, etc.).

This fic is for all of you who have recently forgotten to take care of yourselves. I hope you drink plenty of water, get enough to eat, and sleep as much as your body needs it. You are a beautiful human being inside and out. I hope that you are very healthy, stress-free, and that you are happy. You deserve the best. I tried to deliver XD

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It’s never really been a big deal. For you, anyway. You had a talent for forgetting the bigger things, as your mind always decided to brush them aside until they were needed, and you would forget. That’s just who you were. You forgot. At first, it was things like chores you had to do, but then it progressed into your birthday, your and Tim’s anniversary. Your work was your everything, and that was the excuse every single time. So, of course, it made sense that when you became obsessed with it, you’d forget the big things.

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akane566  asked:

Hej Cam :) Imagine this: normal day in manor, batfamily and others come for dinner. Out of anywhere Jason, Tim and Damian start argument calling each other "Replacement" and "Wannabe"and everything would be fine but Dick have bad day, like super bad sick day which last already week and he beaten till black and blue by some thugs, so he is tired and have cleary enough so he shout "shut up, you all my replacement!" and everybody just *freeze*?

This isn’t exactly what you asked for, because I don’t think that Dick would outright call any of his brothers replacement. But here’s something that plays on it, a little.

Thanks to Taylor for donating!

“Get out of my face, brat.”

“Make me.”

“I honestly could if I wanted to. Don’t try me.”

“I will eviscerate you.”

“And get yelled at by daddy dearest? I don’t think you will.”

Today of all days, Dick thinks bitterly. It has to be today that all of his brothers have decided to argue, argue, argue. Well—it’s more like bickering than arguing, and usually that would be fine, but Dick’s had a hell of a day. Hell of a week, and he’s only at the manor because he’d passed out on patrol with Bruce and got taken home like a goddamn child.

Just this once, though, he hadn’t had it in him to argue with Bruce, and he’d accepted the house-arrest order without complaint.

Well. Okay, there had been a little complaint, but it hadn’t spun into a giant argument about independence and being able to take care of himself like it would have a couple years ago, sick or not.

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tim tries to be an older brother to dami sometimes but never when damian is awake to realize it (which is honestly for the best)

until like the one day that tim has been up for 3 days straight and is tryna tuck damian into bed and stumbles a lil, waking him. once damian realizes someones carrying him he immediately does a nerve strike, incapacitating tim and making him pass out face first onto the floor 

damian soon realizes who he attacked, but like. its tim. damian leaves him there but is satisfied with his work because it means tim is finally getting some fucking sleep. honestly like he ought to be grateful for his assistance, and he makes no apology the next morning when tim rightfully asks “what the fuck, damian.” 

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.)

So maybe it was a weird thing to set him off, but really— was Tim in control of his life just now? No. He hadn’t been for several years, if he were being honest, and why change what worked? He was hardly ever an emotional wreck (once a week maximum), which was fine. One day in seven was fine.
Until it was one of those days, and he was standing outside his apartment, holding his key ring, trying not to scream or cry or punch a wall, or maybe all of the above. He hadn’t decided yet.
He was thinking about Bruce. Bruce didn’t remember him. Of all of the things the universe could have thrown at him, that was maybe the worst.
Most days, he just wanted to tell him— drive out to the manor, let himself in, lie down on a couch, and wait for Bruce to walk by. He could picture himself doing all of that, easily. It was the bit after that where he got stuck.
Bruce wouldn’t recognize him. Tim kept thinking about his eyes— they’d be empty, polite, “oh look, a stranger” eyes, and Tim wasn’t sure he could take that. He felt sick just thinking about it. It made it hard to breathe, so he leaned his head against the doorpost, still staring down at his keys (vehicle master, Jason’s house, apartment, manor). He could do it if he wanted. Turn around and tell Bruce. Maybe he should.
Bruce would want to know, wouldn’t he? He always did. The thought of Bruce making a such an important decision without all the facts was ridiculous— Bruce didn’t do that. And surely if he knew he was Batman, if he knew about his kids—
Anyway, Bruce deserved to know, and the rest of them deserved that too. Tim knew the others were suffering— Damian wasn’t allowed to go home, so he’d been migrating between safehouses for weeks. You knew he was desperate when he started showing up at Tim’s, and he’d been doing that a lot lately.
And as much as he wanted Bruce to be happy, well… didn’t Tim deserve to be happy too? It had been a while.
He didn’t blame Bruce for shutting them out. How could he? It wasn’t Bruce’s fault. It was just that Tim wasn’t sure what to do without Bruce. It was hard to explain.
Tim had a strange life. He was a secret— there were only about a dozen people who knew what he did with his time, and less that knew him personally, for real. There had been years when it was only him and Bruce, and now Bruce didn’t remember any of that— whole years that were just Tim now. By himself. It made him feel less, somehow, like he was disappearing. Even on the days when Jason was pacing in his kitchen and Damian was asleep on his couch, Tim felt horribly, horribly alone.
He just wanted Bruce to remember. It didn’t seem like that much to ask.
Tim could picture himself at the door to Wayne Manor, with the key that he’d had since he was thirteen. He could see his hands opening the locks (top turned right, bottom turned left, shove the door open with a knee when it stuck). He could imagine meeting Bruce again, and a couple of half-formed sentences he might say.
“Tim Drake-WAYNE. Your son.”
“You don’t have to be Batman if you don’t want to, but you’re kind of stuck with us.”
“Would it be okay if I came home?”
But after that, all he could picture were Bruce’s stranger eyes. The thought was enough to make him go cold all over again— he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t.
Tim unlocked his apartment and stepped inside, past the kitchen and a pile of blankets that was probably Damian camped out in his living room again. He pulled his manor key off of his ring and set it on the counter. Wouldn’t be needing that anymore.
After that, he went to bed. There was nothing else he could do.