#Prompt: Blankets

[rockingrobin69]

Orange

He liked oranges best. Oranges, and blueberries, and star fruit. Perhaps it was the imagery—Harry’s senses were like that sometimes, and he liked things that spoke to him, that sang. Bluebells and raspberries, words that had movement, lolling, wayward, polly pocket. Perpendicular, serendipity. He’d stop in the middle of a sentence sometimes, take a breath. Open his mouth wide on a smile: Draco, listen! Slowly, slowly. Each syllable a present, with that raspy tinge to his voice, straight from his heart. Nothing to do at those moments but pause there with him. Pause and listen.

Orange was his favourites, fruit and also colour, so Draco made sure to suffuse the little flat with it. Orange cushions for the sofa and fish in the bowl, a Cannons poster on the wall and orange curtains for the window. It took time to get used to, the brightness, but it made Harry so happy. Also too bright at first. But Draco’s eyes adjusted, his heart adjusted. Got used to eating oranges, sticky fingers feeding him slice after slice; to run in the forest, aching with laughter, picking brambles (dark only) and collecting sticks and rocks and spotting squirrels. And Harry was happy—he was happy. Only that mattered.

Not a lot of things were important, it turned out. Much of what he expected to consume him as an adult was laughably distant, ended up trifle. It was easy, in orange, to realise. Easier at least. And Draco kept learning: how to wrap Harry in a blanket, tight enough that the nightmares faded away. How to kiss the top of his head so softly, or not to touch him, how to ask for the right move when he’s lost. And Harry was patient, endlessly bright. They learned together. This was important.

There was also breakfast, sugar-coated cereal, a bunch of blueberries in Harry’s bowl. Not forgetting to feed the fish. Taking plenty of walks outside; noting every flower and every tree, every fungus and bird, if not by name, then by feeling. Remembering to tell Harry the most interesting ones. Remembering this, learning how to hold it all in his heart. How to hold on to happiness: slippery-orange, so light and so fragile, but theirs. Not to give it up. That was important too. Not to give it up.

He was tempted to, sometimes: just pack his Harry and go, away from this world that demanded and demanded and never knew satisfaction. On the bad days, when they were both too miserable to try, when exhaustion made them close up and burrow into themselves, when they just didn’t want to. Not to give it up meant taking a step back, finding a breath somewhere in it all. Remembering it will pass. Loving anyway.

Loving anyway. That was important. Draco sighed, rested his forehead on the cupboard. In his hands a bowl of fruit: oranges, peeled and cut, sticky-sweet and fragrant. Divine. Harry always smelled like oranges. Lucky, that—Draco liked orange best.

(Day 26 of @flufftober​! A gigantic thank you to @ladderofyears and @myaulophobia for their help. Find all previous Robin flufftober ficlets here, or on AO3)      

[lazinesswrites]

Could I get a bit of Comfortember 2023 for wip wednesday? Author's choice

Yup! You're getting some for day 24: Blankets, featuring a tired and cold Crosshair, who loves his brothers very much even if he doesn't always say or show it. They love him too.

Eventually, he turns his head so he can look out at the room, at his brothers. They’re all winding down too: Hunter and Echo are talking quietly over some card game, Tech is in his own bunk reading something on a ‘pad, and Wrecker is half-asleep across the table. Crosshair closes his eyes again, and lets the warmth and care lull him to sleep.

Find the rules and titles for this week's WIP Wednesday ask game here.

[thegreenleavesofspring]

Nell's living room has disappeared.

[kitkatt0430]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Flash (TV 2014) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Barry Allen/Eddie Thawne/Iris West, Barry Allen/Eddie Thawne, Barry Allen/Iris West, Eddie Thawne/Iris West, Barry Allen & Nora West-Allen Characters: Barry Allen, Eddie Thawne, Iris West, Nora West-Allen Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Pillow & Blanket Forts Series: Part 26 of Flufftober 2022, Part 3 of Little Nora Westhallen Summary:

There's an awful lot of blankets in the dining room. And Barry's pretty sure they're giggling.

