Immortal Nanny
Bruce Wayne had never been a father. He knew what it was like to be a good father, and he knew what good fathers should be like, but adopting Richard was an impulse, a moment when he decided to give a child the comfort he needed, as he himself had needed in the past.
But just because he knew and understood didn't mean he could do it, or that he could become a good father instantly. Alfred would be a great help, of course, but it was he who had to raise the boy, Alfie was too old to start raising another child.
So, it was only natural that he forgot all about his busy life as "Brucie Wayne", adopting Dick hadn't stopped the million interviews or meetings, and while Alfred was extremely capable, Bruce still decided to hire a nanny.
Daniel Nightingale was a bit of an outsider (in a good way), he was studying at Gotham U, and was doing very well in his chosen career; though his records were strangely empty, Bruce knew he could trust him. His tired look and the shy smile he gave him upon arriving at the mansion was enough to calm his concerns.
Perhaps it was because he was just starting out as Batman at the time that he didn't investigate further.
Anyway, Dick loved Danny, from that first day, he used to tell Bruce about his "adventures" and how much fun he had. On one occasion he even told him they had a snowball fight (which confused him, because it was July but he was too tired to question the excited kid).
So, Danny became Dick's, and later Jason's, official nanny. He never complained and always smiled. The boy got along quite well with Alfred and would attend to any emergency, although he was never involved in the vigilante business.
It was only after Jason's death, when Tim arrived, that someone began to question Danny. Tim wasn't sure about Danny, there were a lot of things...that just didn't fit, and if the old photos of the mansion were any indication, the nanny wasn't getting any older.
Dick wasn't ten anymore and that was pretty obvious, but Danny looked exactly the same. Tim frowned, puzzled as to how no one had investigated such an oddity before. Alfred simply looked at him with an amused smile. He wondered how long it would take for the family to notice the (rather obvious) secrets of the elusive nanny.
Alfred couldn't blame the boy, the easiest way to hide something was in plain sight. And he knew the halfa would never hurt his family.
3K notes
·
View notes
Sub Bucky and a breeding kink 💀 dead unlived it's one of my favourite things 😌
This is pretty high up there on my list of dream fantasies 🥵 these are two of my biggest weaknesses, don't even look at me rn
One of life's greatest joys is cuddling with the other person's head resting on your chest so you can play with their hair and rub their shoulders. I love that shit, having someone else's body weight on you is so comforting.
I imagine that's something Bucky would really enjoy too. It's so soft and sweet and tender and getting to feel cared for would really appeal to him.
But that's up until his hands work their way under your top, up over your bare skin so he's able to cup your breasts and bury his face between them while he's getting his hair played with. Life's pleasures don't get much simpler than that.
After a few moments he shifts slightly, tugging the neckline of your shirt out of the way to give himself space to kiss and nip your skin. All of a sudden he's desperate and it's beautiful to watch.
"Please." He whispers between frantic kisses, flicking his tongue over the stiff peak of your nipple before engulfing it with his warm, eager mouth.
"Please, what?" You tease, tugging on his hair just a little for emphasis.
He groans, frustrated by his own lack of coherence, pulling his mouth from your nipple. "Please let me put a baby in you."
That's not what you were expecting but fuck, he makes it sound pretty appealing.
"Bucky-" You begin but he cuts you off, giving your other nipple the same attention as he gave the first. God, that's distracting.
"You'd make. Such. A pretty. Mommy." He whispers, kissing his way down your body until he reaches the bottom seam of your top. From there, he pulls it off, letting it fall to the floor before removing the rest of your clothes.
"You'd look so pretty with a little baby bump." His huge hand rests on your bare tummy, imaging how your body would change.
"I want it, Buck." You mean it too. It doesn't sound like such a bad idea when he's taking his clothes off.
"I know you want it." He groans, rubbing the tip of his dick against your soaked core. "Y-you're so wet."
He presses his hips forward, sliding inside you and you can't explain it but you swear it feels different this time.
"Don't even think about pulling out." You cup his face in your hands, keeping his eyes on you and you almost worry he's going to fuck himself senseless into you. "I want you to make me a mommy. You're going to give me every single drop of cum and when it starts to drip out of me, you're going to fuck it back in."
His head falls onto your shoulder, sobbing a pathetic moan against your already hot skin. The pace of his thrusts matches his need, his hips slamming into yours and when he finally gives in, he cums inside you with your legs clamped around his waist, making sure he couldn't pull out even if he wanted to.
1K notes
·
View notes
useless
Part one of my submission to @glitterypirateduck's O, Captain! Challenge. I rolled a d100 to select three prompts. Part one uses two:
42. The story spans over a period of 10 or more years
14. Opposites attract
~2k words, Price x f!Reader. Some liberties were taken with canon, obvs. Please enjoy!
