i was writing shit

Insomnia (part 1)

Summery: This is the first in a series of oneshots about Tim dealing with insomnia in creative ways, based on the ways I’ve dealt with insomnia. I have about five of these lined out already and based on the reception I get I’ll do more. Comments, likes and reblogs are all always very appreciated! Let me know what you think!

Tim Drake was struggling.

It had been nearly an hour since Bruce had found him in the cave, still finishing up some report or another, and forced him to go to bed. He glanced over at the electronic clock that he’d been checking every few minutes for the better part of that hour.

2:47 am

A groan of annoyance burst through his gritted teeth, and he had to resist the urge to pick up the offending object and throw it across the room. He really didn’t keep himself up deliberately, at least not anymore, but he just couldn’t seem to break the habit of not sleeping. It’s not that he wasn’t tired, oh god he was tired, he just couldn’t make himself fall asleep.

He turned onto his back and stared up at the ceiling for as long as he could bear to, internally debating whether or not actually counting sheep would help him at this point, before glancing back at the clock.

2:53 am

Tim sighed in defeat. He was starting to wonder if you could die from sleep deprivation. The manor was silent, save for the quiet whirring of the ceiling fan hung above Tim’s bed, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to risk making Damian going into the living room to entertain himself with the television for a few hours.

He flicked on the light and got up, turning to look suspiciously at his bed. It seemed perfectly normal, a comforter, two decently stuffed pillows, but it had betrayed him. The floor would be better at this point.

The floor.

Tim had an idea. An idea fueled by sleep deprivation, but an idea nonetheless.

He ripped the comforter off his bed and laid it in the center of his carpet, folding it in half first to maximize the padding, then grabbed his pillowed and set them down at the head. He took a step back to examine the setup. It was good… but not enough. He needed more.

He pushed up his glasses, which had slid down the bridge of his nose as some point during the assembly of his new and improved floor bed. The project required more pillows, and more blankets, which meant he was going to have to brave the potential warzone that was the stretch of hallways that separated his bedroom from Damian’s. He chewed on the corner of is lip, weighing the risks in his mind. On one hand, waking Damian at three in the morning would mean world war three. On the other hand, getting more blankets might mean he actually got a decent night’s sleep for once.

Tim decided the blankets were worth it.

The hall light was already on, which meant that he only had to dim his bedroom lights before stepping silently onto the old hardwood floors. He could see the linen closet at the end of the hall. Taunting him. He narrowed his eyes (and not just because his prescription needed to be updated and he couldn’t quite see that far). Directly between him and his target, was Damian’s bedroom, the door open just enough for Tim to see the demon child curled up in his bed, asleep.

Tim crossed his arms.

Lucky bastard

Damian turned in his sleep, as if in response to the silent insult. Tim held his breath. If Damian woke up now and saw him out here he’d be finished. Although he supposed that being dead might be somewhat restful. Tim shook his head. No. He wasn’t giving up yet. Not that easy.

He took a hesitant step forwards cringing at the creak the echoed through the manor. Damian shifted again, but still didn’t wake up, and Tim wondered bitterly how a kid raised to be a paranoid little assassin managed to sleep more soundly than he did. It wasn’t fair. He crept further down the hall, avoided the boards that he already knew couldn’t support his weight without an audible groan.

Finally, after what felt like an hour he made it. The linen closet. He opened the door and carefully selected the thickest, softest blankets and the best pillows. He was just turning to creep back to his room, when Damian’s bedroom light flickered on.

Tim ducked around the corner in a panic. He wasn’t sure what would happen if Damian saw him up, but even the best thing Tim could think of was still something he’d rather avoid.

The sound of light footsteps drifted down the hall, followed shortly after by the sound of the bathroom door opening and shutting. This was his chance. Tim looked cautiously around the corner, and after confirming that the hall was clear, he booked it, pillows and blankets tucked underneath each arm, running as quietly as he could to his room and shutting the door behind him.

He held his breath for a moment, listening, his back pressed against the door.

Nothing. Then, after a moment, the sounds of Damian returning to his room.

Tim smirked to himself at having outsmarted his smug little brother. He’d have to rub that in at some point. He dropped everything he’d carried into a pile on the floor and started to form it into some sort of a nest of blankets.