@flufftober here’s a cute little story for the Blankets prompt

[eddiestommy]

wait so apparently some people get mad if someone else writes fanfiction based on headcanons they shared on tumblr??? so now i got to ask

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 102

 Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath. In for ten seconds, out for eight. Alright. Okay. “Let me get this straight,” he didn’t motion to the three teens- or not teens even if two apparently looked like they were- but it was a close thing. “You-” 

 Phantom perked up, white hair flickering with what he was pretty sure were stars as they turned away from the window looking out into space. “-are two years old.” The fae-esque being who looked more like a fourteen year old gave a half-distracted nod. Which, for a toddler, they were paying attention pretty well. 

 “You-” Klarion looked up from where he was fiddling with the cuffs that had been on him, cat sprawled on his shoulder now that it was out of the carrier. “-are six?” Another distracted nod, the apparently-child seemingly enamored with the sounds the cuffs made when they clinked together. 

  “And you-” He turned towards Marvel, who shrank back before seemingly steeling themself. “-are in fact ten.” The… well they had thought demigod but apparently all three were some sort of realms-being, which had apparently made Constantine pale and start cursing before stomping out of the Watchtower. Another nod and shaky thumbs up. 

 Alright. Okay. They had in fact let a ten-year old join the league, which wouldn’t have been so bad if they had known. Especially the fact that apparently Marvel was only half-human, which suddenly explained so much about how he didn’t know so many things about a human life. Which-

 “You,” he turned towards Phantom again to make sure he was listening before returning his attention to Marvel. “And you have both lived at least a year in the human realm with human companions, but your-” He turned his gaze towards the ravenette in the center. The six year old apparently. “-experience with the human realm is literally just with the Light.” 

 Yet another distracted nod. Okay. Bruce was tempted to scream in a room for the entire situation that had cropped up from the single action of taking Klarion’s familiar and then the boy himself into custody. Then again, it was honestly a much better thing they had apparently caught this. 

 “Alright,” he sighed, suddenly feeling incredibly exhausted. “To make sure I have all of this correct-” Because it was already a shitshow and the amount of shouting had absolutely spooked the child. To the point he’d- according to Marvel- made what was apparently some sort of very distressed noise that had made both him and Phantom running. Or rather flying and portaling. 

 “-in the realms, people there make friends through fighting,” Bruce pauses to make sure he got that part correct. The origin of this entire misunderstanding with the chaos-lord. Lordling? 

 All three nodded, Klarion losing interest in the cuffs and starting to pet his cat. Familiar. Everyone had referred to it as a familiar and Marvel had appeared utterly horrified that they had taken said familiar away. Somehow he was the one the trio were currently trusting and weren’t doing the same towards any of the other league members. 

 “And you have been trying to make friends with the Jr team, which they have been taking as an attack due to this miscommunication.” Honestly they should have gotten more information, though he couldn’t exactly blame any of the teens, what with everything they were currently dealing with. 

 “... is there any sort of guardian or something you might have, that can be contacted? Or anyone that could help prevent a situation like this from happening again?” All three avoided his eyes, suddenly finding things like the table and walls very interesting. 

 Oh. Hm. This could be a problem.

[artemismoorea03]

DP x DC Prompt: Chilly

Danny doesn't feel the cold at least not natural cold. Sure, sometimes when his Core acted up he would feel cold but the weather in the Mortal World couldn't reach that level of cold with the closest thing being space, and even then it wasn't that close to the chill of an Ice Core. This made it easier for Danny to travel light after things went South in Amity Park because he didn't have to worry about packing heavy coats or thick blankets. Just a jacket, a spare change of clothes, a phone and charger. This worked best for him.

Unfortunately he didn't consider how this may look to people, especially when weather reached record lows in Gotham City, snow reached record highs, and people were looking concerned. But nobody looked more concerned than a guy with a red motorcycle helmet and more corrupted ectoplasm in his system than was probably helpful.

[qwertysblues]

two mimir

Day 3: Literal Sleeping Together

[warmblanketwhump]

another beach vacation

inspired by those bizarre moments when it’s sweltering out and somehow you’re freezing with a fever (most definitely not inspired by my low-grade fever last week lol)

It was just another hot day at the beach during their vacation at the oceanside cottage, but B can tell something’s off. They’re all swimming, B a bit further out from A and C, but B notices that A’s out of the water more than they’re in, and they barely get in past ankle-deep water. After a few minutes and some wild gesturing from C, they get in deeper, and B goes back to swimming alongside the current.

But when B checks again, A’s left the water entirely, sitting directly in the sun even though they burn easily. When B gets out to investigate, they see A’s covered in goosebumps and visibly shivering, arms wrapped around their knees.