You meet John Price when you're fifteen years old.
Being the new kid is never easy, but you have some practice. This is the fifth time your family has moved since you were born. Such is life when your mother's an ambassador. However, it is your first time attending an actual school, and it's miserable. It doesn't matter who your mother is when your peers are the children of millionaires, celebrities, and executives. Compared to them, you're a nobody, just easy pickings.
But compared to John, you might as well be a princess.
The son of your mother's assistant, you see John almost every day. You do not attend the same school, of course. Despite the awfulness of its students, your school has standards, after all, but every day after the last bell, you and your security detail fetch John to rendezvous at your family's sprawling home. Since both sets of your parents work long and odd hours, you spend a great deal of time together. Usually, you study, eat dinner, maybe read or watch television, but you do not necessarily talk. He's as surly as an old man, unpleasant on good days and unbearable on bad ones.
You don't look at John when he slides into the car anymore. You're enthralled in Sabriel, too busy to acknowledge him, that is until you feel his eyes on you.
"What?"
"Didn't say anything."
"You're staring," You huff, lowering the book, only to almost drop it. "What happened to your face?!"
A purpling, inky black bruise covers John's swollen left eye. It's nasty, but he looks bored by the question.
"Scrapped. Some idiot ran his mouth."
"So you hit him? Then he hit you?"
"That's generally how it works," He says dismissively, crossing his arms and leaning into the seat to stare out the window.
You roll your eyes and return to the Abhorsen. "Your mom's gonna kill you."
He doesn't have a comeback for that.
Predictably, his mom loses it when she arrives to pick him up. Throws a fit, her anger evenly split between John and his school. You watch from the top of the stairs as your mother consoles her friend and offers advice before they leave. John scowls, the expression deepening when he catches you listening in. You give a shit-eating grin before retreating to your room. Serves him right for fighting. Boys.
Of course, though, in a rotten turn of events, his mother leverages her position, and John enrolls in your school. Due to your relationship, you're naturally coupled together both in and outside of the classroom. It isn't for lack of trying on your peers' parts. You can grudgingly admit John's a good-looking boy. He has all the makings of a popular kid. Athletic, intelligent, and withdrawn, just enough to make people wonder in a good way. He's regularly asked out, the invitations often extended in your company. You don't miss how other girls look at him or glare at you.
Jokes on them, he's easily the most unpleasant person you've ever had the displeasure to know.
"What are you putting down on the careers interest form?" You ask one afternoon, sprawled on the couch while John sits with his back to it, reading.
"SAS. Enlisting next year."
"Military? How noble." You muse. "Your dad's not–"
"No," His head turns a fraction. "But my grandfather served. North Africa."
It's the first you've heard of it. John doesn't talk much about his family, nor do you make a habit of asking. You don't pay close attention to the adults' conversations either. "Well, you're pretty strong and clever, I guess," you temper the compliments, uneasy about doling them out to him. So you'll fair well, I bet."
He doesn't respond for a minute before a quiet "Thank you," ekes out.
For whatever reason, your face heats. How embarrassing. You tap your pen against your blank form, grateful he faces away. Yet as a silence follows and stretches, irritation sidles alongside discomfiture. Honestly, this is what you'd like to show the girls at school. Prove that John's actually quite annoying.
"Now's about the time another person would ask what I'm putting down."
John doesn't look up from his book. "I know what you're going to write."
You bristle. "Oh, do you? Enlighten me."
"Artist. Writer. Actress. Something useless."
In one fluid movement, you sit up and strike him across the crown with your notebook. "You're such an asshole!" You quickly create distance between his stupid, stunned face and yourself, stomping all the way to the stairs. Halfway up the steps, you crouch, pressing your face between the balusters. "You're not going to amount to anything!"
You don't speak to him after that—not entirely, of course. Your families are too intertwined to avoid him completely, but the incident strains your already tenuous relationship. It's awkward and tense, though neither of your families notices the shift. You sit in silence at joint dinners. You leave him alone in the den after school. You latch on to other singletons in class, avoiding him in the halls.
Months pass, and as John declared, he enlists the moment the school term ends. Freshly sixteen, and scheduled to ship out to basic.
The morning he leaves, your mother drags you to his house. You stand speechless on the walk outside when he marches out with his rucksack. His head's shaved. He grew an inch and filled out some in the last few weeks when you weren't paying attention. Still a boy, but clearly on his way to becoming a man.
His mother all but shoves him at you to say goodbye. He stares down at you now, the twit.
