#pseudo father

[flwrkid14]

Tim Drake's Immortal Babysitter

Tim Drake has always had someone watching over him. The Bast just don't know it.

Because before Tim was Red Robin—before he was even walking—the Drakes made a deal. They were rich, busy, and too occupied with their globe-trotting lifestyle to actually raise their son. But they still wanted Tim protected. Watched over. Cared for.

Enter Danny.

Young-looking, strangely unaging, with sharp blue eyes and a warm smile, he seemed like a responsible college kid just looking for a babysitting gig. Only he wasn’t. Because behind the casual charm and the easy grin was Phantom, the immortal protector of Amity Park—now moonlighting as the personal bodyguard of one Tim Drake.

The Drakes paid him an obscene amount of money to keep their son safe. But Danny didn’t do it for the money. He did it because he promised.

And Danny always keeps his promises.

-—

Tim doesn’t remember a time without Danny.

Danny, who stayed with him when his parents were gone for months at a time. Danny, who dried his tears and soothed his nightmares. Danny, who bandaged scraped knees and taught him how to ride a bike. Danny, who picked him up from school and brought him home to a warm meal, even when his parents didn’t care enough to call.

And when Tim got older—when he grew sharper, smarter, and far too observant—he started noticing things. How Danny never seemed to age. The way Danny was always there, no matter what. How he could do things no normal person could do—like pull Tim out of the path of an oncoming car and somehow appear twenty feet away a second later, holding him safely in his arms.

Tim figured it out by the time he was ten.

"You’re Phantom, aren’t you?" he asked one night, voice steady, too sure for a child. Danny stared at him for a moment, then huffed out a tired laugh. "Yeah, Tim. I am." Tim blinked once. "Cool. Can you teach me how to fight?"

Danny had laughed so hard he nearly cried. And then, he did teach him.

-—

So by the time Tim became Robin, Danny already knew.

He didn’t try to stop him. He didn’t tell him it was too dangerous. He just smiled wryly, ruffled Tim’s hair, and made him promise to let Danny help.

That way, when Tim was too tired to make it home? Danny was there, carrying him back to his apartment. When Tim got injured? Danny was the one who patched him up before anyone else could even find him. When Tim couldn’t stand after a fight? Danny was the one pulling him into his arms, flying him away before the family even realized he was gone.

And no one knew.

The Bats didn’t notice the subtle extra layer of protection. The faint wisp of cold air that followed Tim after patrols. The second shadow lingering on the rooftops.

None of them saw the glimmer of white hair that flickered out of sight or the flash of toxic green eyes that glared from the dark whenever someone got too close to Tim.

And Tim? Tim was happy.

Even when Bruce found out about Tim’s parentless situation and, with all his good intentions, suggested adoption—offering to bring Tim into Wayne Manor, to make him part of the family—Tim just shook his head.

"Thanks, but no thanks," he said easily. Bruce blinked. "Tim, I can give you a home. You don’t have to—" "I already have a home," Tim interrupted softly. Because he did. Because Danny was his family.

-—

The family doesn’t know. They don’t know that when Tim comes back from a rough patrol, there’s already a cup of hot chocolate waiting for him at home. That when Tim is too tired to train, there’s someone helping him stretch and taking care of his body. That when Tim doesn’t answer his comm, it’s because Danny is already there.

And when Tim is Red Robin, moving with practiced ease through Gotham, Phantom is always nearby, invisible to everyone else but always watching over him.

Tim doesn’t need to be adopted. He doesn’t need a Bat symbol on his chest to feel safe. Because he has Danny, and Danny has him.

And that's all he'll ever need.

[ashoss]

this idea wont leave my brain please help me !! YIPPEE HADES BATKIDS !!!

without the bg and text under the cut :))

asdhj probably gonna post like,, two at a time because thats ,, a lot,,,, of drawing ,,,,,,, so heres tim and jason! i think i got the hang of it more with jason lol

ALSO ALSO!!!

thank you to those who helped me with the titles for the batkids!! they were all really good :D (all on insta lol)

timothy: the tenured - thomson_at

[ghost-bxrd]

Prompt:

It’s not that Jason forgot, per se.