He was laying the new pillows down next to those he’d already arranged when he was startled by a knock on his door. Quickly he pushed his makeshift floor bed out of view before he opened the door a crack and looked into the hall to see a tired looking Damian glaring up at him.

“What- Damian what do you-“

The twelve-year-old put up a hand to cut him off, “Drake, the next time you decide to stomp about the manor in the middle of the night, if you wish to actually evade my detection, try not dropping your glasses outside my bedroom door.” He held up Tim’s glasses, clutched in his other hand. “Oh… yeah. Uh… thanks for giving them back.” Tim took them from him sheepishly and Damian turned on his heel to walk back to his room. Alright. So, Tim didn’t have much to gloat about. At least that interaction had been relatively painless.

He turned his attention back to the pile of blankets pushed up against his dresser, and set about arranging them back into a vaguely bed-like formation on his floor. Once he was satisfied with that, he flicked off the lights and set his glasses down on top of his clock, which now read 3:42 am. Good. Maybe there was still enough night left for him to get a good couple hours of sleep.

He laid down on the misshapen mass of pillows and cocooned himself in his bedsheet. This was decidedly less comfortable than sleeping on his bed, but after the work he’d gone through to set this up he was at least going to stick it out for a little while.

He snuggled himself into a crack between two piles of pillows and closed his eyes, hoping when he opened them next some significant amount of time would have passed. He stared at the backs of his eyelids, listening to the whir of the fan for what had to have been at least an hour, before he let himself check the clock again.

3:57 am

Tim gave up trying to sleep. He pulled out his tablet and started working on the case Bruce had made him leave earlier that night.

His alarm woke him up at 6:30 am. When he didn’t get up, Alfred came in to wake him at 6:45, finding him curled up in a nest of blankets in the middle of his floor.

“Master Timothy, is there any particular reason you decided to abandon your bed in favor of raiding the linen closet in the middle of the night?”

Tim poked his head out from the mass, his hair sticking out at impossible angles. “The bed failed me Al.” He said, deciding apparently, that that was sufficient explanation as he pulled the covers back over his head.

Alfred sighed and smiled fondly, “I see, well, be that as it may, it is still time for you to get up for school.”

He received only a groan in response.

“Master Tim, I really must insist that you get up, or there won’t be time for you to get ready before the bus arrives.”

Tim’s head reemerged from the nest, “What are my chances of convincing B. to let me take the day off?”

Another smile, tinged slightly with pity this time, “Slim to none I’d say”

The young insomniac sighed and slowly pulled himself out of the pile he’d used for a bed, “Alright… I’m up.” He rubbed at his eyes miserably as he shuffled over to his dresser and pulled out the slacks and dress shirt that made up his Gotham Academy uniform. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

Alfred nodded and stepped back into the hallway, “Very good.” He turned back, poking his head in the door once more before leaving Tim to get ready, “And might I suggest that returning the blankets to their proper location be your priority once you’ve returned from school?”

Tim cracked a tired smile at the elderly man, “I dunno, I was thinking of making this my bed full time, what do you think?” Alfred cocked an eyebrow in warning, and Tim put and hand up, “Just kidding Al, I’ll clean it up.”

Another nod, “Very good Master Tim. Breakfast will be ready for you downstairs once you’ve dressed.”

Tim looked down at the mess covering his floor and shook his head sadly. It was a valiant effort, he thought, but alas, a failure.

The time on the clock blinked mockingly at him: 6:47 am. He’d gotten about an hour and a half of sleep in the end.

Tim Drake was struggling.

dear crush,

im kinda super in like with you. you annoy the hell out of me and youre so incredibly irritating, but my heart speeds up when youre around. i cant help but smile when i see you.

youre kind of a jerk, you know? like, you have this little half smirk thing that you know i hate, yet you do it anyway. you can be mean - very mean. there are times when i feel like i should just stop trying, like i should just block you and leave you alone.

but then i remember that when you almost got into a fight in our cooking class, you were so angry, but you let me talk to you. we sat in the conference room in the office, just talking about how you felt and why you were angry.