“A, what are you doing? You’re gonna get burned.”

A shrugs. “I’m cold. Like, in my bones. I don’t know what’s wrong.” A gentle breeze wafts through the air, sending a shudder rippling through them, and they hug their knees tighter to their chest. “I thought the sun would help me warm up.”

B wraps a towel around them and curls behind A, hugging them close. Contrary to A’s belief, they feel like a banked coal against B’s body, yet B can feel the small shivers that ripple through them as they rub A’s blanketed arms. “You’re probably just a little chilled from the water.”

“Maybe.” A’s voice is small, shaky, quiet. Not at all like themselves.

Eventually, A pulls on the dry t-shirt B offers and lays down under the beach umbrella, curling up in a ball with arms wrapped around themselves, while B pulls out a battered old paperback. Every so often, B can hear A’s teeth chatter, and eventually they drape one of the dry towels over them, even though it’s sweltering out.

C darts up dripping wet, starting to say something to B, but stops short when they see A laying down. “What’s wrong with A?”

“Not feeling well.” B glances down from their book to see A, still curled under the towel. “They got chilled and needed to warm up for a bit.”

C stops short, glancing down at A, then to B, face guilty. “I….may be the cause of that.”

B gives A a confused look. “What?”

“They…didn’t really want to swim, said they didn’t feel up to it. I nagged them, told them they were boring and never wanted to have fun, and then they finally got in.“ C shrugs, swiping their foot in the sand. “They shook so bad the whole time they were in the water. I thought they were faking to be dramatic.” C looks sheepish. “It’s just….it’s so hot out, and the water wasn’t that cold…”

C’s not wrong—the air temperature must be over 90 degrees, and there’s barely a cloud in the sky. But A’s visibly shivering, face pale in the shade of the umbrella, hands clutching the towel tightly around their shoulders like they can’t get the extra layer close enough.

“A, you feeling any better?”

A just moans, pulling the towel up to their chin. B reaches out a hand, and the mystery is solved the second their palm touches A’s feverish forehead. They’re even warmer now in the shade than when B felt them earlier.

Poor thing. “A, we’re gonna go back up to the house now and get you dried off and in bed. You’ve got a fever.” A moans again, softer this time.

C’s face falls at B’s announcement. “I guess I’ll…stay here a bit longer then. Meet you at home.”

B nods, hoists A up in their arms in a bridal carry, towel and all, and begins the trek up the winding path back to the coastal beach house.

Arriving home, B carries A up to the bathroom and persuades A to allow a quick shower to wash off all the sand and salty seawater. A shivers the entire time, knees tucked to their chest and arms folded to their body, head bobbing as they fight to stay awake, hands feebly rubbing at the goosebumps that skitter across their arms.

Eventually the two minutes of misery are over and B wraps a thick bath towel around A’s waist, and another around their shoulders. The rest of the home is frigid from the air-conditioning, and A hunches over to try and preserve warmth as they half-shuffle, half lean on B to their room. B helps them dress in a dry t-shirt and shorts and eases them under the light summer covers, and A pulls the top quilt tightly around their body.

“I’m going to run to the corner store and see if they have some medicine. Stay in bed, okay?”

B takes the single moan from the lump of blankets as a yes.

A half hour later, B returns with a plastic grocery bag full of medicines, expecting to find A still curled up in bed. But instead, A’s on their hands and knees by their suitcase, frantically rummaging through their clothes.

“A, what are you doing out of bed?”

“I need s-s-something, anything warmer.” A’s teeth are audibly chattering, and they’re clutching their arms close to their body as they shake with chills. “I tried to sleep, I tried, but the c-covers are so thin, and I couldn’t stop shivering, and I couldn’t figure out how to turn the AC down…” A’s lower lip quivers as they stare mournfully at their suitcase. “I didn’t bring anything warm. Not even a pair of socks. I’m so cold…”

B’s heart squeezes at the admission. “C’mon. Let’s get you back under the covers and I’ll see if I can find some of my stuff you can wear.”

After getting A back in bed, B goes to their room and begins tearing clothes from their suitcase, but it’s useless—the weather forecast had been for sweltering temperatures all week, so they just some lightweight T-shirts, shorts, an outfit for when they went to town for dinner….