But between smuggling a toddler out of the League of Assassins, trekking halfway across the world, and finding a suitable hiding place that’s also child friendly… well, it kind of slipped his mind that he’s supposed to be… dead.

Something that comes back to bite him in the ass when he takes Dami out for some ice cream and just so happens to run into non other than Brucie-fucking-Wayne

[morganbritton132]

Eddie ‘Wayne seems sweet on Joyce Byers and I’m gonna set them up’ Munson

vs

Steve ‘Hopper is kinda my dad now and Mrs Byers makes him happy so back off’ Harrington

vs

Jonathan ‘stop being weird about my mom, guys’ Byers.

[braind3adboy]

Father son bonding ♡ (as requested)

.

.

𖥔

[turtleblogatlast]

Man I’ve said it before but for as annoying as Leo can be to Hueso, it’s still abundantly clear that Leo has inadvertently done a lot for the man? Yeah, he’s gotten him into a fair share of hijinks, but at the end of each of those was a long standing problem in Hueso’s life solved just like that.

In particular, Hueso’s exile from the Hidden City and his feud with his brother are both solved through Leo’s intervention, and it’s also sweet that both of these issues’ respective episodes end with Hueso happy.

[belle-of-a-time]

I cannot understate how much I Hate Angel is words say “I’m over 200 and you’re 16 Buffy we can’t be together” but his body language says “oh Buffy I desire you so carnally it makes me bloodthirsty” she’s SIXTEEN shut her the fuck down, swiftly and without room for argument.

The fact that in this episode (s2e5) we’re definitely supposed to see the frat boys (seniors in college) as bad guys for preying on high school girls but Not Angel? When he’s leading her on like that? It’s Genuinely so easy (from experience) to say “no. I’m too old for you.” And not flirt with children.

[vialdovi-artstuff]

Some havik+shujinko

[imagine-darksiders]

A drabble from that Pseudo x Reader found family fic I never wrote.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Everything about you is out of proportion,” Pseudo grunts, gesturing to your hands.

You’re so bewildered by his assessment that you actually whip them up in front of you to give them a thorough examination, as though you might inexplicably find something amiss.

But no. They’re just as they always have been. Two thumbs, eight fingers, not any one longer or shorter than they usually are.

But then, you glance up at Pseudo, and it occurs to you for the first time, that in this strange and wild world you’ve washed up in, you might be the odd one out.

Your eyes wander to his scrawny waist and leathery, honey-yellow skin that’s stretched taut over his midriff, defining abdominal muscles and sinking slightly between the bars of his ribcage. But his chest is distended awkwardly, swollen and bare and by all means overbalanced compared to his middle.

Flicking your gaze up, you take in his neck, stained nearly brown with dirt and battle paint, lending it the look of a body part that’s been stitched on top of his sternum as an afterthought.

It's thick too, almost the width of his substantial shoulders, and it tapers gently until it feeds into a head with no chin, nor any visible nose - just two jaundiced eyes and a wide, lipless mouth that’s tilted into a permanent frown. There’s no hair on top of his head. In fact, the only hair on his body sprouts as coarse, single strands from his temple and grows sporadically down the length of his arms, black as night, like the hairs that used to grow on your grandmother's chin when she forgot what tweezers were.

Even his arms look far too long, and you find yourself regarding them from under your furrowed brow as he stirs the pot that’s bubbling away over the firepit. One hangs a good few inches lower than the other against his muscled thigh, each fore and upper arm extended well beyond the length of a typical human’s. You recall seeing gibbons at the zoo when you were eight, how odd and funny their arms looked…

On Pseudo however, they’re borderline scary. All muscle, no fat. Almost human, not close enough to be mistaken for one.

To Pseudo, a man for whom proportions have always been off-kilter, your unvarying symmetry must be a sight to behold.