"Good luck." It's the nicest thing you can manage.
"Break a leg," He responds, hauling his bag over his shoulder. "Don't be useless."
You're too busy noticing how his eyes are the same color as the sky to feel even a twinge of irritation.
When he files into the waiting taxi, his mother bursts out into sobs. You watch the car until it disappears down the next street, trying to understand why your chest is so tight.
It’s a decade before you see him again.
~~
"I told the Prices you'd pop by."
You nearly fumble your card, phone cradled between your shoulder and ear, and clumsily tap it against the scanner. Mouthing an apology to the disinterested cashier, you take your bag and find your words.
"Why would you do that?" You ask, unable to completely mask your disdain. "I told you I have plans for New Years."
Your mother tsks. "Surely you can pencil in some of our oldest friends for an hour tomorrow."
The automatic doors open, and the wintry air envelops you instantly. The plastic bag taut in the crook of your arm, you flip the collar of your coat and start the return trek to your flatshare. "I haven't seen them since graduation, since we moved back to Virginia."
"And you moved back to London, what, eight months ago?" Her end muffles a moment while she says something to her aide. Her voice is sterner when she speaks again. "They've been asking about your job, how acting's going…" Her voice trails, leaving the works or not going unspoken.
You swallow, tucking your chin into your scarf to consider the remainder of the conversation. "Fine. I'll stop by tomorrow afternoon. But I'm not staying late. I have plans." You don't. You did have an invite to a party a week ago, but that was before Jeff decided Jane from work was 'more his speed'. More 'conventional'. Though you'd seen the breakup coming for weeks and the relationship only a measly six months old, it still stung. Since coming back to London, you've had more than enough rejection.
Dozens of auditions. Dozens more interviews. Zip, zilch, zero. No callbacks, no non-speaking roles. And while you are the favorite stage manager for several small local theaters and Yes Woman, you weren't any closer to the stage. Something your mother loves to remind you of. Between her rapid ascent up the career ladder and your decision to study theater, an uncrossable gulf cropped up between you. It grew with each passing day. Moreso, when you reject every offer of financial support or connection. Her support means control. Ownership. You won't have it.
The conversation drifts to other topics—Dad, mostly. He's still putting around after her, content in his retirement. They'll spend New Year's at the White House, of course. You're pushing through the door to your place when she drops the bomb.
"John'll be there, too."
This time, you drop your keys.
~~
There is no excuse you can make to back out now. You wait on the top step of the Price's home. It's smaller than you remember. You hear people inside, music, and laughter. You hesitate. Given what you told your mother, they probably expected you far earlier than nine, but you barely mustered the courage to leave your room. You practically blacked out on the tube, leaving the station in a daze with your cheap bubbles. Taking a deep breath, you reach for the door. No time for stage fright.
The foyer is a time capsule, aside from the dozens of coats hanging on hooks and a coat rack. Framed photos of the Prices throughout the years line the short corridor leading further into the home. John's center stage for most of them. You hang your coat and slowly edge down memory lane, pausing when you see your own face looking back at you. Aged fifteen, the first day of school. You and John in different uniforms, sulking for different reasons. It was the last time you were the same height.
There are a lot of photographs of you in the hallway gallery. Ones you didn't know existed. You get stuck on a still of you and John from behind. It's from the London Zoo, from some ridiculous event your mother's work mandated you attend. The photo is simple, accidentally composed almost professionally. You and John lean against the rail overlooking the lion exhibit. You excitedly point at the pair lazing about in the shade, and John…John's focus is on you.
The sound of your name rips you away from the moment, and Mrs. Price beckons from the doorway to the living area.
The reunion between yourself and Prices is sweeter than you thought it would be. It's odd to see them older. As jarring as it is when you see your own parents, as sparingly as those visits are. Wrinkles, spots, graying hairs…But unlike your parents, none of the familiar warmth is missing from the Prices. They fuss, complimenting your secondhand dress and gushing over the bottom shelf champagne. They awkwardly introduce you to the closest guests, some claiming to have met you as a teenager. But you feel Mrs. Price's hand on your back, gently ushering and ushering, until you arrive at the threshold of the kitchen.
He's taller, tanner, and a hell of a lot broader than you remember him.
"John? Look who's here!"
You step into the kitchen with a gentle nudge from Mrs. Price, and the figure from many memories and more than a handful of confusing and mortifying dreams turns to face you.
Your name slips from his mouth in an arrogant purr, and the little tug of his lip into a smirk instantly pokes at your patience. He's literally only said your name, and already he's resurrected the same shade of vexation you felt ten years ago.
You're going to need something stronger than champagne.
223 notes
·
View notes