you know, ive never been too confident in myself. i always make myself out to be the bad guy or the black sheep but youre somehow there to catch me when i fall. not that you know it or even really try. all you have to do is smile or laugh. its really kinda crazy.

people keep telling me i shouldnt try with you, because all youre looking for is some meaningless fling, that youre hung up and pining over your ex who we all know wants nothing to do with you. and i get the ex thing, i do, but i think im just sick of people telling me i shouldnt try.

i recently learned that youre not as shallow as i thought you were. ive got connections, man. your best friend told me about how when you like someone, you just do. it had nothing to do with looks, for you, its all about the personality. i think i respect you more than i did before i knew that.

i think ill continue to try to get to know you, slowly but surely.

yours truly,

「 gl 」

Bonus Fruits

For: my fellow Fruitshippers
Words: ~292
Basically this is a small add-on to Yuya & Yuzu’s reunion in the Arc V Finale

So I actually wrote this a waaaay while ago for another fic that I wrote for @jirehthedisciple but I never shared this and well with what happened in the ending… I reread this again and… well I just thought that it fits as a bonus + I want to share with my fellow fruitshippers here so pls enjoy

Keep reading

we used to say that wed grow old together.

we used to swear that we,

a pair of black sheep,

were meant to be.

but tonight, baby, youre

nothing but a stranger to me.

「 gl 」

dear heartbreaker,

your nickname says it all. you’ve broken my heart and perhaps it was my fault in the beginning.

the beginning is a good place to start.

you asked me out on my fourteenth birthday. i was at my mom’s boyfriend’s house at the time and you asked me in a code.

eozz upi nr qu hotzgtormf?

to decode, i was to take every letter on my keyboard and go one letter back. for example, ‘e’ comes after 'w’ on the keyboard. the 'o’ after 'i’ and 'z’ after 'l’.

i didn’t tell my mom about you for a few days, i don’t think, but we dated for a while and there was a miserable bitch who seemed to make it her goal to break us apart. maybe in the end she succeeded, but it was i who may have truly severed our relationship.

my mom told me we’d be moving, and i couldn’t handle long distance at the time so i just let you go. there was no clue, then, that fourteen year old me would turn into sixteen year old me, writing this letter to you, tables reversed as you crush my heart.

you dated all of my friends. all of them. and maybe i’m bitter about it, maybe i’m not, but i can honestly say that i’m not sure how to forgive you for it, let alone forget about it. 

i wrecked myself for hurting you and for being hurt by others for two whole years, and when i finally decided to give you another go, you let me believe that maybe, just maybe, there was something there, just to tear all of my inner happiness away, leaving me barren and broken.

before you, heartbreaker, i wrote about sunsets and mountains and the dew on the morning grass during the summer. now i write about frigid winters, empty bottles of whiskey, and most terrifyingly, death.

it’s sad to think that one person can have so much control when it comes to my life. they say that your body is a temple. if my body is a temple, does that make me the empress? if my body is a temple, that makes me the crowned head; that makes me the ruler, the queen of what happens within my head and heart -

but you, the war general, the tyrant, the dictator, have taken everything good from me, it seems. i can’t and won’t blame everything on you, though, because you aren’t the one who threatened to put me into foster care and you aren’t the one who helped in making a child you never wanted. you just simply added to the mix.

i don’t know where else to look to. you were the only person who noticed me for my inner beauty, i suppose, and now she’s taken the spotlight for herself. and i can’t cry, either, because i feel as if my body is so cold and shaken that there is no feeling - an emotional hypothermia.

i’m not sure if this is me giving up or growing up, but it’s one or the other, maybe especially both, or somewhere in between.

i won’t thank you for aiding me in this realization, that i am better than what many believe me to actually be. i won’t say i love you still, because i’m not sure that i do.

i think i just loved the idea of you, but the idea of you is now dead to me.

yours truly,

「 gl 」

I actually really hate being extremely introverted, and I’d give up just about anything to be a natural high-energy extrovert.

I’m not shy and I don’t have any kind of social anxiety, and I generally like people. I just grew up as an unattended single child and I’m used to spending a lot of time on my own, and I also need that ample time and space to pursue my intellectual and artistic hobbies (translation: I need several hours a day to piss away on videogames, films/anime, reading/writing and other shit). Paradoxically, I really like people but I also like to control the amount of communication and be on my own a lot. In the end this has made me hyper extroverted and intensely social online, and almost a hermit in real life. 