Still stirring a wooden spoon around his pot, he suddenly shifts on his four-toed feet and pointedly clears his throat, and you realise you’ve been staring for just a fraction too long.

“Sorry,” you utter, averting your eyes to the firepit and drawing your knees up closer to your chest. You feel his alien gaze linger on your downturned face for a few moments before he grunts dismissively and returns his attention to the pot of boiling broth.

“Well, I think you’re very pretty!” a youthful voice pipes up.

Slowly, you turn your head and quirk a brow down at the little ball of soot-black feathers that has claimed the spot directly beside you.

From within the mass of ebony tufts, two enormous, round eyes blink innocently up at you, golden as treated amber, and the only features visible on the child’s feathered face. There’s a mouth in there somewhere, hidden behind a plumage so black, not even the firelight seems to change its pitch. You know because the Boy – his only moniker, apparently – is much more of a talker than his gruff protector.

No sooner have you met his curious gaze however than he abruptly seems to turn shy, dropping his stare and tucking his small, contorted hands underneath his body to hide them alongside his avian legs, like an owl settling down in its nest.

“Oh?” you prompt gently, watching as a single, slender finger emerges from his feathers to trace mindless shapes in the sandy dirt.

A slight shift in the mass of darkness suggests he’s shrugged his wing, avoiding your eye as he stammers out, “Well, I mean, you’re really nice. And your eyes aren’t scary at all, a-and you’re really soft to sleep on!”

Ah. Yes, you remember that. Well, specifically you remember blinking awake on the cot Pseudo gave up for you - after much arguing back and forth - and finding a small, obsidian shape curled up on your stomach. It had taken an insurmountable effort to refrain from screaming and tossing yourself from the cot before you remembered where you were, and that there was not, in fact, some kind of wild, scraggly beast sneaking into your bed.

You also recall swallowing back the yelp and turning your head to gather your bearings, only to spot Pseudo sitting by the firepit nearby, his sharp, yellow eyes wide and alert, fixed unwaveringly on you.

Apparently, the Boy had one of the best sleeps of his life.

And you, one of the worst.

You can hardly believe it's only been a few short days since you washed up on that beach.

Sighing dismally at the memory, you tune back in to the present and find that the Boy has grown slightly more confident in his affirmations.

He's raised his head to you again, and lowered his voice to a secretive whisper, golden eyes squinted shut with gleeful mischief.

“Not like Pseudo,” he tells you, “He’s like sleeping on a rock.”

That tracks. You've seen first-hand Pseudo's proclivity for martial arts. Nobody gets that good without some fierce and rigorous training that's left his body one, solid muscle.

You’re not sure that being nice and soft constitutes pretty, but you’ll take the compliments as they were intended.

“Thanks, Kid,” you smile, prying an arm away from your knees and laying your palm gently on top of his head, smoothing back his tufted ears and earning yourself a contented warble from an unseen throat, “You’re very cute yourself.”

At that, you see his eyelids flatten and he harrumphs, grumbling, “M’not cute.”

A sudden roll of soft laughter draws your gaze back up to Pseudo, who’s standing with a hand on his jutted hip, regarding the pair of you with the beginnings of a fond smile stretching the corners of his unusual mouth. “Hate to disagree with you, kid, but you are,” he teases.

The Boy whines, and the tip of his long, black tail starts to tap against the ground in mild agitation.

For the first time, you and Pseudo give each other looks of mutual accord, and you suddenly find his towering height and alien presence just a little less frightening, eased by the unexpected warmth in his otherwise stony expression.

“I’m sure you’ll be very handsome when you’re older,” you say to the grumbling sphere at your side, trying not to smirk when the child turns his hopeful gaze onto you, “But for now, you’ll just have to accept it...”

Giving his feathered head one last tousle, you return your hand to your lap and drop an eyelid in a lazy wink. “You, kid, are very cute.”

Puffing up indignantly, he lets out a strangled sound and casts his mind about for a retort.