“What’s wrong?” C must’ve gotten back after B, and they’ve now changed into regular clothes, hair still damp, with a half-eaten popsicle in one hand.

“A’s got bad chills and can’t sleep. And of course, none of us brought warm clothes because it’s so hot here.” A tosses another pair of shorts to the side. “We used up all the towels, too, so we can’t even have that as an option until I do some laundry—“

“I’ve got some sweatpants they can borrow.” C shrugs. “And an old sweatshirt, I think.”

“You? In the summer?”

C shrugs. “What? I hate the thought of being cold.” Their eyes flick to the carpet. “And it’s sort of my fault anyways. I shouldn’t have made them swim when they weren’t feeling good.”

“Hey. You didn’t know.” B gives C’s shoulder a squeeze, even though C doesn’t look absolved.

Within a minute, C makes it back to A’s bedroom with the extra layers, plus some extra blankets they found from the linen closet. B helps A dress, then wraps an extra blanket around their shoulders before tucking them back under the covers.

“Better?” B asks, rubbing A’s back through the blankets.

“Uh huh,” A says with a sigh, burrowing deeper into the blankets. “I thought I was gonna freeze.”

C’s at the end of A’s bed, scuffing their toe into the carpet, when they finally speak. “A, I….I didn’t mean what I said back at the beach. Heck, I shouldn’t have said it, even if you were feeling well. You’re not boring, I promise. I was just being stupid, and I’m sorry.”

“C, you were forgiven the minute you gave me these clothes,” A says, voice muffled from beneath the blankets. “But if you’re not feeling forgiven enough, making me a cup of hot tea will absolve you fully.”

“On it.” C darts away to the kitchen, and after giving A three different types of medicine, B settles in with their book on the bed next to A.

“Sorry I’m ruining the vacation,” A mumbles, quieter. “I’d much rather be out in the sun and swimming than in here trying to stay warm.”

“Nonsense. You’re just giving us a little break from the sun.” B smiles, giving A’s shoulder a little squeeze before tucking their blankets just a little bit tighter.

[trans-cuchulainn]

there is no moral value in reading fast and there's also no moral value in reading slowly. people who read slowly aren't automatically/necessarily reading more thoroughly and thoughtfully than people who read quickly, and at the same time reading is not a race. some people read fast because that's how their brains work; some people read slowly because that's how THEIR brains work. some fast readers are getting deep into analysis and close reading and some slow readers are just along for the ride and not thinking too hard. these are both equally valid and valuable ways of engaging with books

and nobody should shame anybody else for reading slowly but also if i see one more post that suggests people who read quickly only read meaningless garbage (your elitism is showing btw) and lack reading comprehension, i will start blocking people. it's just bullshit, and it's weird judgy bullshit at that. some people have jobs in books where reading hundreds of books a year is part of it. some people are academics. some people are bedridden or isolated and trust me you get through a lot of books when you're stuck in your room alone for days. and some people love the books you consider garbage and they're just having fun passing the time with light fiction that isn't too brain intensive and there is absolutely nothing wrong with that either, because reading can be a form of relaxation and doesn't always have to be an ~intellectual challenge~ to be worth doing, actually

[wigglebox]

Suptober - Day 14 || Fever 🤒 [x]

[pixelatedraindrops]

One thing to keep in mind about me...

If I ever have a favorite character:

They WILL end up like this

in my head

CONSTANTLY

[serickswrites]

Let's Get You Cleaned Up

Warnings: captivity, torture, bruises, restraints, rescue, hurt/aftermath, hurt/comfort, hurt/recovery

Whumpee trembled in the corner of their cage. Their face hurt and they knew the bruises of various ages that covered their body probably also covered their face. Whumper had been relentless in their beating. But didn't break any of Whumpee's bones. Didn't bleed them. Just battered and bruised Whumpee for hours on end.

Each time Whumper was done with them, Whumper shoved them back in the cage, locking their shackles to the back corner. Each time was a welcome relief from the pain. Each time Whumpee could huddle in the corner and cry by themself. Each time they were safe from Whumper.

But this time was different.

Whumpee could hear screaming and shouting from deep within the compound. Could hear the sound of fighting. Each noise grew louder and louder. Each noise had Whumpee shaking harder and harder. What if someone was coming to hurt them?

The door banged open and Whumpee flattened themself into the corner of the cage. They couldn't help the fine tremor that wracked their body.