I feel like I can’t keep up with extroverts, even though I really, really want to. My pace is much more lax and I don’t enjoy spontaneity. 

I also don’t really dig spending time with a lot of my introverted brethren because way too many of them either chalk their introversion up to just being “intellectually elevated” above other people and are weirdly snooty about it, or have some kind of social anxiety that makes them unfun and draining to be around. Nothing is more of a downer than somebody whose entire being and body language screams “I JUST WANT TO BE AT HOME” whenever they go out.

Anyway TL;DR if there’s some way I can trick myself into being more extroverted and outgoing, let me know about it. Maybe I should investigate some kind of self-hypnosis?

Finn : a complexe, well-rounded, loveable black character

Hux : a white guy we saw 3 minutes in the movie, who said 3 lines, so 
insignificant I didn’t even remember he was there after seeing the movie 

  • luke skywalker is terrifying. 
  • no, shut up, come back.
  • you have to understand:
  •  to you or me he may not be; he may be all sunshine smiles and corngold hair and the biggest eyes this side of the galaxy, but imagine you’re Dagger (stormtroopers don’t get proper names), firing at a boy, only the bolts never hit. They sing to the side. You think that there’s something wrong with your blaster, maybe, but none of your friends can hit him either. Finest shots in the Empire, you are, but you can’t hit this boy. And he cuts you down. He wields a weapon whose name you’ve never learned and he cuts you down into smoking bloodless bodies and your friends die before you – only he leaves you. Knocks you out with a blow of the Force – and isn’t that a nightmare of its own, unseen hands blotting out your thoughts – leaves you there in the cooling blood of your squadmates.
  •  Imagine that you’re Cara Ilhyre and you’re a dancer for the Hutt and you hate it, of course you do, but it is a living, a living, and this boy comes in, fresh-faced and young and he says surrender or be destroyed only he and you both know that the Hutt do not and never have surrendered and when he says destroy there’s this grin on his lips, thin and sharp, and he’s kind, of course he is, but –
    • so you’re Cara Ilhyre and you’re a native of tattooine and like many of your specis you are force-touched and you were a girl, once, a very little girl, and your mother told you tales of krayt dragons who slumbered beneath the sands and gentled their young to their pearl-heavy breasts. krayt dragons are tender mothers, she had said, and it was meant to teach you something of the duality of nature, or to fear those with young to protect, or something; but all you can think is this boy, how he smiles as kind as your mother did, once, but you’re convinced that if you were to cut him down the middle you would find dragon-pearls in his ribs and fire instead of a heart
    • the boy cuts downs jabba’s goons like they are nothing, nothing, and afterwards, afterwards, you sense his sorrow. and somehow that makes it worse.
    • because you say, later, to your mother’s ghost (maybe) or to the desert, he knows that killing people is hard and that weighs on him and he does it anyway and –
    • and, you say, it isn’t as simple as: he makes the hard choices. he knew the hutt would fight. he wanted to burn them down, oh he did, and that sister of his –

so last night i was rereading house proud by astolat, aka the best harry potter fic there ever ever was, & then i started having Thoughts about hp wizards being the descendants of the fae cuz it just makes!! so much sense!!!

i am perpetually disappointed by so much of jkr’s world-building but this in particular bothers me so much cause like

she placed so much emphasis on blood lines & ~purity but the only ever used it as a shite allegory for racism

u know who gives a thousand shits about blood lines? the fae. u know who goes to great lengths to exist separately from humans? the fae. u know whose society is split into groups based on personality? the fae!!

the evolution of wizarding society makes so much more sense!! if u interpret them as being fae adapting to the changing world!!!

hi can I get a fuckin uhhhhhhh

badass, accomplished, intelligent leader Lance who is strong in his own right and doesn’t need to be coddled and doesn’t take shit from others AND PEOPLE ACTUALLY LISTEN TO HIM AND RESPECT HIM


Marksandrec’s Super Dooper Popcorn Party #267

(Antiseptic-hi!) (He’s a mirror-creature, haha.) (Dialogue from Hellboy.)