“Oh yeah?! W-well… Well, Pseudo thinks you’re cute too!” he accuses triumphantly, pointing a wing out at his guardian, who almost drops the spoon into his bubbling pot before he manages to snag the handle with two fingers again, whipping his head up to stare at the Boy in muted horror.

Your eyebrows shoot up towards your hairline, taken wildly aback as you meet Pseudo’s gaze, only for the pair of you to instantly snatch your eyes away from each other, and the latter to roughly clear his throat and argue, “I – When did I -? I never said-“

“-Yu-huh!” the Boy interrupts, suddenly excitable as he turns to you and blurts, “Remember when you fell in that pond? And Pseudo went in to rescue you, and then after, when you were drying off, I heard him say-“

The sudden clatter of a spoon hitting the ground promptly cuts off the end of his sentence. “-OH-kay, I think it's well past your bedtime,” Pseudo announces sharply, stalking towards his charge and reaching down to scoop him off the ground whilst staunchly avoiding your bewildered gaze.

“But I haven’t even had any supper yet!” the Boy protests, dangling helplessly by the scruff from Pseudo’s fist.

Dumping him soundly - but notably gently - on the straw-covered cot beside the tent, Pseudo grumbles, “One more word out of you, and you’ll be tonight’s supper.”

"Pseudo!" you scold through a smile.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Well, he's out for the count," you murmur, stretching your arms up over your head and waiting for the bliss of a good ache to flow down your shoulders.

"Good," Pseudo grunts just as quietly, watching your face scrunch up, enraptured, "He needs it."

You've found yourself sitting once again on a patch of grass just next to camp, perched near the edge of a cliff that looks out towards the cold Zonectic Mountains. The sky above you, unhindered by light pollution - or any pollution for that matter - is clear and bright as a mirror's surface, freckled from horizon to horizon by a myriad of stars.

You're staring up at them, trying to see if you can pinpoint any of the same constellations that you might recognise in your own sky back at home. Not that you were much good at it even before you wound up in Zenozoik.

"You're doing it again," his rich, dulcet voice mumbles, the rustle of grass clueing you in to his proximity.

He does this. Ventures close sometimes, not for the purpose of protecting you, as he does when you travel during the day. But when it's quiet and still after dark, and the Boy is asleep, the insects buzzing and cricketing away in their trees.

Pseudo continuously seeks you out, even though you had him pegged as a loner who neither liked nor trusted you when you first met. You chalk it up to simple curiosity. You suppose you'd be just as curious if an alien landed on your world too.

Inhaling deeply through your nose, you tear your eyes off the empyrean stars and turn to give Pseudo a questioning, heavy-lidded glance. "Doing what?"

"Thinking," he grunts, settling down in the grass next to you, leaving just a foot of space between you.

Again: Odd.

"Oh? Want me to show you how?" you quip.

It's become a mark of success for you to make the grizzled hermit smile, and as he lets out a low, breathy chuckle and leans sideways to knock his sizeable elbow against you, you allow your own grin to widen.

"Smart-ass," he huffs, turning sombre a moment later and heaving a sigh that nearly doubles his chest in size. "Thinking of how you're gonna get back to your world again, huh?"

"I'm never not thinking about it," you admit, "I just hide it better when You-Know-Who is awake..." Twisting your neck over a shoulder, you give the tent a tired look. "He doesn't like hearing that I have to leave."

Pseudo doesn't say a word in response, doesn't even meet your eye. He just stares straight ahead, his expression tight and locked on the distant peaks.

It's only when you raise your face to peer up at the stars again that he finds his voice.

"Would it be so bad?" he asks quietly, listening to a breeze pass through the camp and rustle the flaps of his tent, "If you stayed, I mean."

You miss the sideways glance he throws at you, and the hopeful gleam in his yellow eyes.

"Ha, yeah, Pseudo," you snort, "It would be pretty bad. I don't know how this world works. I'd have been killed ten times over if you hadn't found me. And I wouldn't even know how to begin building a life for myself here."