"Whumpee?" A voice that Whumpee had hoped they would hear again called. "Whumpee, are you there?"

"Caretaker," Whumpee sobbed. They were saved. Caretaker was there. Caretaker had found them.

"Whumpee!" Caretaker said as they hurried forward. "Let's get you out of there and cleaned up."

"Caretaker," Whumpee sobbed harder. This was real. This was happening. They were saved.

Caretaker quickly broke the lock on the cage doors. They quickly unchained Whumpee. "Whumpee, Whumpee. I've got you. You're ok," Caretaker said as they took Whumpee in their arms.

"You're freezing! Let's get you a blanket." Caretaker started to rise, but Whumpee clung on harder.

"Please," Whumpee sobbed into Caretaker's chest, "don't leave. I...I can't, please."

Caretaker wrapped their arms around Whumpee tighter. "I'm not going to leave you, Whumpee. Not ever. I have you. You're safe now."

[raina-at]

Blanket

It’s not too much of an exaggeration to state that one of the most significant saving graces of John’s life is his ability to sleep anywhere. An unstable childhood, 24-hour shifts at the hospital and military service have turned John into an all-weather-all-conditions sleeper. He can sleep sitting up. He can sleep at any time of day or night. He can sleep on the floor, on sofas, on planes, on trains, in cars. He can even power-nap on the tube and never miss his stop. 

It’s a life skill that comes in very handy when your life partner is Sherlock Holmes. 

It’s not that Sherlock never sleeps. It’s more that he doesn’t seem to have a circadian rhythm to speak of. He does things in the order they occur to him, and whether it’s ten in the morning or ten at night doesn’t seem to matter to him too much. 

This means John has fallen asleep on stake-outs, at NSY (by now he’s pretty sure there’s not a piece of furniture at the Yard he hasn’t drooled on at some point), in jail cells, in dark alleys, on rooftops, on park benches, against trees, in pubs, in museums, and one memorable occasion a walk-in closet in Westminster Hall. 

These skills come in especially handy once he’s a father. He’s fallen asleep with Rosie somewhere on his person so often, it’s frankly ridiculous. He even admits that the times he’s fallen asleep standing up with Rosie strapped to his chest in her baby carrier are, unfortunately, non-zero. 

It doesn’t help that John has never been the best sleeper when he’s actually lying in a comfortable bed, alone, in the dark, in silence. He’s been plagued by nightmares all his life, and the irregular hours he’s kept since he became an adult have fucked up his circadian rhythm almost to Sherlock’s level. It also doesn’t help that the two people John would literally die for, who share his bed most often, are both terrible co-sleepers. Sherlock comes to bed whenever, wraps himself around John, hogs the blankets, snores, changes position, talks in his sleep, then gets up two hours later when he gets bored of sleeping. Rosie turns into all limbs when you share a bed with her, kicking and throwing elbows like a trained street fighter, and for all that she’s so small, she’s a world-class blanket thief. She gradually steals all the blankets, then drops half of them on the floor on the far side of the bed. John inevitably wakes up every time she kicks him, and he always wakes up freezing. John goes back to sleep fine, but it isn’t exactly restful. 

The thing is, John isn’t as young as he used to be. And while he can still sleep anywhere and through anything, he feels it on the day after. 

Case in point, he and Sherlock actually went to bed at a reasonable hour last night—age is mellowing out Sherlock’s circadian rhythm somewhat, or just makes it harder for Sherlock to ignore it— but Sherlock got up around two and came back with an armful of fussy five-year-old. He put her down between them, got in bed on his side and both of them went right back to sleep, Rosie drooling on John’s shirt, Sherlock snoring loudly. Every time John drifted off, Rosie kicked him, or elbowed him, or Sherlock muttered something in his sleep.

John finally gave up and went to sleep on the sofa. He slept fine, but the sofa is old and lumpy. Which is why he’s in the kitchen at 5:30 am, with a kink in his neck, a child-foot-sized bruise forming on his thigh, a monster headache and the largest coffee mug they own filled to the brim.

He sips the coffee and scrolls through his phone as the paracetamol does its work.

Then he goes into the bedroom to get his clothes.

Sherlock is sprawled on his stomach, shirt askew, hair a wild mess. Rosie’s lying practically on top of him, drooling all over his back. The blankets are on the floor, most of the pillows are strewn around the bed. Sherlock is snoring loudly. Rosie moves a bit and kicks the last pillow to the floor.