The two of you sit through another stretch of silence for several moments before Pseudo hesitantly offers, "I could teach you how..."

Once again, you fail to register the sliver of hope in his tone. It doesn't occur to you that this might be more than a polite suggestion meant only to ease your concerns. The idea that Pseudo might be extending a lonely hand towards you in the hopes that you'll take it doesn't even cross your mind.

Because how could a recluse be lonely?

"That's not the point." Exhaling softly, you reach down and gather your knees towards yourself, resting your chin on top of them and blinking up at the night sky. "I'm gonna get out of here, one way or another...." you murmur, mostly to yourself, "Just need to figure out how."

Again, Pseudo doesn't respond. And this time, he doesn't break the silence.

For a long couple of minutes, you and he simply bask under the light of the rising moon, your head upturned to gaze into it's too-large face, Pseudo's head tilted subtly to watch the side of your face.

Eventually, you hear him push himself off the ground, followed by the soft fall of his bare feet padding back towards the camp.

"You should get some sleep," he grunts over his shoulder without turning to look at you, "Tent's all yours."

Lifting your chin off your knees, you aim a soft frown at the back of his head, but you know by now that arguing with him is like throwing paper at a brick wall.

So, instead, you let out a weary sigh through your nose and softly call, "Thanks, Pseudo... You get some rest too, okay?"

The towering figure raises one, sinewy arm and waves it dismissively through the air. "Sure, sure..."

You'll hold him to that. "Goodnight, Soods," you tell him, "Sweet dreams."

His feet fall still on the dirt, shoulders locking up in surprise, but you've already returned your attention to the moon hanging in the sky.

[penofwildfire]

This image makes me incredibly happy

[godmonium]

My first post and its these 3 assholes. I recently became infatuated with this trio and have decided they are going to be called the Interdimensional Hypehouse. Doofus Jerry (aka D.J) and Rick Prime (Aka just Prime) decide they want to run a hypehouse of sorts in Evil Mortys (aka Ems) space mansion after they had been living there for a while (Why Em let them i havent decided. Maybe he was bored.) and he goes whatever but I'm not helping at all.

The second photo is a promo for said hypehouse. The third and the fourth are the same I just don't like the final drawing so I added the sketch. I have an inconsistent style so... yay

Erm yeah that's it I have other art ill post and more to come!!! Yaay

[actualbird]

/ tot main story 13 spoilers

im really emotional about a Lot of things in this chapter, but i was MOST EMOTIONAL at how we saw just the sheer extent that aaron cares about luke. aaron cares SO DAMN MUCH ABOUT HIM

aaron's profound fear that he wont be able to make a difference for luke's health is heartbreaking. hes working overtime trying to keep luke alive and healthy, so much so that hes even willing to keep oedipus' illegal experimental drug a secret from the NSB, because it helps luke.

hes willing to break the rules just as much as luke is, because he cares. because he doesnt want to lose luke, because he doesnt want luke to be alone in any of this

IM VERY EMOTIONAL ABOUT THEM

[negasonic9403]

I really need a fic where Tony gets hurt on a mission so Peter turns his comms off and activates instant kill mode

[bi-dykes]

I’M SO GLAD NIMONA IS SO POPULAR AND WELL LIKED I’M SO GLAD YOU ALL LOVED IT BECAUSE “disgruntled accidental bad guy who unintentionally caused havoc and is in love with a man who is under ridiculous pressure to ‘defeat’ him” AND “teen girl who wants to blow up the world and bite bite bite bite bite-” IS LITERALLY THE FRIENDSHIP BETWEEN TWO OF MY OC’S AND I CAME UP WITH THAT YEARS BEFORE WATCHING THIS MOVIE GODS I CAN’T WAIT TO FINISH WRITING MY BOOK

[roipecheur]

...having a normal one

[seizethedeansofproduction]

i am completely normal right now, why do you ask??

also yes the show is about many other things, but this particular thing caught my attention.