John bites down on a laugh and snaps a picture of the two of them. Then he picks up the blankets and tucks them around the sleeping pair, knowing it’s an exercise in futility, and drops kisses on one tousled dark head, and one blonde one.

Then he grabs a pillow from the floor and an extra blanket from the closet, curls around Sherlock’s other side, and goes right back to sleep.

----

Tags under the cut as always, please let me know if you want to be tagged or untagged.

@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @jrow @peanitbear @jolieblack @meetinginsamarra @helloliriels @keirgreeneyes @lisbeth-kk @friday411 @givemesherbet-blog-blog @weeesi @thalialunacy @thegildedbee @dapetty @salmonsown

[dindjarindiaries]

Dincember - December 5: Cold

character: Din Djarin (The Mandalorian)

prompt: Cold

main masterlist • dincember masterlist

⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆ ⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆ ⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆ ⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙‧͙

The cockpit was haphazardly pressurized, the Razor Crest was puttering along its path, and both the child and your frog-like passenger were asleep. That left only you and Din awake, though you could tell he was trying to feign sleep - as if he hoped you wouldn't notice what was truly going on.

"Din."

You whispered his name, both in an effort to keep it private and to keep the others from waking. Din's helmet leaned towards you, though he kept his visor fixed on the viewport. You reached forward and brushed your fingertips along his pauldron, the metal biting your fingers with the most bitter kind of cold.

"You're still frozen over." Din tightened the arms he had crossed over his chest, as if it would keep them from trembling more. It didn't. "You must be even colder under there."

"I'm fine." Din raised a gloved hand to find yours on his shoulder, patting it as reassuringly as he could. "Don't worry about me. You need to rest."

"As do you." You raised your brow at him. "And there's no way you can when you're still shivering."

Din shrugged. "I'll manage."

You frowned at him. "We don't have any spare blankets in here."

"The ice will melt eventually."

You fought the urge to sigh at him. "Once we're already in orbit of Trask, maybe."

Din sat up more, spinning in his chair to face you. "Cyar'ika, I'm f-f...," a rather violent shiver kept him from finishing the word at first, "fine." He sounded defeated as he finished the phrase, obviously having been given away.

You wrinkled your brow and take his hand between your own. "Can I help?"

Din gives his helmet a tilt. "How?"

You smiled and stood from your seat, taking the child from your lap and letting him have it to himself. Stepping towards Din, you nodded, silently asking for permission to sit. Din widened his arms for you, allowing you to take your place upon him with your front side against his own. You set your hands upon your cuirass for a moment, letting Din's visor face you with concern that was evident through the beskar.

"Doesn't this make you cold?" Din's question was coated in worry.

You shook your head. "Not for long." Your arms wrapped around his middle as you rested the side of your head against his cowl, closing your eyes and breathing in the comfort of him. "It'll melt."

Din's arms do the same to you as you had just done to him. "Was this really in the interest of warming me up?" His gloved fingertips brushed gently over you for further comfort. "Or did you just want to sit like this?"

You smiled against him. "A little bit of both." You tightened your grasp around him. "But mostly to keep you warm." You lifted a hand for only a moment to run your finger along the frost on his armor, leaving a heart behind in its wake. "Promise."

Din huffed in both amusement and affection. "Thank you." His helmet gently rested upon your head. "You're very warm."

Your smile grew at that. "Good."

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 297

“I feel like we should be concerned about Tim.” 

“Honestly we should always be concerned about him, but what made you realize it this time?” 

“Have you seen his search history- wait no you haven’t you haven’t been in the cave all day, look at this-”

“...'Is it legal to adopt the ghost of a kid? Can someone call CPS on a family’s ghost? How to take care of ghosts 101? How do you get a ghost of a child to not be scared? What to do if you find ghost children in your home? What the fuck…?” 

“Exactly, I think he needs an intervention.” 

Or in other words, after getting thrown into another dimension thanks to the GIW destroying most of Amity, a trio of ghost children decide to crash in this seemingly abandoned apartment building. No one seems to live here anyway… Tim Drake on the other hand, gets a notification that there’s someone in his main safehouse that he might’ve slightly forgotten about thanks to having his house-boat now, and sees a trio of starved looking ghost kids